which was inscribed in sky-blue letters "Victoria." The little town adorned
itself to the best of its ability. "From the houses of the principal
inhabitants of the High Street were also displayed the Royal Standard,
Union Jack, and other flags and colours, some of them of extraordinary
dimensions." Soon after six o'clock the gates of Kensington Gardens were
thrown open for the admission of the public to be present at the serenade
which was to be performed at seven o'clock under the Palace windows, with
the double purpose of awaking the Princess in the most agreeable manner,
and of reminding her that at the same place and hour, eighteen years ago,
she had opened her eyes on the May world. The sleep of youth is light as
well as sound, and it may well be that the Princess, knowing all that was
in store for her on the happy day that could not be too long, the many
goodly tokens of her friends' love and gladness--not the least precious
those from Germany awaiting her acceptance--the innumerable congratulations
to be offered to her, was wide awake before the first violin or voice led
the choir.

The bells rang out merry peals, carriages dashed by full of fine company.
Kensington Square must have thought it was the old days of William and
Mary, and Anne, or of George II and Queen Caroline at the latest, come back
again. The last French dwellers in Edwardes Square must have talked volubly
of what their predecessors had told them of Paris before the flood, Paris
before the Orleanists, and the Bonapartists, and the Republic--Paris when
the high-walled, green-gardened hotels of the Faubourg St. Germain were
full of their ancient occupants; when Marie Antoinette was the daughter of
the Caesars at the Tuileries, and the _bergere_ Queen at le Petit
Trianon. Before the sun went down many a bumper was drunk in honour of
Kensington's own Princess, who should that day leave her girlhood all too
soon behind her.