At Tilbury on the Essex bank, opposite Gravesend, where rise the low bastions of Tilbury Fort, originally constructed by Henry III, King Edward the VII, would in a fashion diverse, and with a different end in view, also declare that he “had the heart and stomach of a King, and of a King of England too,” as had said Queen Elizabeth. But now it should be said by a King unappalled by the invasion of the powers of the air, as she was before the power of Spain, but now said with undiminished confidence and high hope, though said too with obedience to the supreme mandate of expulsion. Before it took place, Leacraft and Thomsen began their long walk from Ludgate hill, and Leacraft intently watched the street crowds. He noted also with recording interest the groups in the balconies with lunch baskets. The expectant air everywhere was not unnoticeably mingled with a kind of frightened silence. There was not much noise, no indiscriminate hubbub in the streets, and where groups were encountered, hurrying to their destination, they were quiet and restrained. Tension was evident, a high strung expectancy verging with impalpable approach upon tears, and the agony of penitential promises. The fundamentally religious optimism of the Englishman was confounded, and his acceptance of invisible guidance made itself seen in faces desolated by the grief of tears. The preparations were remarkable and elaborate. The windows were filled with chairs. Platforms were erected, almost luxuriously draped with red cloth and scarlet velvet, and surging crowds in spots seemed to bely the significance of the portentous moment. From time to time as the two observers walked in the middle of the street, they stopped reluctantly to notice signs of mourning. These took on the form of trailing streamers of crape, hung upon white cloth and their singularity amid the almost bombastic surplusage of scarlet dressings, awoke protest and resentment. At one point there was a particularly conspicuous dismal challenge to the susceptibilities of the spectators in a balcony loaded with sombre trappings which gained a startling prominence because of the patriotic and cheerful decorations on either side of it. Before this lugubrious appeal a small group of malcontents had gathered, and were indulging in incendiary criticism. “Hits no use turning a sour face to the thing. What’s got to be, is got to be, and a little heart will keep a sour stomach from making itself sick. Hi say we’re hall in the same boat, and cheerfulness makes pleasant company. Such a show as that hought not to be tolerated, Hi say.” This belligerency came from the thick lips of a red faced man, who had his coat over his arm, and whose leathern leggings, corduroy knee breeches, and flaming weskit with a high collar strapped to his muscular neck by a pea green scarf, betokened a representative of the “fancy,” or an ostler turned out for a day’s holiday.