On the morning of the 18th of November the great funeral pageant, which Charles Dickens irreverently termed “a masquerade dipped in ink,” passed to St. Paul’s, through streets draped in black. Heavy rain and biting wind did not prevent spectators from perching themselves all through the preceding night on every spot where a glimpse of the procession could be obtained. Windows, roofs of houses, porticoes, balconies, every “coign of vantage” were covered with mourners. A million and a half of spectators gazed at the procession, and few ever forgot the strange and sudden silence into which the multitude was everywhere hushed, when the head of the column appeared, led by the dark, frowning masses of the Rifle Brigade, marching to the beat of muffled drum and the wail of the “Dead March” in _Saul_. Solemnly, “Sad and slow, As fits an universal woe,” one of the most wondrous of military pageants filed past to the strains of mournful martial music. When the car with the remains of the Duke appeared, a thrill of sorrowful emotion surged through the crowd at each point of the route, as they saw “warriors carry the warrior’s pall.” Strange unutterable thoughts were aroused at the sight of the narrow and curiously emblazoned tenement which contained all that Time and Death had left of him who had overcome the master of modern Europe, but who, in turn, had himself fallen before a Conqueror unconquerable by the mightiest. To this exaltation of feeling succeeded an outburst of homely grief when the Duke’s favourite charger, led by his venerable groom, appeared following his master’s coffin. When the procession came to Temple Bar it was received by the Lord Mayor and Corporation, and at ten minutes to twelve it reached St. Paul’s.