In old days, so my Fräulein tells me, the funeral of an Archbishop of Cologne was a tremendous event. The Emperor in all probability would have attended in person. The occasion would have lent itself to a great military display, soldiers lining the route, the Prussian Guard adding lustre to the scene. Shorn of all its pomp and ceremony must the occasion necessarily be in view of the Occupation. But it was the weather which conspired to make a melancholy event still more depressing. Never have I seen a more dismal ceremony than that of the Archbishop’s funeral, which was held, of course, within the Dom. Rain and sleet descended mercilessly, while squalls of wind swept the square. The long procession of priests, monks, nuns, students, and children was wet and draggled. The white-robed choristers and the acolytes carrying ineffectual candles were no less dripping. Particularly miserable looked a detachment of unfortunate orphan children whose thin clothes and shoes were soaked by the penetrating rain. The monks and nuns and other ecclesiastics had provided themselves sensibly with umbrellas, but withal the wonderful vestments with their lace and embroidery must have suffered severely. There is always a wind on the Dom Platz, and to-day the angry gusts led to many struggles between umbrellas and their holders. In default of soldiers the numerous student guilds in their many-coloured uniforms had turned out in force. They alone with their banners struck a note which varied the drabness of the scene. But the pitiless rain beat down on them and caused the gay flags to hang faded and colourless. It was as though some wind devil had established itself opposite the main entrance of the cathedral and was bent on plaguing the Archbishop’s mourners. Banner after banner was caught by the wind and overthrown at that point; portly ecclesiastics were swept off their feet; nuns held on despairingly to their great white caps which threatened to fly away. Despite the leaden sky and pouring rain the square was crowded with spectators. Keeping the line were a few British Military Police mounted on their fine grey horses. England is not given to pompous advertisements of her strength, and the might of the Empire is symbolised rather than represented by this handful of men. At the head of the whole procession, as it wound its way singing solemn chants from the Gereonskirche to the cathedral, rode a detachment of the same mounted police. As the familiar grey horses appeared, who could fail to reflect on the ironical staging of events in which Fate so often seems to delight? It is not only that the accounts are balanced. A spirit of fine mockery appears not infrequently over the audit. That the police of the detested enemy power should clear the way when Cardinal von Hartmann of all men was carried to his last resting-place, is a circumstance to give pause to the proud when life flows apparently in prosperous channels.