“GENTLEMEN,
THE
KING!”
When
I
was
a
child
and
knelt
on
a
big
hassock
in
the
rectory
pew
of
a
Suffolk
church,
I
used
to
wonder,
while
flies
droned
against
the
green-tinted
diamond-paned
windows,
and
the
crowing
of
roosters
came
with
drowsy
sunshine
through
the
open
door,
whether
the
dear,
sadfaced
lady
in
a
widow’s
cap,
whose
picture
hung
in
our
nursery
above
the
gray
rocking-horse,
knew
that
my
father
was
praying
for
her
good
health.
I
used
to
wonder,
too,
whether
she
ever
reflected
how
at
that
particular
moment,
from
one
end
of
England
to
the
other,
men
were
breathing
her
woman’s
name
into
the
hearing
of
the
King
of
Kings,
Lord
of
Lords,
the
only
Ruler
of
princes.
How
wonderful
for
that
little
lady
to
think
of
this
universal
supplication―how
humbling,
how
uplifting!
Did
she
bow
her
head
very,
very
low,
I
wondered,
as
the
choric
prayer
of
England
rose
in
the
hush
of
those
Sabbath
morns
from
city
to
town,
from
village
and
hamlet―the
voice
of
her
great
little
England
approaching
the
confidence
of
God
on
her
behalf.
“Most
heartily
we
beseech
Thee
with
Thy
favour
to
behold
our
most
gracious
Sovereign
Lady,
Queen
Victoria,
and
so
replenish
her
with
the
grace
of
Thy
Holy
Spirit,
that
she
may
alway
incline
to
Thy
will,
and
walk
in
Thy
way.
Endue
her
plenteously
with
heavenly
gifts;
grant
her
in
health
and
wealth
long
to
live;
strengthen
her
that
she
may
vanquish
and
overcome
all
her
enemies;
and
finally,
after
this
life,
she
may
attain
everlasting
joy
and
felicity.”
The
innocent
wonder
of
childhood
lies
far
behind
me
on
the
dusty
road
of
life.
He
who
prayed
and
she
for
whom
he
prayed
have
both
out-soared
the
shadow
of
our
night.
Other
children
play
in
that
Suffolk
glebe,
a
different
voice
wakes
the
Sabbath
echoes
in
that
village
church,
and
another
inhabits
the
majestic
splendour
of
the
throne
of
England.
Here
in
Canada,
far
away
in
the
West,
with
the
croon
of
the
Pacific
Ocean
in
my
ears
and
the
scents
of
a
deep,
cool,
pine
forest
stealing
into
the
candles
through
the
opening
of
a
tent,
I
find
my
wonderment
following
the
ancient
trail
of
a
far-away
childhood.
Does
Edward
the
Seventh,
I
asked
myself,
ever
reflect
that
in
all
the
zones
of
the
world,
night
after
night,
year
in,
year
out,
at
the
old
familiar
call,
“Gentlemen,
the
King!”―men
of
Shakespeare’s
blood
and
Alfreds
lineage
spring
to
their
feet,
as
at
the
sound
of
a
trumpet,
and
the
local
welkin
rings
with
the
anthem
of
the
British?
Is
he
conscious,
wheresoever
he
be
at
this
moment,
of
the
low,
strong,
rumbling
Amen
of
our
anthem,
which
rolls
through
the
tent
as
we
set
down
our
glasses
and
resume
our
chairs―“
The
King!
―God
bless
him.”
Every
night,
in
every
quarter
of
the
globe,
as
constant
as
the
stars,
as
strong
as
the
mountains,
this
pledge
of
loyalty,
this
profession
of
faith
by
the
clean-hearted
British―“
The
King!
―God
bless
him.”
Presently
the
chairman
rises
to
propose
another
toast,
but
my
thoughts
cling
to
the
ancient
trail.
I
see
a
vision
of
Windsor
Castle,
with
the
Royal
Standard
streaming
out
against
the
sky
of
summer
turquoise,
exactly
as
it
shone
for
my
boyish
eyes
in
a
box
of
bricks.
The
fragrance
of
England’s
May-breathing
hedgerows
and
the
deep,
earthy
scents
of
her
glimmering
woods
of
oak
and
elm,
come
to
me
from
the
fields
of
memory.
All
that
makes
England
demi-Paradise―her
rose-hung
hedges,
her
green
woods,
her
creeping
rivers,
her
April
orchards,
and
her
March-blown
hills―all
this
gracious
pageantry
rises
in
a
green
and
tender
mirage
to
the
eyes
of
my
musing.
And
as
I
feel
the
spell
and
magic
of
“this
other
Eden”
I
feel
also
the
pomp
and
splendour
of
the
British
throne,
I
understand
how
it
is
that
whithersoever
I
go
in
Canada,
men
stand
up
like
soldiers
at
the
toast
of
the
King,
and,
though
but
a
moment
hence
they
were
laughing
over
a
light
story,
sing
with
exaltation
the
anthem
of
the
British:
“The
King!
―God
bless
him.”
He
is
to
these
dwellers
in
a
far
land,
these
English
Esaus,
who
“tramp
free
hills
and
sleep
beneath
blue
sky,”
the
magic
name
which
opens
for
them
the
gates
of
the
past,
and
shows
again
the
pleasant
vision
of
childhood.
At
the
name
of
the
King
rises
the
vision
of
England,
Windsor
Castle,
the
Tower
of
London,
Westminster
Abbey―all
the
crowded
historic
greatness
of
free
and
glorious
England―this
memory,
with
childhood’s
picture
of
Yeomen
of
the
Guard,
Lord
Mayor
processions,
and
the
swirl
of
craft
under
the
Thames
bridges,
leaps
in
one
fond,
yearning
affection
to
the
exiled
heart
at
the
toast
of
the
King.
All
that
men
learned
of
England
at
the
knees
of
their
mothers
comes
like
a
vision
at
the
call
of
the
King.
At
that
name
Esau
dreams
his
dream
of
home.
How
great
and
good
a
thing
to
be
the
head
and
fountain
of
a
world-wandering
people!
What
a
sublime
reflection
for
a
single
individual
that
men
and
women,
scattered
across
the
great
globe,
and
sundered
from
each
other
by
every
sea
that
rolls
beneath
the
stars,
regard
his
name
as
a
band
binding
them
in
a
great
communion.
To
be
the
captain
of
the
British
people―is
there
higher
office
on
the
earth?
To
feel
oneself
the
symbol
and
the
sigil
of
a
great
race
marching
to
wider
freedom―is
there
nobler
inspiration
under
heaven?
How
often
I
have
raised
my
glass
in
London
to
the
toast
of
his
Majesty,
and
murmured
like
a
schoolboy
repeating
his
lesson
the
concordant
affirmation,
“The
King―God
bless
him.”
But
here,
separated
by
a
continent
and
an
ocean
from
the
shores
of
England,
what
significance
there
is
in
the
toast,
and
what
emotion
in
the
voices
of
those
who
stand
to
drink!
Here
in
the
Island
of
Vancouver,
all
formality
slips
from
the
proceeding,
and
our
toast
is
sacred,
like
a
religious
service.
We
are
men
seeking
to
express
communion.
We
are
free
people
uttering
the
ritual
of
our
unity.
The
flag
which
drapes
the
table
enfolds
an
empire.
The
name
of
the
King
knits
us
into
a
common
family.
With
what
a
proud
challenge
it
rings
out:
“The
King!
―the
King!”
And
then,
quietly,
under
the
breath,
the
short
emphatic
prayer:
“God
bless
him!”
My
thoughts
go
back
over
the
long
journey
from
Quebec
to
the
city
of
Victoria.
Scarce
has
a
day
passed
but
in
some
city
or
village
we
have
stood
to
drink
the
loyal
and
ancient
toast.
Not
only
in
the
proud
club-houses
and
hotels
of
prosperous
cities,
but
in
little
lake-side
hamlets,
in
new-built
prairie
towns,
and
in
the
midst
of
the
Rocky
Mountains.
And,
not
only
have
we
been
called
upon
to
drink
that
toast
by
the
millionaire,
the
politician,
and
the
university
professor,
but
by
broken
men,
who
drift
from
land
to
land,
from
city
to
city,
who
drink
too
deeply
and
who
live
too
madly,
but
in
whose
tempestuous
and
all
but
lawless
brains
beats
still
the
lilt
of
England’s
song:
“Gentlemen―
the
King!”
For
that
moment
we
are
all
gentlemen.
For
that
moment
Esau
wears
the
European
livery
of
his
brother
Jacob.
It
is
thus
throughout
the
vast
Dominion
of
Canada.
It
is
thus
in
the
mighty
Empire
of
India.
It
is
thus
in
ancient
Egypt.
It
is
thus
in
South
Africa.
It
is
thus
in
Australia.
Shore
calls
to
shore
the
ancient
pledge,
and
the
ships
that
sail
between
link
voice
to
voice.
Hark,
how
it
rings
across
the
world,
that
cry,
“The
King!
―God
bless
him!”―from
one
whole
continent,
from
a
hundred
peninsulas,
from
five
hundred
promontories,
from
a
thousand
lakes,
from
two
thousand
rivers,
from
ten
thousand
islands,
and
from
seventy
out
of
every
hundred
ships
at
sea.
What
pride,
what
pomp,
what
honour,
what
responsibility―to
be
the
inspiration
of
that
prayer.
―
Harold
Begbic
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