The whole square round about was paved with heads and resonant with sound, the murmurs of thousands of voices, overpowered now and again by the crash of brass and thunder of drums as the Benefit Societies and democratic Guilds, each headed by a banner, deployed from North, South, East and West, and converged towards the wide railed space about the platform where room was reserved for them.  The windows on every side were packed with faces; tall stands were erected along the front of the National Gallery and St. Martin’s Church, garden-beds of colour behind the mute, white statues that faced outwards round the square; from Braithwaite in front, past the Victorians—­John Davidson, John Burns, and the rest—­round to Hampden and de Montfort towards the north.  The old column was gone, with its lions.  Nelson had not been found advantageous to the Entente Cordiale, nor the lions to the new art; and in their place stretched a wide pavement broken by slopes of steps that led up to the National Gallery.

Overhead the roofs showed crowded friezes of heads against the blue summer sky.  Not less than one hundred thousand persons, it was estimated in the evening papers, were collected within sight and sound of the platform by noon.

As the clocks began to tell the hour, two figures appeared from behind the statue and came forward, and, in an instant, the murmurs of talk rose into cheering.

Old Lord Pemberton came first, a grey-haired, upright man, whose father had been active in denouncing the House of which he was a member on the occasion of its fall over seventy years ago, and his son had succeeded him worthily.  This man was now a member of the Government, and sat for Manchester (3); and it was he who was to be chairman on this auspicious occasion.  Behind him came Oliver, bareheaded and spruce, and even at that distance his mother and wife could see his brisk movement, his sudden smile and nod as his name emerged from the storm of sound that surged round the platform.  Lord Pemberton came forward, lifted his hand and made a signal; and in a moment the thin cheering died under the sudden roll of drums beneath that preluded the Masonic Hymn.

There was no doubt that these Londoners could sing.  It was as if a giant voice hummed the sonorous melody, rising to enthusiasm till the music of massed bands followed it as a flag follows a flag-stick.  The hymn was one composed ten years before, and all England was familiar with it.  Old Mrs. Bland lifted the printed paper mechanically to her eyes, and saw the words that she knew so well: 

“The Lord that dwells in earth and sea.” ...

She glanced down the verses, that from the Humanitarian point of view had been composed with both skill and ardour.  They had a religious ring; the unintelligent Christian could sing them without a qualm; yet their sense was plain enough—­the old human creed that man was all.  Even Christ’s, words themselves were quoted.  The kingdom of God, it was said, lay within the human heart, and the greatest of all graces was Charity.