Its train was held up and then duly spread after she had taken her seat. About her stood her cabinet, ministers, and flag-bearers; in front sat her legislators. Between both, on the red-velvet-covered table, were, indeed, the crown and sphere, emblems of royalty, but in the center and supreme was the Grondwet, the written constitution of the nation. Almost as simple as an American inauguration was this of the Dutch Queen, in a kingdom that secures even more liberty than was known in the republic of 1579-1792. It consisted mainly of a wonderfully clear and strong address, by a young girl who in person and carriage looked every inch a queen, and the mutual exchange of oaths of obedience to the constitution by her and the members of her States-General. The whole ceremony lasted less than an hour. There was some music. Then all flags dipped, and, in a storm of cheers, the waving of hats, cries of "Live the Queen," the auditors slowly separated, delighted with the dignity, sweetness, and power to win hearts shown by the maid who so nobly incarnates the spirit and virtues of a noble house. The blending of girlish simplicity, womanly dignity, and a true wisdom and insight, shown in her speeches, carriage, and acts, augurs happily for the Netherlands. Especially careful has she been to please the people, the sailors, country-folk, fishermen and women, and the islanders who have come to see the sights, and the sight of all—the first lady of the Vaderland. Both in the afternoon and in the evening, mother and daughter rode through decorated Amsterdam, when the sky was almost hid from view by flags, festoons, arches, and mid-air fantasies, in which, with the red, white, and blue, was everywhere seen the orange. At night the double glory of reality and reflection along the canals and the white spangles and blazing frontlets of fire made a scene indescribable. Even the Dutch Puritans never parted with their organs, music, and art. On Wednesday morning, arrayed in light green, Wilhelmina, on the palace veranda, listened to the old national airs and the new anthems, one or two of which are by the venerable Nicholas Beets, author of "Camera Obscura," and living, at the age of eighty-six, in Utrecht. After morning music a great Volksfeest was held in the vast arena back of the Rijks Museum, where, before her Majesty, the gymnastic societies from all over the country marched, dipped banners, and exhibited skill and prowess in muscle. None of Diedrich Knickerbocker's men of the beer-barrel model, or of Irving's caricatures, could be seen here, but only clean-limbed, handsome manhood. One beautiful sight was the flight of fifteen hundred homing pigeons. Then followed a striking costume procession, in which the makers of Dutch history moved in charming counterfeit before our eyes. Warriors and statesmen, stadholders and kings, painters, explorers, printers, living pictures, that had apparently just left the canvas and frames of Rembrandt and Jan Steen, marched by in the exact dress of the various periods. How we did pity them as they weltered in the blazing sun, under wig and helmet and lofty hat! The Arctic discoverers had the worst of it, in their polarbear skin and seal coats; but the fellows in shining brass and glued or wired-on mustachios also compelled pity. Next day, behind the scenes, Prince Frederick Henry of the twenty-four hours previous, now a plain mynheer in every-day clothes, confessed to me how nearly he came to suffocation, and how early he went to bed, missing even the river-illumination and fireworks-at which so many aliens took vile colds. I question whether any water-fête was ever finer on earth than that seen on the Y river, September 7, from 8 to 11 P.M. Gondolas, junks, galleons, yachts, steamers, every shape and size of boat, hung with lights numbering from one to twenty thousand, moved over the water, while royalty, the populace, and foreign guests rapturously enjoyed the scene. The next day, after her Majesty had inspected the heirlooms of her ancestors in the Orange-Nassau Exposition, I saw her again in the magnificent Concert Gebouw. She was dressed in figured white satin, with pink flowers in her hat corresponding to those wrought in her skirt. The King's widow, as Emma is now styled, was in her favorite dress of lavender or heliotrope shade, richly embroidered with light-tinted flowers. Both, as usual, held bouquets of flowers. On the immense stage, backed by an organ which is one of the finest in Europe, and played by a master, sat seven hundred singers and players on instruments. The cantata in praise of the Queen, the touching soprano solos by Mrs. Reddingius, the sublime Twentythird Psalm by half a hundred virgins in white, the songs by Holland's ablest teno", and the Hallelujah chorus were rendered with amazing spirit and excellence of technique. In a round of pleasurable functions like a Orange leaders, with the portrait-figure of Wilhelmina. At this all rose with the cry. Leve de Koningin!" Amid the storm of homage, the graceful maiden stood with dignity, and then, bowing sweetly with smiles, made exit. To-day, Friday, the pageant and festivities are transferred to the Hague, and among other features is a solemn religious service in the Great Church, in which Wilhelmina was baptized, and where, in centuries gone (despite the very ornamental modern iron spire, like fashion's notion of yesterday on a centenarian's head), William I., Maurice, Barneveldt, Frederick Henry, and her other ancestors worshiped. Illumination by night and all sorts of festivities by day will run into next week. A banquet and fireworks at Scheveningen, receptions, hor.ors, and enjoyments of various sorts, including a lunch with Mesdag, the painter, with a round of excursions, await the gentlemen and ladies of the press. crown of brilliants in memory, Wilhelmina's light a panorama of history and a gallery of presence and speech at the inauguration gleams first; but next, in personal enjoyment, was my sight of the Queen at the dramatic representation of "Orange in Netherlands," on Thursday evening. I do not know to whom I was indebted for the horor, but I sat near enough to royalty to note the dimples in her elbows and the play of rose and white in her cheeks. Certainly in evening dress, amid the flashing lights, she could not look more handsome, and every movement seemed grace itself. In the audience sat the Javanese princes, members of the Cabinet, the royal governors of the provinces, the great burgomasters, and most of the leading men of the Government, with their wives and daughters. The hour's tableaux and dialogues showed the scene of July 9, 1672, when it seemed as if, before the dangers from the invading hosts of the French and Louis XIV, and the quarrels of Tremp (which Britons, with traditional and almost sacred inaccuracy, write with a Van) and De Ruyter, Holland was to be crushed out of existence and the House of Orange come to desinence through disaster. William III., his gayly attired admirals, the regents of Holland's grandest city, the Scheveningen fish-vrouw, Holland's matroos (sailor), and the village folk, were all finely represented with spirit and art. The acting was superb. While in his grief and dejection, the genius of the House of Orange, a white-robed woman on the seashore, consoles the stadholder, and prophesies that he will wear the crown of England, and that, despite storm and stress, both Holland and the House of Orange will live on in glory through the ages. Then, after marvelous mechanical effects and the soft, sweet music of the Wilhelmus Lied, there bursts into glowing On Sunday, September 11, in the English church in the Beguijn Hof, where, since Amsterdam declared for the Reformation, speakers of our tongue, including not a few of the founders of New England, have worshiped, a commemorative service is to be held; one of the addresses is to be on Divine Providence in the History of the Netherlands and the United States, and the relations between the two peoples. "Klein maar Dapper" was the motto of a band of boys whom I saw parading on the Dam square. Such is Holland-Little, but brave. Certainly God has used this small nation to accomplish great purposes. May Holland's future be even greater than her past! The Hague, September 9, 1898. T Roosevelt and His Men By Jacob A. Riis HERE was a thunder of hoofs on the road that descends the slope from Camp Wikoff to the LifeSaving Station, and a squad of horsemen swarmed over the hill. A stocky, strongly built man on a big horse was in the lead. In his worn uniform and gray army hat he suggested irresistibly, as he swept by, Sheridan on his wild ride to " Winchester, twenty miles away." They were gone like the wind, leaping the muddy ford at the foot of the hill and galloping madly across the sands. My horse, that had been jogging along sedately enough till then, caught the spirit of the rush and made after them, hard as he could go. On the beach we caught up with them, riding in and out of the surf with shouts of delight, like so many centaurs at play. The salt spray dashed over them in showers of shining white, but they yelled back defiance at the ocean. Their leader watched them from his horse, and laughed loudly at their sport. They were Roosevelt and his men. "Roosevelt's Rough Riders" belong to history now with the war in which they held such a picturesque place. Even as I write, the first steps are being taken toward mustering them out, and likely before this meets the eye of the reader the famous regiment will have been disbanded, and its members-those who survived the campaign before Santiago-will |