The Horseshoe Cloisters at the foot of the steps up to the west door of St. George's Chapel is literally the journey's end. With the arrival of the gun carriage the open-air pageant that began so quietly at Osborne, closes in the same note of peace. A very picture of human life seems that procession of the dead -- so restful in the surroundings whence it started, to pass by and through packed streets, then this deserted cloister, empty of all sound till we seem to hear the murmur of the myriad London surging up from over the gray plains. Policemen guard either archways; the distant battlements are lined with spectators; occasionally a quaint old singing man flits on his way to take his place in the choir -- beyond that, no whisper, no stir. Then a flag company of foot guards enter the cloisters to occupy the semicircle of grass facing the steps, and the police are withdrawn. Worn out, and with the dry eyes of those who have no more tears to shed -- that was the picture of the ...