Typically, with his incomparable sense of history and theater, Winston Churchill years ago had issued directions for his own funeral. He insisted:
"I want lots of soldiers and bands." As the solemn leavetaking was acted out last week, a great drama and a great work of art in every ceremonial detail, Sir Winston had everything he desired—and more.
Dawn broke cold and grey. Calm in its majesty beside the Thames, the palace of Westminster emerged from the drifting mist. Across the river stood the starkly modern outline of Festival Hall, its garden windows catching the first pale light. Far downstream, the dome and finial of St. Paul's Cathedral were faintly etched against the wintry sky. Between these two points, Westminster and St. Paul's, gathered a million men and women and the children they brought with them to capture the scene in memory. Via Telstar and television, millions the world over watched the obsequies of Churchill, a man who would have been great in any century, and who was, beyond doubt or envy or animosity, one of the greatest men that Britain—and the West—had ever produced.
Honored Pageant. There was a narrower time, and it lasted well into Churchill's own youth, when a great state occasion was one of the few events that brought spectacle into most people's lives. Today, in an age of relentless distractions, when spectacle shouts from countless posters, pages and screens, pageantry must compete for attention, and in this sense it is diminished. But it is also more affecting than ever when, as in Churchill's case, it goes so plainly beyond show and becomes an expression of continuity between a nation's past and a people's heart.
The pageant honored Churchill; but Churchill also honored the pageant. For the occasion, directed in its inimitably British style by the Earl Marshal, the Duke of Norfolk, consisted of a succession of crowns, swords, escutcheons, and every other encrustation of royal power—a power that is noble because it no longer rules but only inspires. In granting a royal funeral to a commoner, Britain expressed the fact that its trappings of autocracy have long ago been triumphantly absorbed by democracy—a pertinent fact in the 20th century.
Laced Jackets. At 9:45 a.m., as Big Ben struck the quarter-hour and cannon boomed, a gun carriage emerged from Westminster Hall, where Churchill's body had lain in state for three days and nights. The coffin on the gun carriage was shrouded with the Union Jack, on which rested a black velvet cushion bearing the diamond and gold regalia of the Order of the Garter. More than 100 sailors of the Royal Navy—Churchill's favorite service—drew the gun carriage and its burden forward at a measured 65 paces to the minute.* Each minute, the cannon boomed their soldierly lament.