At ten o'clock we were all in our places on the platform. Already seated in the body of the hall were the Empress Frederick, the Princess Louise, and the Marquis of Lorne, Lord Edward Pelham Clinton, several ladies-in-waiting, and in the background all the available household servants, both female and male. I was standing in my place before the orchestra, baton in hand, my head however turned toward the door at the end of the hall through which the Queen was to enter, and ready to commence on receiving the signal from the equerry stationed there. It was quite exciting. Punctually to a minute at the appointed time, a quarter past ten, the equerry's handkerchief waved the signal. Everybody rose, and amid the strains of “God save the Queen,” resounding gloriously imposing through the nearly empty hall, Her Majesty appeared, leaning on a cane and gently supported under the left elbow by a tall, magnificent Indian attendant in native costume, and followed by more ladies and gentlemen of the court. A member of the orchestra, a dear old Scot, told me afterwards, in the train, that that moment had been the most impressive of his life. He trembled all over, he said, and had the greatest difficulty in repressing his tears. The concert went off without a hitch. The Queen, to whom I had the honour of presenting the excellent leader of the orchestra, my dear old friend Maurice Sons, seemed to have been particularly pleased with the performance of Mendelssohn's Scottish Symphony, and expressed her satisfaction to me in the most gracious terms.