At the head of the Notables and of the Horticultural Committee shone Mynheer Van Herysen, dressed in his richest habiliments.
The worthy man had done his best to resemble his favourite flower, in the sombre and stern elegance of his garments; and we are bound to record, to his honour, that he had perfectly succeeded in his object.
Dark crimson velvet, dark purple silk, and jet-black cloth, with linen of dazzling whiteness, composed the festive dress of the President, who marched at the head of his Committee, carrying an enormous nosegay, like that which, a hundred and twenty-one years later, Monsieur de Robespierre displayed at the festival of “The Supreme Being.”
There was, however, a little difference between the two very different from the French tribune, whose heart was so full of hatred and ambitious vindictiveness, the honest President carried in his bosom a heart as innocent as the flowers which he held in his hand.
Behind the Committee, who were as gay as a meadow, and as fragrant as a garden in spring, marched the learned societies of the town, the magistrates, the military, the nobles, and the boors.
The people, even among the respected republicans of the Seven Provinces, had no place assigned to them in the procession: they merely lined the streets.
This is the place for the multitude which, with true philosophic spirit, waits until the triumphal pageants have passed, to know what to say of them, and sometimes also to know what to do.
This time, however, there was no question either of the triumph of Pompey or of Cæsar; neither of the defeat of Mithridates, nor of the conquest of Gaul. The procession was as placid as the passing of a flock of lambs, and as inoffensive as a flight of birds sweeping through the air.
Haarlem had no other triumphers, except its gardeners. Worshipping flowers, Haarlem idolized the florist.
