Presently the chairman rises to propose another toast，but my thoughts cling to the ancient trail.I see a vision of Windsor Castle，with the Royal Standard streaming out against the sky of summer turquoise，exactly as itshone for my boyish eyes in a box of bricks.The fragrance of England’s Maybreathing hedgerows and the deep，earthy scents of her glimmering woods of oak and elm，come to me from the fields of memory.All that makes England demiParadiseher rosehung hedges，her green woods，her creeping rivers，her April orchards，and her Marchblown hillsall this gracious pageantry rises in a green and tender mirage to the eyes of my musing.And as I feel the spell and magic of “this other Eden”I feel also the pomp and splendour of the British throne，I understand how it is that whithersoever I go in Canada，men stand up like soldiers at the toast of the King，and，though but a moment hence they were laughing over a light story，sing with exaltation the anthem of the British：“The King！God bless him.”He is to these dwellers in a far land，these English Esaus，who “tramp free hills and sleep beneath blue sky，”the magic name which opens for them the gates of the past，and shows again the pleasant vision of childhood.At the name of the King rises the vision of England，Windsor Castle，the Tower of London，Westminster Abbeyall the crowded historic greatness of free and glorious Englandthis memory，with childhood‘s picture of Yeomen of the Guard，Lord Mayor processions，and the swirl of craft under the Thames bridges，leaps in one fond，yearning affection to the exiled heart at the toast of the King.All that men learned of England at the knees of their mothers comes like a vision at the call of the King.At that name Esau dreams his dream of home.
How great and good a thing to be the head and fountain of a worldwandering people！What a sublimereflection for a single individual that men and women，scattered across the great globe，and sundered from each other by every sea that rolls beneath the stars，regard his name as a band binding them in a great communion.To be the captain of the British peopleis there higher office on the earth？To feel oneself the symbol and the sigil of a great race marching to wider freedomis there nobler inspiration under heaven？
How often I have raised my glass in London to the toast of his Majesty，and murmured like a schoolboy repeating his lesson the concordant affirmation，“The KingGod bless him.”But here，separated by a continent and an ocean from the shores of England，what significance there is in the toast，and what emotion in the voices of those who stand to drink！Here in the Island of Vancouver，all formality slips from the proceeding，and our toast is sacred，like a religious service.We are men seeking to express communion.We are free people uttering the ritual of our unity.The flag which drapes the table enfolds an empire.The name of the King knits us into a common family.With what a proud challenge it rings out：“The King！the King！”And then，quietly，under the breath，the short emphatic prayer：“God bless him！”
My thoughts go back over the long journey from Quebec to the city of Victoria.Scarce has a day passed but in some city or village we have stood to drink the loyal and ancient toast.Not only in the proud clubhouses and hotels of prosperous cities，but in little lakeside hamlets，in newbuilt prairie towns，and in the midst of the Rocky Mountains.And，not only have we been calledupon to drink that toast by the millionaire，the politician，and the university professor，but by broken men，who drift from land to land，from city to city，who drink too deeply and who live too madly，but in whose tempestuous and all but lawless brains beats still the lilt of England’s song：“Gentlementhe King！”For that moment we are all gentlemen.For that moment Esau wears the European livery of his brother Jacob.
It is thus throughout the vast Dominion of Canada.It is thus in the mighty Empire of India.It is thus in ancient Egypt.It is thus in South Africa.It is thus in Australia.Shore calls to shore the ancient pledge，and the ships that sail between link voice to voice.Hark，how it rings across the world，that cry，“The King！God bless him！”from one whole continent，from a hundred peninsulas，from five hundred promontories，from a thousand lakes，from two thousand rivers，from ten thousand islands，and fromseventy out of every hundred ships at sea.What pride，what pomp，what honour，what responsibilityto be the inspiration of that prayer.