I had hardly arrived at Buckingham Palace and settled down to work before the news was received of the assassination of King Carlos and of his son, the Crown Prince, in the streets of Lisbon. It was a particularly brutal murder, for Queen Amelie was in the carriage with them, and saw her husband and son murdered before her eyes. The late King Carlos and his Consort had been so very recently the guests of our Royal Family, and were on such very friendly terms with them that the shock must have been felt most acutely. I was in attendance at both the Memorial Services that were held in London, the first of which was a Requiem Mass at St. James’ Church, Spanish Place, and on the following day at St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was said to have been the first time an English Sovereign had been present at a Roman Catholic Service since the Reformation. The Service at St. Paul’s was very beautiful and impressive, and in those days before the war, for many of those present, it was a unique experience to hear the drums of the Guards accompanying the organ in the Dead March; I know of no place where drums are heard to such effect, as under the great dome of Sir Christopher Wren.

Probably all my fellow-Londoners will agree with me that the average February is about the most unpleasant month of the year to spend in London, and there always seems to be more influenza and other comparatively minor disorders prevalent then, than at any other time. London was, moreover, apt to be very full in the month of February, for Parliament generally met during the month, and there were always endless dinners, political and otherwise. In 1908 there was a good deal of influenza flying about, so the King was persuaded to go to Brighton for a week, staying during this short visit at the Princess Royal’s house in Lewes Crescent that had been placed at his disposal. Personally, I was very glad to be at Brighton for a week, for there is something about the air there, that revives the jaded Londoner more surely than anything else.

In the month of June I was again on duty, and consequently came in for the visit their Majesties paid to the late Emperor and Empress of Russia at Reval. It was an interesting occasion from many points of view, and looking back on it from these days, I imagine there can hardly be any of the Russians we met during that visit, including the Imperial Family, that have not been murdered by Revolutionaries or butchered by their successors, the Bolsheviks.

On June 5th, the Royal party, consisting of the King, the Queen, and Princess Victoria, embarked on board the Victoria and Albert at Port Victoria. We were quite a large party in attendance, as, in addition to the necessary Private Secretaries and Equerries, Lord Carnock (then Sir Arthur Nicholson, the Ambassador at Petersburg) Mr. Hugh O’Beirne, also of that Embassy, (who, poor fellow, met his death with the late Lord Kitchener on their ill-fated voyage to Russia during the war,) Lord Hamilton of Dalziel, (as Lord-in-Waiting, doing the duty of Lord Chamberlain,) and Sir John Fisher, (then First Sea-Lord, and Principal Naval Aide-de-Camp to the King,) were on board the Royal Yacht. An escorting squadron of our latest type of armoured cruisers, the then well-known “Minotaur” class, was ordered to join the Royal Yacht at Kiel. (Incidentally, it was interesting to notice, during the war, what a singularly useless class of vessel was the armoured cruiser. After a little more than a year’s warfare afloat, we had lost nearly every specimen of that class we possessed, and oddly enough, the Germans were in a similar state; the fact is they were too big and too expensive for cruisers; they carried their main armament far too low, and if they came across anything in the shape of a battle-cruiser they were sunk for a certainty.) On this occasion the Minotaur and her consorts had, I believe, been chosen because they drew too much water to go through the Canal, and though, of course, the Admiralty may have thought it an excellent jest to score off the Germans, by poking fun at their strategic Canal, the joke was not likely to delay the broadening and deepening of that same channel, a work which, carried out at a cost of many millions, was taken in hand very shortly afterwards, and duly completed in time for the long-contemplated war of 1914. The Royal Yacht arrived at Kiel in the evening and was at once boarded by Prince Henry and the usual huge swaggering crowd of Germans, that formed the Teutonic idea of what the suite of a Prince should be. We were duly informed that the escorting squadron had arrived at Kiel, which gave Sir John Fisher a chance of airing the carefully prepared Admiralty gibe about the insufficient size of the Canal, and the magnificence of our cruisers. Much as I always disliked the Germans, on this particular occasion I was rather glad that Prince Henry had also a well-thought-out impromptu ready. He retaliated by chaffing the Admiral about the wireless installation that had just been put up at Whitehall, the news of which extremely recent acquisition had already reached Germany. There could be no secret about an installation that the whole world could see, and from nowhere better than from Carlton House Terrace; but it was instructive to learn how carefully our public buildings were watched by the inmates of the German Embassy.

The Royal Yacht anchored for the night at Kiel, and left next morning with her escorting squadron for Reval. For the first hour or so there was an escorting flotilla of German Destroyers, who were evidently very anxious to show off, and were certainly sufficiently well handled. The next twenty-four hours or so were spent at sea, and nothing can be more agreeable than a long day and night afloat in the Baltic during the month of June, when it is light all night, except for a short hour round midnight, when there is apt to be still a suspicion of pink in the sky.

The Royal Yacht arrived at Reval on the morning of June 9th, and there we found the two Imperial Yachts, Polar Star and the Standardt, the Dowager Empress being on board the one, the other being the temporary residence of the Emperor and Empress and their children. There was also a Russian squadron anchored in the roads, which, augmented by our escorting cruiser squadron, made up a fine show of ships.

Even then, that part of Russia was in a very disturbed state, so much so that none of the suite, or the officers of our fleet, were allowed to land, in case of trouble; and no boats, with the exception of men-o’-war’s boats, were permitted to ply at all in the part of the anchorage that had been assigned to the Royal Yachts of both nations.

The whole visit passed off very agreeably, the Russians in those days being always the pleasantest of people to deal with, but underlying it all there was the feeling that the country we were in was in a very abnormal state. The Empress was palpably in a nervous condition, and no wonder, considering the constant dangers to which her children were exposed. Among the notable people in attendance on the Emperor were Monsieur Stolypin, the President of the Council of Ministers; Baron Zahamelsky, the Governor-General of the Baltic Provinces, besides such personal attendants as General Count Paul Benckendorff and Prince Orloff, who were Aides-de-Camp to the Emperor; the former was also a brother of the well-known and much-liked Ambassador in London. Monsieur Stolypin, as will be remembered, was eventually murdered in the Opera House of St. Petersburg. After many attempts against his life, the assassinating party at last succeeded in its object,—a previous attack on his life, when a bomb was exploded in his house, had only wounded him and maimed one of his children for life.

At the State dinner party I happened to sit next to one of the Russian gentlemen who had held the post of Governor of the Palace for a couple of years, and he gave me an idea of the terrible responsibility that this office carried, in that, amongst other things, he was personally responsible for the safety of the Emperor. But, as I have written in a previous page, I doubt whether there is one of those men, (all of whom were either public servants or else attached to the Emperor’s person during that visit), who is now alive. Of the fate of the members of the Imperial Family, it is unnecessary to write. All Europe has read with horror of the indignities they suffered before being murdered.

But to turn to less gloomy memories: there were the usual State banquets on board the Royal Yachts of the two monarchs; at the one given by King Edward we, of his suite, were much impressed by the amusing way in which he settled a difficult question of etiquette. In Russia the Dowager Empress is of higher rank than the Consort of the Emperor; in England, of course, the reverse is the case. As both these illustrious ladies were dining on board the Victoria and Albert, anchored in Russian waters, it was a rather nice point to whom to give precedence in arranging the seating of the guests at the banquet. Following a precedent set by Solomon, in a reversed sense, the King solved the difficulty by taking both Empresses in to dinner, one on each arm!

After the dinner on board the Emperor’s yacht, the Standardt, a serenading party of singers came off from the shore in a tug, which was then anchored close to the Royal Yachts. They sang deliciously while the guests were smoking their cigars on deck. Of course it was still broad daylight, so that the Royalties were in easy view of the singers, and at the outside a couple of hundred yards off. This appeared to me to be a very risky proceeding, so I sent for an old friend of mine, (now Sir Patrick Quinn), then, the Special Detective Officer in charge of the King, to ask him his opinion. I pointed out to him that in broad daylight, as it was, any disaffected person on board the tug, if prepared to give up his own life, could make a certainty of shooting any member of the two Royal Families that he liked to select. Quinn’s answer was, “You need not fuss, Captain; there is not a man or a woman on board the tug who has not been stripped by the Russian Police and searched for arms before being embarked, and when it comes to searching, the Russian Police do not make mistakes.”

On the 11th the Royal Yacht left Reval for England via the Kiel Canal, the escorting squadron parting company there and finding their way home round Denmark. On our way through the Canal the Kaiser, with that wonderful capacity he has always shown for unsuccessful theatrical effects, arranged that the Royal Yacht should be escorted through the Canal by detachments of Cavalry! It would be difficult to imagine anything more incongruous and ridiculous than was this “cocktail” performance. The German Cavalry, efficient as they are in many respects, do not shine as horsemen, and it amused us enormously to see these unfortunate troopers bumping along the road that runs parallel to the Canal, in their attempts to keep up with the Royal Yacht, which was, of course, condemned to go at her very slowest speed.

By the 16th the Royal party was back at Buckingham Palace; but London was left almost immediately for Windsor, where there was a large gathering for the Ascot Races.

Ascot Races in 1908 was a more than usually brilliant affair. There was an exceptionally large party at Windsor, which filled the Castle to its utmost capacity, and amongst the guests were some of the King’s French friends, such as the Prince and Princesse Murat, the Marquis and Marquise de Gannay, and that very charming man, M. Édouard Detaille, (long since dead I am sorry to say), so well known as the very successful painter of military subjects. I had often been to his studio in Paris, which was almost a museum in its way, for he not only managed to acquire Napoleonic relics of all sorts, but had also made a most remarkable collection of the head-dresses of all the regiments of the different armies of that period. In these days it seems almost incredible that men should have fought for years in such enormous and fantastic head-coverings. A great many of them, I believe, were not nearly as uncomfortable as they looked, and even in the later Crimean days our Foot-guards stuck steadily to their bearskin, which were always said to be the only sort of head-dress that the British private did not try to get rid of, if he got the chance. But to return to Monsieur Detaille; he was even then very delicate, and in rather poor health generally, but his kind host had told him that he was to go racing or not, just as he felt inclined, and to take life as easily as he liked in wandering about the Castle, with all its wealth of pictures to interest him. Incidentally, there was one of his own works there, which still hangs in a very prominent position in the large dining-room,—the fine equestrian portrait of King Edward, accompanied by his brother, the Duke of Connaught, at an Aldershot review. The portrait of the King was certainly one of the best of him that ever was painted, and the fore-shortening of the fine chestnut charger that he is riding is masterly; the horse really looks as if he were stepping out of the frame towards the spectator.

Windsor for Ascot Races was rather a strenuous time for the Equerries, whose duties it was to ride to Ascot and back with the Royal carriage. Seven miles does not sound like a long ride, but after a sea-trip, where no exercise can be taken, to ride at a full trot without any chance of changing the pace, at mid-day in the month of June, made me much hotter than did polo at Malta played in the great heat of a Mediterranean summer.

In March 1909, I once more found myself en route to Biarritz in attendance on King Edward. Only a very short stay was made in Paris, just time for a luncheon with the President at the ÉlysÉe, as the King was anxious to get to the South. They were pleasant weeks, those five or six that were spent there, for Biarritz was very full and gay, and I came in for some agreeable and interesting motor trips. Amongst others, was an excursion to Pau to see the Wilbur Wright flying-machine. Mr. Wilbur Wright had, I fancy, chosen Pau for his experimental flights because not only is there a nice flat tract of country just outside the town, but Pau possesses, and also thoroughly deserves, the reputation of being one of the most windless places in Europe. When flying-machines were in their extreme infancy, a very moderate breeze was enough to prevent an aviator from making an ascent. On this occasion the elements were kind, and Mr. Wright made two or three ascents, on one occasion taking his sister up with him. In those earlier days of flying, the great difficulty was to get the machine off the ground, and it was met by a combination of about a hundred yards of light railway to take the wheels of the machine, and the erection of a shears with a dropping weight to give the plane the necessary cant-up in the air. Another interesting motor excursion was made to San Sebastian. It is a lovely drive across the Spanish frontier, and full of interest to Englishmen, with its historic memories of Wellington’s advance into France. Besides being a pleasant excursion it gave the King an opportunity of paying an informal visit to King Alfonso, who was then in residence at the Royal Villa at San Sebastian.

By the middle of April, what was to be my last visit to Biarritz in attendance came to an end, and I returned to England, the King having met Queen Alexandra and Princess Victoria at the station of le Bourget, just outside Paris, where now, I hear, is placed the main Aerodrome in the vicinity of that capital. The Royal party changed trains and went on to Genoa for a short cruise in the Royal Yacht.

I was again on duty for the Cowes season, and an interesting season it was, commencing, as it did, with a review of the Home and Atlantic Fleets at Spithead, followed immediately afterwards by the arrival of the Emperor and Empress of Russia and their children in the Imperial Yacht Standardt. The Imperial Family began the official portion of their visit by coming on board the Victoria and Albert, from which vessel the Emperor reviewed the Fleet, which was still at Spithead. The usual State dinners took place on board the two Royal Yachts, but beyond that there were no further functions. The members of the Russian Imperial Family were evidently delighted to be out of their own country, even on a four days’ visit, and it was pathetic to witness the delight of the children at being able to run about the crowded little town of Cowes and look at the shop windows at their own sweet will, after being for so long accustomed to living in a comparative state of siege, where their lives were never safe for a moment. The Emperor and Empress landed one day at the steps of the Cadet College at Osborne, the Empress being desirous of revisiting those surroundings where she had spent so much of her girlhood in Queen Victoria’s time. For the Emperor to make even such a limited excursion as a visit to Osborne and its dependencies, gave great anxiety to Scotland Yard, and every sort of precaution was taken to ensure his safety. A swarm of detectives were posted all round Osborne, and though, as usual, their work was so well done that no one, except “those in the know” even suspected their existence, the fact remains that an unusually large number had to be employed at Cowes and its neighbourhood.

After the visit to Osborne House and its grounds, the Cadet College, then a comparatively new institution, was visited, and the mention of Osborne College makes it almost incumbent on any one who is interested in the Navy to point out that of all the hopeless examples of bad work done in a hurry, there is no more glaring instance than this establishment. (This criticism does not apply to its educational side, which I believe to be thoroughly well looked after.) I had an opportunity of visiting it shortly after it was opened, have seen it several times since, and, moreover, on the strength of having once been in the Navy, I have been pestered by fond mothers on the subject of its most unhealthy condition, ever since. Osborne itself was an undeniably good choice as regards locality, embraced, as the property is, by the sea on two sides, and being within easy reach of the great Naval Establishment at Portsmouth. Unfortunately, owing to the vanity that impels men in authority to get a new thing going without delay, it was built on the lines of a temporary structure, with next to nothing in the way of foundations, and very possibly on tainted ground, the actual site selected being perilously near that of the old stables of Osborne House. The apparent consequences have been that the wretched children, (for the Cadets who go there are little more) are never really well, and there have been constant epidemics of a serious nature. I have been credibly informed that, amongst these epidemics was one of “pink eye” some years ago, a disease that, until the Osborne College was started, was supposed to be peculiar to horses.

But enough of these unsavoury medical details, which only serve to remind me of my own “double event” in the Britannia, and of the remark I once heard made almost under his breath by a famous London surgeon, when he and I were visiting a celebrated Service Hospital not so very far from Osborne: “Oh dear, oh dear, this is pre-Crimean!” But I have wandered from my subject, and must return to the Russian visitors.

Amongst the Emperor’s entourage on this occasion were many of the gentlemen I had met during the Reval visit, such as Count Orloff and General Count Benckendorff, and in addition, Monsieur Isvolsky, the Foreign Minister, and subsequently Russian Ambassador in Paris. Monsieur Isvolsky was accompanied by a very old friend of mine as his Private Secretary, in the person of that extremely agreeable man who, with his charming wife, were both so well known in London Society as Prince and Princess Demidoff. It amused me greatly to notice that, when attached to the suite of the Emperor, he was known as Monsieur Demidoff. The Princedom which London Society, or the snobs amongst them (and they are numerous), had conferred on him came simply from the fact that one of his forbears had bought the property of San Donato, which lies in the environs of Florence, and gives the title of Prince of San Donato to any owner who likes to use it. The truth is that English people, as a rule, do not realise that so-called Princes swarm in Central Europe, especially in Italy and Roumania. I know both countries pretty well, and to use the colloquial expression, in Bucharest you cannot throw a stone without hitting a Prince!

After the termination of their four days’ visit,—a visit which I veritably believe they enjoyed,—the members of the Russian Imperial Family sailed away in the Standardt on their return journey to their own country, and a very few days afterwards I found myself in King Edward’s special train in attendance and en route to Marienbad.

The Marienbad season of 1909 was more animated than ever; besides the regular Marienbaders there were many new faces to be seen there, noticeably the King of the Hellenes, the Duke of Teck, Princess Stephanie and Count Longay, Prince and Princess Dolgorouki, Princess HÉlÈne Bariatinsky, Slatin Pasha, and such well-known Parisians as the Vicomtesse Vigier, Comte and Comtesse de Waru, and my old friends, Monsieur and Madame Jean de Reszke. I hardly can recollect a more agreeable season there, and some of the details of conversation at one particular luncheon given by King Edward during his stay are indelibly stamped on my memory.

Monsieur Clemenceau, who had recently arrived at Karlsbad, having just succeeded in obtaining his freedom by successfully wrecking his own Ministry, came over for the day and lunched with King Edward, the only other guests being Sir Fairfax Cartwright, our Ambassador at Vienna, and Monsieur Crozier, whom I had met when French Minister at Copenhagen. Monsieur Clemenceau was in tremendous form. I fancy that he was really rather glad to be out of office for a time, and to do his Karlsbad cure in peace. Although in Paris there were the usual number of versions of the real reason for the breaking up of his Ministry, none of them, I am sure, was as amusing as his own account of his fall from power, on which topic he held forth for some time. But brilliant and clever as his conversation was, there were, to my mind, some very immortal truths shining out of it, as might the moon amongst a shower of fireworks. It is pitiful having to try and render his beautiful French into my halting English, but one or two remarks of his made such an impression on me, that I have never forgotten them. One in particular referred to a fact, or rather a quality, which we, in these days, when the object seems to be to reduce every one and everything to a dull level, may be apt to lose. Monsieur Clemenceau’s contention was, that the great fault of the French was their hopeless love of logic. His countrymen had achieved a more or less successful Revolution nominally in support of a perfectly logical idea, namely that France should be governed on principles ensuring Liberty, Equality, Fraternity for all its citizens. However successful the Revolution may have been in a general sense, it certainly failed to establish its main object. Liberty, he pointed out, is only a dream; the freest people in the world, the English, spend their lives in inventing new yokes to place on their own shoulders. Fraternity, may simply be said to be non-existent, owing to the fact that man naturally and instinctively preys on his fellow-man. The doctrine of Equality has no doubt been fulfilled to a certain extent, for, as he somewhat cynically pointed out, every one has an equal right to vilify his neighbour.

So much for the logic of the Latin races. According to Monsieur Clemenceau, the great strength and mainstay of the men of the British race is that, not possessing logical minds, they are not to be frightened out of cherishing useful anomalies. One of the greatest of its anomalies was the continual existence of an Hereditary Second Chamber, which, in his opinion, fonctionnait extrÊmement bien. And then, turning round with a bow to his host, he finished up by saying that as another instance the English, the most democratic nation in the world, remained faithful to the Monarchical system, and could still love and honour their King.

The conversation turned later on the inevitable war of the future, that has now become the war of the past. It had always been understood that England’s main contribution, in the event of a war of aggression, was to be her Navy, but that was not enough for Monsieur Clemenceau, and his parting words on taking leave of King Edward were prophetic: “Surtout, Sire, soignez votre ArmÉe.” And if it be true, as is averred, that the war was virtually won by the Navy, it is surely equally true, that it was that eminently soignÉ article, the British Army of the first days of the war, that saved the situation and gave time for the power of the Navy to assert itself, and enable reinforcements, as soon as they could be raised and trained, to be sent literally from all parts of the world, to the battle-fronts where they were most needed, almost without let or hindrance.

The visit to Marienbad having been concluded, I was a free man again and could do my usual Scotch round of visits, and subsequently spend a month in mid-winter in the south of France. In February I was in attendance at Buckingham Palace, and, little as I realised it at the time, it was fated to be my last month of waiting on King Edward. As usual, London was full of influenza, and once more the King was persuaded to go to Brighton for a few days. On this occasion he was the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Sassoon at King’s Gardens, Hove, who had so often entertained him at Tulchan Lodge, Spey Side, which had also been, as I have mentioned before, one of the very happiest, of my own happy hunting-grounds.

After a week at Brighton the King was back at Buckingham Palace again, where Prince and Princess Henry of Prussia had arrived on a ten days’ visit, and on the 21st of the month, accompanied by Queen Alexandra, he opened his last Parliament.

During Prince Henry’s stay at Buckingham Palace, he succeeded in giving me a curious example of that extraordinary mentality that is apparently a German peculiarity. He had been frequently employed as a sort of bagman by his brother, noticeably on his two visits, the first to the Far East, to exhibit the mailed fist, and secondly to the United States, in an effort that was made to win over the great heart of the American public. Like his brother, he had, when he liked, a considerable charm of manner, which could be produced when necessary, like the pulling out of a certain stop of an organ. And, like his brother, and indeed like most Prussians, he was a perfect specimen of le faux bonhomme. But judging from my own experience, I rather doubt his success as a political bagman, as I think he was inclined to believe that every Englishman he met, was sure to be overcome by his cordiality and condescension, and would consequently be prepared to accept, and subsequently retail, his invaluable confidences. For instance, at Buckingham Palace he kept me up until two in the morning once, tÊte À tÊte, apparently for the sole purpose of impressing on me that his brother was grossly ill-judged and misrepresented in England; that he really loved our country, and that the preparations that were being constantly made to perfect the German Army were solely in view of the impending danger that the Emperor, (who was the greatest genius and most far-seeing man in the world), was preparing against, and that was the Yellow Peril! His Imperial Majesty, so Prince Henry solemnly told me, was convinced that the yellow races in their countless millions would eventually invade Europe, and the German Army would prove to be its only saviour. I confess that I was not much impressed by this harangue, and, besides disliked the fact that I was evidently classed as “the village idiot.” Poetic justice would have attended the invasion of Eastern Europe by the Chinese, more especially if they got as far as Berlin, and recovered some of the priceless treasures looted from them by the German Expeditionary Force, at the time of the Boxer troubles.

After a stay of some ten days the Prince and Princess left the Palace, and my last month in waiting on King Edward came to an end.

Most of what remained of the year 1910 turned out to be one of the saddest times of my life. With the rest of my fellow-subjects I mourned the loss of a great King, but I had also lost the kindest master that ever man served, and one, moreover, who was not only a good master to his servants, but was also their best friend. My grief at the King’s death was, if possible, more poignant owing to the circumstance that I had been obliged to change my month of waiting, and had consequently done duty in February instead of being with him at Biarritz in April as usual, in which case I should have had the melancholy satisfaction of always remembering that I had been with him until almost the last. The climate of Biarritz suited King Edward wonderfully well; though shortly after his arrival there he had been taken seriously ill, by the middle of April he was really better, revived by the strong air that blows home there from the Atlantic. So far as we all knew, he was well, when he returned to England, but a few days later, after his visit to Sandringham, the news began to leak out that all was not well with the King, so I hurried down to the Palace to inquire. Though it never occurred to those of us who had been long with him that any illness could possibly be fatal, so accustomed were we all to his wonderful vitality and powers of recuperation, yet on the morning of the 10th May there was no doubt but that he was very dangerously ill, and for the first time I felt really anxious. After mid-day, from what I could gather from those members of the Staff that I saw at Buckingham Palace, it looked as if he had begun to rally, so once again I was full of hope for the best. I went again after dinner, and then at last realised that, though he was still alive, his case was almost hopeless, and there I remained in the Equerries’ room, with several others of my brother Equerries, until the end came. When I left the Palace shortly after midnight, there was still that quiet and patient crowd of watchers outside the Palace gate waiting for the next bulletin. Alas! when it came it was to tell them that Edward VII had passed away. Many of the crowd had noticed that I had come out of the Palace, and I was waylaid by questioners. The demand was always the same—“Was it true?”—and when I was obliged to answer that it was, the almost invariable response was that it was impossible! The fact was that the man in the street loved him, and for that reason was for the moment quite unable to realise that any like ill could befall him; such a sudden end to that busy life appeared to be impossible. At the time I quite understood this attitude; to me, also, it seemed as if those long hours of suspense, waiting in the Equerries’ room before the fatal news reached us, could only be an evil dream, that would be dispelled on the morrow.

For that mournful ceremonial the King’s funeral I was attached to the Mission sent to represent the French Republic, the chief of which was M. Pichon, then Minister for Foreign Affairs. Practically all the civilised countries in the world were represented; the other great Republic, the United States of America, by a special Envoy in the person of Mr. Roosevelt, the Ex-President. The chief mourners besides the Royal Family were the German Emperor, the King’s son-in-law, King Haakon of Norway, and his two brothers-in-law, the Kings of Denmark and of the Hellenes. The Kings of Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Bulgaria were also present, and the heirs to the thrones of Austria, Turkey, Roumania, Serbia, and Montenegro. Other representatives were the Grand Duke Michael Alexandrovitch of Russia, the Duke d’Aosta and the Prince Consort of the Netherlands. One evening, by the kind invitation of Queen Alexandra, I was present at a small service held after nightfall in the Throne-room of Buckingham Palace, where the mortal remains of King Edward lay in state prior to the removal to Westminster Hall. Perhaps the most moving part of that very beautiful and simple service was the relieving of the Guard that happened to take place immediately after the conclusion of the office. During the whole of the lying-in-state at Buckingham Palace and Westminster Hall the coffin was guarded by the officers and men of the King’s Company of the Grenadier Guards, four sentries standing at the four corners of the catafalque by night and by day. These motionless figures standing on one of the steps of the catafalque, resting on their reversed arms and wearing their bearskins, looked gigantic in the interior of the room. The changing of the Guard (they were relieved every hour) was a wonderfully moving spectacle. The Officer of the Guard led the relief into the room, preceded by a small Drummer-boy carrying a lantern, exactly as the Sentries are relieved throughout the night outside the Royal Palaces. This tiny procession of armed men marching noiselessly through the Throne-room to take up the duty of guarding the mortal remains of their deceased Sovereign and Colonel-in-Chief was extraordinarily impressive. On the 16th the coffin was removed to Westminster Hall, where the lying-in-state lasted for four days, during which time I believe upwards of 400,000 persons passed through the Hall to take a silent farewell of their late King.

The interment took place in the St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, and this was the last occasion that his Equerries were called upon to be in attendance on him. We marched by the side of the gun-carriage that was used as a bier, and lined up in the same position in the Choir of the Chapel, where, after the funeral service, the coffin was finally lowered into the family vault beneath it. A team of Horse Artillery was used as far as Paddington Station, but from Windsor Station to the Castle, passing through a portion of the town and up the commencement of the Long Walk to the Chapel, the gun-carriage was pulled by a party of Bluejackets from H.M.S. Excellent. The procession through the streets of London, with the immense crowd that lined the streets and literally swarmed the parks, was a marvellous sight, but the passage of the cortÈge up the Long Walk at Windsor to the entrance to the Castle was really beautiful, and never did Windsor Castle look more magnificent than on the 20th of May, when all that was mortal of King Edward VII was laid to rest.

It would not be becoming for me to argue on the merits or demerits of the much-discussed life of King Edward as it appears in the Dictionary of National Biography. A far better judge than I could ever pretend to be, and, moreover, a practised writer, in the person of the late Lord Redesdale, has left behind him his views on the subject, in the paper that was read before the Royal Society of Literature on April 23rd, 1915. I have that pamphlet, as it was subsequently printed, now in my possession, a greatly prized gift from the kind author, made to me not very long before he died. I can only say that I agree with every word of it, and that in my opinion no man in England was better qualified than the writer, to form a really just estimate of the character and attainments of King Edward VII.

Lord Redesdale was a very finished man of the world, and was also a man of very wide experience, having in his time been Diplomatist, Author, and Government Official, and in addition the late King and he shared a hobby,—landscape gardening,—and I am always inclined to think that men who happen to have the same hobby, are apt to know rather more of each other, than do their other friends and acquaintances.

As to the relations that existed between the King and his Ministers, I know nothing, but I have always understood that those of them that were brought most into contact with him, thoroughly recognised and appreciated his quick and strong grasp of great political questions, especially as relating to foreign politics, and the unerring instinct he had for brushing aside irrelevances and arriving at once at the heart of the business. Possibly Ministers may not have always realised that from the fact of his position and relationship with the various reigning Sovereigns (the French had not named him “l’Oncle de l’Europe” for nothing!), and also, from the amount of pains he had taken to make the personal acquaintance of the Ministers of foreign countries, he was apt to be better informed than was Downing Street. Moreover, he had a genius for doing the right thing. I remember during the official visit to Paris that I have already attempted to describe, when he proposed calling at the HÔtel de Ville, having to pass that building on his way to and from Vincennes for the Military Review, that was one of the functions arranged for his visit, every effort was made, especially by the French Authorities, to dissuade him. Fortunately he was, as usual, extremely firm. In vain was he told that the HÔtel de Ville was a hotbed of Socialism, and the headquarters of anti-monarchical feelings. He determined that if the City Fathers of Paris would receive him, nothing would deter him. His reception there was probably the greatest triumph of a very successful visit.

But the day has probably not yet arrived for History to pass its final verdict on Edward VII as a King. As a man, nothing to my mind can better sum up his character than do those very simple words, that stand engraved, under the east window of Sandringham Church:—

To The Loved Memory
of
KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH
the East Window in this Church is dedicated
and the Chancel adorned and decorated
by his Wife, his Children, and his Grandchildren,
by his Household, and his Servants
and by the Tenants and Workers upon his Estate
Many mourners of many conditions
yet one in devotion and one in reverence
through the power of his sympathy
and the might of his loving-kindness
REGUM REGI GLORIA
MCMXI