"EDWARD THE ENCIRCLER"
The death of the "encircler," Edward VII—of whom it was said once, in a report of the Belgian Embassy at Berlin, that "the peace of Europe was never in such danger as when the King of England concerned himself with maintaining it"—called me to London, where I shared with my close relations, the members of the English royal family, the mourning into which the passing of the King had thrown the dynasty and the nation. The entire royal family received me at the railway station as a token of their gratitude for the deference to family ties shown by my coming.
King George drove with me to Westminster Hall, where the gorgeously decorated coffin reposed upon a towering catafalque, guarded by household troops, troops of the line, and detachments from the Indian and Colonial contingents, all in the traditional attitude of mourning—heads bowed, hands crossed over the butts and hilts of their reversed arms. The old, gray hall, covered by its great Gothic wooden ceiling, towered imposingly over the catafalque, lighted merely by a few rays of the sun filtering through narrow windows. One ray flooded the magnificent coffin of the King, surmounted by the English crown, and made marvelous play with the colors of the precious stones adorning it.
Past the catafalque countless throngs of men, women, and children of all classes and strata in the nation passed in silence, many with hands folded to bid a reverent farewell to him who had been so popular as a ruler. A most impressive picture, in its marvelous mediæval setting.
I went up to the catafalque, with King George, placed a cross upon it, and spoke a silent prayer, after which my right hand and that of my royal cousin found each other, quite unconsciously on our part, and met in a firm clasp. This made a deep impression on those who witnessed it, to such an extent that, in the evening, one of my relations said to me: "Your handshake with our King is all over London: the people are deeply impressed by it, and take it as a good omen for the future."
"That is the sincerest wish of my heart," I replied.
As I rode through London behind the coffin of my uncle I was a witness of the tremendous and impressive demonstration of grief on the part of the vast multitude—estimated at several millions—on streets, balconies, and roofs, every one of whom was clad in black, every man of whom stood with bared head, among all of whom reigned perfect order and absolute stillness. Upon this somber, solemn background the files of British soldiers stood out all the more gorgeously. In splendid array marched the battalions of the English Guards: Grenadiers, Scots Guards, Coldstreams, Irish Guards—in their perfectly-fitting coats, white leather facings, and heavy bearskin headgear; all picked troops of superb appearance and admirable martial bearing, a joy to any man with the heart of a soldier. And all the troops lining the path of the funeral cortège stood in the attitude of mourning already described.
During my stay I resided, at the special desire of King George, in Buckingham Palace. The widow of the dead King, Queen Alexandra, received me with moving and charming kindness, and talked much with me about bygone days; my recollections stretched back to my childhood, since I, while still a little boy, had been present at the wedding of my dead uncle.