l； he’s gone！ Let’s thank God and the saints it isn’t us！”
On the other hand； the same tidings moved an old woman in a wretched shanty in Connemara literally to tears。
“And it’s dead he is；” she said to me。 “Shure； he was a grand man！ Never a week but he sent me five shillings with his own name to it。”
Further queries elicited the fact that this old lady believed that his late Majesty personally posted to her five shillings each Monday morning； which she drew at the Post Office in the shape of an Old Age Pension！ Hence her loyal soul。
On my return to London I saw King Edward’s body lying in state in Westminster Hall； and afterwards watched the noble panorama of his funeral from the upper balcony of the Athenaeum。 Thomas Hardy and I sat together； there were； I remember； but few in the club。
The great military pageant of the passing of the mortal remains of King Edward brought back to my mind that of the burial of Queen Victoria。 This I saw from the house of one of the minor Canons； which was exactly opposite to the steps of the Chapel at Windsor。 The sight of the gorgeous procession passing up those steps impressed itself very deeply on me。 The bearers staggering under the weight of the massive leaden coffin that yet seemed so short； till once or twice I thought that they must fall； the cloaked King Edward walking immediately behind； followed by a galaxy of princes； the officer； or aide…decamp； who came to him； saluting； to make some report or ask some order； and received a nod in answer； the troops with arms reversed； the boom of the solemn guns； the silent； watching multitude； the bright sun gilding the wintry scene； the wind that tossed the plumes and draperies — all these and more made a picture never to be forgotten。 And now； after