King Edward’s wonderful courage and coolness were notorious. It never seemed to occur to him that there could be such a thing as danger, or, if it did exist, that it was worthy of his notice. When Blondin offered to carry him across Niagara on his tight-rope the Prince of Wales, as he then was, would have accepted the venture at once, and was keen to go. But happily, though he could not be afraid for himself, there were others who could be afraid for him, and he was prevented. When a great chemist told him that he might safely put his hand into a caldron containing I know not what seething metal, he did so at once without hesitation or flinching. So it was when he was face to face with the murderer and his pistol at Brussels. His nerve was perfect. We all remember the quiet courage with which he cleared decks for action, and made ready for the operation which in 1902 might easily have cost him his life. He was not afraid of the chance of death then, nor did he show any sign of fear when the certainty came eight years later. On the morning of that fatal 6th of May, 1910, he was calm and collected. He knew that he was dying, but he could face death as cheerfully as he always had faced life. The end was lightning-swift, but so great was his energy that he had arranged to see a private friend that morning. He had desired Sir Ernest Cassel to go and visit him at eleven o’clock. Sir Ernest found the King dressed and sitting in his chair, from which he rose to greet and shake hands with his friend. “I knew that you would not fail me,” he said. They remained talking for a while, but soon it was evident that the sufferer’s strength was waning. Sadly Sir Ernest took his leave, feeling that it was for the last time. I was at Stratford-on-Avon, and received a telegram saying that he could hardly live through the night. The few sacred hours that followed were watched over by the tender care of those nearest and dearest to him—the loving wife and children who never left him till the end. In the afternoon he was undressed and laid in his bed; the light faded and he became unconscious. The Archbishop of Canterbury came and joined in the prayers by the bedside. A little before midnight the brave heart had ceased to beat. When the black news came a deadly pall fell over the country, and there were many men—some great, some small—who felt that life could never again be quite the same for them. It seemed impossible. To the last his energy was so vivid, the lamp of life’s joy burned so brightly in him, that men could not believe that the grey mystery had extinguished that sunny nature. But it was all too true: the ringing voice was silenced for ever: the King was dead. * * * * *