Within the space of ten years Great Britain had lost two sovereigns. Both were sincerely mourned by their subjects. But there are in grief qualities which differ. The sorrow which followed Queen Victoria to the grave was a tribute to a great and noble personality; it was the recognition of the value of long years of assiduous labour, of a lonely life consecrated to the good of her country; personally to the vast majority of her people she was unknown. For forty years she had lived, as the saying is in the East, “behind the curtain,” and though her influence was felt, she herself was shrouded in something of awe—she was as invisible as Providence. King Edward, on the contrary, had been for half a century a most familiar figure in every part of the kingdom. Not hundreds, but thousands of men could claim that they had shaken hands with him, and could repeat some kindly word to which his genial manner had given emphasis and value. Every one of those myriads felt as though he had lost a personal friend—as if he in his humble self was the poorer. For the monarchy the Queen had won respect and admiration, and a feeling that God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world. Then came King Edward, and he, without by one jot lessening the devotion which the great Queen had called up, added to her diadem the priceless pearls of personal love and affection. That was the crown of his work, and since that was won who shall say that his life was lived in vain? King George has not been long upon the Throne; but he too has played a part in which we older folk see an assurance that he will hand down to his successors untarnished and undimmed the lustre of the glory of which he is the heir. CHAPTER IX MY BROTHER. MUSIC AND THE DRAMA My vagabond pen has strayed far from the year 1863; I must retrace my steps. In the month of April of that year my eldest brother, Percy, was married to the brilliant daughter of Lord Egerton of Tatton. It was the happiest of marriages, which was without a cloud until his too early death in 1883. He was a very clever man, but terribly hampered by bad health. He was originally in the Army, having entered the 43rd Regiment, from which he exchanged into the 52nd and afterwards into the Scots Guards. But he was so crippled with rheumatic gout that he had to leave the Army, and after a while entered the Diplomatic Service, in which he served at Berlin, Brussels, Frankfort and Copenhagen. He was one of the few, the very few men who really mastered the intricacies of the Schleswig-Holstein question. Some people say that there were only two—Bismarck and his intimate enemy, the late Sir Robert Morier. He remained for several years an attaché, and then read for the Bar, got called, and entered with zeal into politics. He was not successful in gaining a seat in Parliament, which was a great pity, for he was an exceptionally effective speaker. However, he was able to render good service to the Conservative party in other ways.