As I stood by the open grave I happened to be next to Sir William Harcourt. In all that concourse there was no sadder face than that of the man who had been his enemy and his friend for so many years. No one mourned him more sincerely than the Queen, whose faithful servant he had been, and who rewarded him with an affectionate gratitude which was characteristic of her. She visited his grave and laid upon it an offering of primroses, with the inscription in her own hand, “His favourite flower.” Alive she had loaded him with honours; when he was dead she paid that last simple tribute of respect to his memory. The “his” in the Queen’s inscription referred to the Prince Consort, whose favourite flower the primrose was. Borthwick, Drummond Wolf and others took it to refer to Lord Beaconsfield, and upon that mistake the Primrose League was founded! Lord Beaconsfield loved all trees and all flowers except the chrysanthemum—“the only vulgar flower”—he once said to me; but chrysanthemums have been wonderfully improved since his day. The Queen had been in the habit of talking much to Lord Beaconsfield about the Prince Consort, and his sympathy never failed her. He would have understood the Queen’s meaning when she spoke of “his” favourite flower. It was a tender and a gracious thought to lay upon that grave a nosegay of the humble flower which was dear to her because it had been dear to the husband whom she had lost and whom she had never ceased to mourn. In the month of June I had to go and see Dean Stanley in order to settle with him the place in Westminster Abbey for Lord Beaconsfield’s statue—a last sad duty in connection with the dead Chief. The Dean suggested the position where the statue now stands—I concurred—“and,” said he, “I shall put Gladstone there, facing him.” Very shortly afterwards I had to go abroad, and at St. Moritz I received the news of the dear Dean’s death. Mr. Gladstone, whom he intended to “place there,” survived him by seventeen years. That was the last time that I saw Dean Stanley, with whom I often had official relations, rendered the pleasanter in that he was a connection of my wife’s and the much loved friend of her family. As we were leaving the Abbey, I made some remark about the vandals who carve and write their names in the most sacred places. “Yes,” he said, “but even in these outrages there are sometimes compensations,” and he led me to a place where, scratched on the wall, were the letters I. W., saying, “Isaac Walton, I truly believe.”