to give a pathetic interest to the life of the Prince Consort. He had the capacity to distinguish himself in some active career with the capacity there was, no doubt, the desire for some sphere of individual self-expression; but the conditions of his life denied him such outlet for his energies. He turned to the only things that were open to him: arts and letters; and yet, when he sought to help in the organized recognition of Art in English life, his efforts were misunderstood and misrepresented. misrepresented. His earnest wishes to help were treated as uncalled-for interference. When he proposed to make Kensington a great centre of art treasures, Punch represented him as almost a purloiner of national pictures. Activity checked, and the natural energy deprived of every legitimate outlet, robbed life for him of much of its savour. We are not, perhaps, surprised to find him saying, when speaking of the King of Portugal's illness (it was typhoid fever), "If the Queen had been taken ill with it she would have recovered, for she wishes to live; but if I had been attacked I should have died, for I have no wish to live." I remember that Queen Victoria said something of the same kind to me, which confirmed this view of the difference in temperament and feeling between her and the Prince Consort. I have met in some quarters a tendency to belittle the Prince Consort. I never knew him, so I have no personal experience to draw upon; but I think that this disparaging tendency is perhaps due to the fashion which treats with disdain everything early Victorian. From all I have heard I am inclined to believe that this disparagement is mistaken. Those who knew and met the Prince Consort frequently formed

different views. I can recall with what affectionate admiration an old servant at Windsor Castle spoke of him. This official had charge of the royal plate, and understood and appreciated the artistic value of it. To him the memory of the Prince Consort was the memory of one who possessed the knowledge and taste of an expert in these and all other works of art.

The theme of racial characteristics started this chapter. It leads me to recall some characteristic memories. I have often asked men what was their earliest recollection, and at what age did their conscious memory, as it were, begin? The variety of answers has astonished me. The most remarkable discrepancy in age which I met with in my inquiries was that between the early recollections of Lord Goschen and Mr. Henry James. I found myself on one occasion, which I might call historic, seated between these two men : Lord Goschen on my left and Mr. Henry James on my right. I put my question to both of them. Lord Goschen replied, "The first thing I can remember was riding my little pony from Charlton to Blackheath to begin. my time at Blackheath Proprietary School, and I remember the many indecorous questions with which the boys at the school assailed me; but so little do I remember of my time there, that, though I remained four years at the school, I cannot say whether I was happy there or unhappy." I then turned to my right-hand neighbour and asked the same question. I received a more astonishing reply. “I remember," said Mr. Henry James, "what took place before I was twelve months old." He explained his reply as follows: "When I was six or seven years of age my

parents took me to Paris. When I arrived I said to them, 'I have been here before.' The second visit revived some memory of the first: the objects seen were familiar."

Naturally this was only the evidence that the buildings seen by the child a few months old had impressed themselves on the retina or brain. This was the revival of an impression rather than a conscious recollection; but it quite harmonizes with the story told by Dr. W. B. Carpenter in his Mental Physiology (pp. 430, 431).

The story related to the Rev. Septimus Hansard, who was for some years rector of Bethnal Green. Mr. Hansard visited Hurstmonceux Castle, which he was desirous of seeing. When he reached the ruin he found it to be familiar to him. He searched his memory and he could not recall any visit to the place. He wrote to his mother, who replied that when he was about twelve months old, he had been taken to Hurstmonceux and left outside while his father and mother went over the castle. The child outside had had the features of the building impressed upon his eye, and the visit paid in later years simply recalled these earliest impressions. These seem to me to be the raw material of recollection.

KING EDWARD THE SEVENTH

THE month of May 1910 will have a mournful memory for thousands. In the closing days of April, King Edward the Seventh returned from Biarritz. The people were content to believe that he returned invigorated and refreshed by his stay abroad. On the 1st of May he was at Sandringham inspecting some alterations and improvements made in his much-loved country home. That day week the churches were draped in black; the gay colours of May vanished from the streets; the people went about in mourning dress; voices were lowered; vehicles were driven slowly and softly past Buckingham Palace, where the Royal Standard, which for a week had floated bravely, was halfmast high. On Saturday, the 7th of May, it was known in every part of the world that King Edward the Seventh was dead.

The news was received with profound and startled emotion. The loss came upon the majority of the King's subjects with bewildering suddenness; for though he ascended the throne comparatively late in life, there had been no sign of what is commonly called failing health the probabilities pointed to a longer reign than the nine short years which had passed since his accession. But in the midst of the regular activities of his royal office, and at a time when all eyes looked to him as the one person in

whose hand was the key to unlock the gate of pressing difficulties, the end came, and the subjects of the empire were plunged in deep and dismayed grief. They were left also to understand, if they could, the full significance of the loss which had befallen them.

Their first thoughts leaped irresistibly to the gracious lady who, the first day she set foot upon our shores, had awakened their admiring welcome, and who, by virtue of her charm of manner and simple goodness, had won their trust and their love. To her first went forth the people's sympathy; and their prayers and their solicitude were for the widowed Queen. But in the early days of sorrow any estimate of the meaning of the sad event was impossible.

After the first shock the leading minds of the countrythe statesmen, the writers, the teachers-began to measure the national loss. When they did so, and when they endeavoured to express the loss in words, the general harmony of opinion which was expressed seems to attest the correctness of the conclusion which had been reached by so many independent minds. What was said was accepted as true: the eulogiums on the late King caused much emotion but no surprise. And this fact is the most surprising fact of all connected with the King's death; for the mourning and sympathetic words which summed up the value of the reign described the late King's influence and power in a way which would have seemed extravagant and impossible in

1901.

Ten years before, while Queen Victoria still lived-or even nine years before, when the King was commencing his reign-few could have anticipated the high reputation and