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It is one of the little ironies of a reporter’s life that he finds himself at times in the company of those who sit in the seats of the mighty and those who possess the power of worldly wealth, when he, poor lad, is wondering whether his next article will pay for his week’s rent, and jingles a few pieces of silver in a threadbare pocket.

It is true that most newspaper offices are liberal in the matter of expenses, so that while a “story” is in progress the newspaper man is able to put up at the best hotels, to hire motor cars with the ease of a millionaire, and to live so much like a lord that hall porters, Ministers of State, private detectives, and women of exalted rank are willing to treat him as such, if he plays the part well, and conceals his miserable identity. But there is always the feeling, to a sensitive fellow on the bottom rung of the journalistic ladder, that he is only a looker-on of life, a play actor watching from the wings, even a kind of Christopher Sly, belonging to the gutter but dressed up by some freak of fate, and invited to the banquet of the great.

The young newspaper man, if he is wise, and proud, with a sense of the dignity of his own profession, overcomes this foolish sense of inferiority by the noble thought that he may be (and probably is) of more importance to the world than people of luxury and exalted rank, and that, indeed, it is only by his words that many of them live at all. Unless he writes about them they do not exist. He is their critic, their judge, to some extent their creator. He it is who—as a man of letters—makes them famous or infamous, who gives the laurels of history to the man of action—for there is no Ulysses without Homer—and who moves through the pageant of life as a modern Froissart, painting the word pictures of courts and camps, revealing what happens behind the scenes, giving the immortality of his words to little people he meets upon the way, or to kings and heroes. That point of view, with its youthful egotism, has been comforting to many young gentlemen who have taken rude knocks to their sensibility because of their profession; and there is some truth in it.

As a descriptive writer on London newspapers, I had that advantage of being poor among the rich, and lowly among the exalted. Among other experiences which fell to my lot was that of being a chronicler of royal processions, ceremonies, marriages, coronations, funerals, and other events in the lives of kings and princes.

I was once a literary attendant at the birth of a Princess, and look back to that event with particular gratitude because it gave me considerable acquaintance with the masterpieces of Dutch art and the beauties of Dutch cities. I also learned to read Dutch with fair ease, owing to the long delay in the arrival of Queen Wilhelmina’s daughter.

For some reason, at a time before the Great War had given a new proportion to world events, this expectation of an heir to the Dutch throne was considered of enormous political importance, as the next of kin was a German prince. Correspondents and secret agents came from all parts of Europe to the little old city of the Hague, and I had among my brothers of the pen two of the best-known journalists in Europe, one of whom was Ludovic Nodeau of Le Journal and the other Hamilton Fyfe of The Daily Mail.

Every night in the old white palace of the Hague we three, and six others of various nationalities, were entertained to a banquet in the rooms of the Queen’s Chamberlain, the Junkheer van Heen, who had placed his rooms at our disposal. Flunkeys in royal livery, with powdered wigs and silk stockings, conducted us with candles to a well-spread table, and always the Queen’s Chamberlain announced to us solemnly in six languages, “Gentlemen, the happy event will take place to-morrow!”

To-morrow came, and a month of to-morrows, but no heir to the throne of Holland. Three times, owing to false rumors, the Dutch Army came into the streets and drank not wisely but too well to a new-born Prince who had not come!

Ludovic Nodeau, Hamilton Fyfe, and I explored Holland, learned Dutch, and saw the lime tree outside the palace become heavy with foliage, though it was bare at our coming.

The correspondent of The Times had a particular responsibility because he had promised to telephone to the British Ambassador, who, in his turn, was to telegraph to King Edward, at any time of the day or night that the event might happen. But the correspondent of The Times, who was a very young man, and “fed up” with all this baby stuff, absented himself from the banquet one night. In the early hours of the morning, when he was asleep at his hotel, the Queen’s Chamberlain appeared, with tears running down his cheeks, and announced in six languages that a Princess had been born.

It was Hamilton Fyfe and I who gave the news to the Dutch people. As we ran down the street to the post office men and women came out on the balconies in their night attire and shouted for news.

“Princess! Princess!” we cried. An hour later the Hague was thronged with joyous, dancing people. That morning the Ministers of State linked hands and danced with the people down the main avenue—as though Lloyd George and his fellow ministers had performed a fox-trot in Whitehall. With quaint old-world customs, heralds and trumpeters announced the glad tidings, already known, and driving in a horse cab to watch I had a fight with a Dutch photographer who tried to take possession of my vehicle. That night the Dutch Army rejoiced again, boisterously.

Although I cannot boast of familiarity with emperors, like Oscar Browning, and have been more in the position of the cat who can look at a king, according to the proverb, I can claim to have heard one crowned head utter an epigram on the spur of the moment. It was in the war between Bulgaria and Turkey in 1912, and I was standing on the bridge over the Maritza River at Mustapha Pasha (now the new boundary of the Turks in Europe) when Ferdinand of Bulgaria arrived with his staff. Because of the climate, which was cold there, I was wearing the fur cap of a Bulgarian peasant, a sheepskin coat, and leggings, and believed myself to be thoroughly disguised as a Bulgar. But the King—a tall, fat old man with long nose and little shifty eyes, like a rogue elephant—“spotted” me at once as an Englishman, and, calling me up to him, chatted very civilly in my own language, which he spoke without an accent. At that moment there arrived the usual character who always does appear at the psychological moment in any part of the world’s drama—a photographer of The Daily Mail. Ferdinand of Bulgaria had a particular hatred and dread of cameramen, believing that he might be assassinated by some enemy pretending to “snap” him. He raised his stick to strike the man down and was only reassured when I told him that he was a harmless Englishman, trying to carry out his profession as a press photographer.

“Photography is not a profession,” said the King. “It’s a damned disease.”

One of the pleasantest jobs in pre-war days was a royal luncheon at the Guildhall, when the Lord Mayor of London and his Aldermen used to give the welcome of the City to foreign potentates visiting the Royal Family. The scene under the timbered roof of the Guildhall was splendid, with great officers of the Army and Navy in full uniform, Ministers of State in court dress, Indian princes in colored turbans, foreign ambassadors glittering with stars and ribbons, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen in scarlet gowns trimmed with fur, and the royal Guest and his gentlemen in ceremonial uniforms. In the courtyard ancient coaches, all gilt and glass, with coachmen and footmen in white wigs and stockings, and liveries of scarlet and gold, brought back memories of Queen Anne’s London and the pictures of Cinderella going to the ball. The gigantic and grotesque figures of Gog and Magog, carved in wood, grinned down upon the company as they have done through centuries of feasts, and at the other end of the hall, mounted in a high pulpit, a white-capped cook carved the Roast Beef of Old England, while music discoursed in the minstrels’ gallery.

Our souls were warmed by 1815 port, only brought out for these royal banquets, and we sat in the midst of the illustrious and in the presence of princes, with a conviction that in no other city on earth could there be such a good setting for a good meal. There I have feasted with the ex-Kaiser, the Kings of Portugal, Italy, and Spain, several Presidents of the French Republic, and the King and Queen of England. I remember the 1815 port more than the speeches of the kings.

I also remember on one occasion at the Guildhall that it was a brother journalist who seemed to be the most popular person at the party. Admirals of the Fleet clapped him on the back and said “Hullo, Charlie!” Generals and officers beamed upon the little man and uttered the same words of surprise and affection. Diplomats and foreign correspondents who had met “dear old Charlie” in South Africa, Japan, Egypt, and the Balkans, and drunk wine with him in all the capitals of Europe, greeted him when they passed as though they remembered rich jests in his company. It was Charles Hands of The Daily Mail, war correspondent, knight-errant of the pen, ironical commentator on life’s puppet show, and good companion on any adventure.

I once spent an afternoon with the King of Spain and his grandees, though I had no right at all to be in their company. It was at the marriage of a prince of the House of Bourbon with a white-faced lady who had descended from the Kings of France in the old régime. This ceremony was to take place in an old English house at Evesham, in the orchard of England, which belonged to the Duke of Orleans, by right of blood heir to the throne of France, as might be seen by the symbol of the fleur-de-lis carved on every panel and imprinted on every cup and saucer in his home of exile, where he kept up a royal state and looked the part, being a very handsome man and exceedingly like Henri IV, his great ancestor.

The Duke of Orleans could not abide journalists, and strict orders were given that none should be admitted before the wedding in a pasteboard chapel, still being tacked up and painted to represent a royal and ancient chapel on the eve of the ceremony.

For fear of anarchists and journalists a considerable body of police and detectives had been engaged to hold three miles of road to Wood Norton and guard the gates. But I was under instructions to describe the preparations and the arrival of all the princes and princesses of the Bourbon blood who were assembling from many countries of Europe. With this innocent purpose, I hired a respectable-looking carriage at the livery stables of Evesham, and drove out to Wood Norton. As it happened, I fell into line with a number of other carriages containing the King and Queen of Spain and other members of the family gathering. Police and detectives accepted my carriage as part of the procession, and I drove unchallenged through the great gilded gates under the Crown of France.

I was received with great deference by the Duke’s major domo, who obviously regarded me as a Bourbon, and with the King and Queen of Spain and a group of ladies and gentlemen, I inspected the pasteboard chapel, the wedding presents, the floral decorations of the banqueting chamber, and the Duke’s stables. The King of Spain was very merry and bright, and believing, no doubt, that I was one of the Duke’s gentlemen, addressed various remarks to me in a courteous way. I drove back in the dark, saluted by all the policemen on the way, and wrote a description of what I had seen, to the great surprise of my friends and rivals.

Next day I attended the wedding, and saw the strange assembly of the old Blood Royal of France and Spain and Austria. One of the Bourbon princes came from some distant part of the Slav world, and, in a heavy fur coat reaching to his heels, a fur cap drawn over his ears, a gold chain round his neck, and rings, not only on all his fingers, but on his thumbs as well, looked like a bear who had robbed the jewelers’ shops in Bond Street. At the wedding banquet one of the foreign noblemen drank too deeply of the flowing cup, and, upon entering his carriage afterward, danced a kind of pas seul and hummed a little ballad of the Paris boulevards, to the scandal of the footmen and the undisguised amusement of King Alfonso.

I made another uninvited appearance among royalty, and to this day blush at the remembrance of my audacity, which was unnecessary and unpardonable. It was when King George and Queen Mary opened the Exhibition at the White City at Shepherd’s Bush, London.

They had made a preliminary inspection of the place, on a filthy day when the exhibition grounds were like the bogs of Flanders, and when the King, with very pardonable irritation, uttered the word “Damn!” when he stepped into a puddle which splashed all over his uniform. “Hush, George!” said the Queen. “Wait till we get home!”

On the day of the opening, vast crowds had assembled in the grounds, but were not allowed to enter the exhibition buildings until the royal party had passed through. The press were kept back by a rope at the entrance way, in a position from which they could see just nothing at all. I was peeved at this lack of consideration for professional observers, and when the royal party entered and a cordon of police wheeled across the great hall to prevent the crowd from following, I stepped over the rope and joined the royal procession. As it happened, the police movement had cut off one of the party—a French Minister of State who, knowing no word of English, made futile endeavors to explain his misfortune, and received in reply a policeman’s elbow in his chest and the shout of “Get back there!”

I took his place. The King’s detective had counted his chickens and was satisfied that I was one of them. As I was in a new silk hat and tail coat, I looked as distinguished as a French Minister, or at least did not arouse suspicion. The only member of the party who noticed my step across the rope was Sir Edward Grey. He did not give me away, but smiled at my cool cheek with the suspicion of a wink. As a matter of fact, I was not so cool as I looked. I was in an awkward situation, because all the royal party and their company were busily engaged in conversation, with the exception of Queen Alexandra who, being deaf, lingered behind to study the show cases instead of conversing. Having no one to talk to, I naturally lingered behind also, and thus attracted the kindly notice of the Queen Mother, who made friendly remarks about the exhibition, not hearing my hesitating answers. For the first time I saw a royal reception by great crowds from the point of view of royalty instead of the crowd—a white sea of faces, indistinguishable individually, but one big, staring, thousand-eyed face, shouting and waving all its pocket handkerchiefs, while bands played “God save the King” and cameras snapped and cinema operators turned their handles. When I returned to my office I found the news editor startled by many photographs of his correspondent walking solemnly beside Queen Alexandra.... The French Minister made a formal protest about his ill treatment.

King Edward was not friendly to press correspondents, especially if they tried to peep behind the scenes, but many times I used to go down to Windsor, sometimes to his garden parties, and often when the German Emperor or some other sovereign was a guest at the castle. I am sure there was more merriment in the Castle Inn where the journalists gathered than within the great old walls of the castle itself, where, curiously enough, my own father was born.

These royal visits were generally in the autumn, and the amusement of the day was a battue of game in Windsor Forest, in which the Prince of Wales, now King George, was always the best shot. The German Emperor was often one of the guns, but seemed to find no pleasure in that “sport”—which was a massacre of birds, and preserved an immense dignity which never relaxed. Little King Manuel, then of Portugal, shivered with cold in the dank mists of the English climate, and only King Alfonso seemed to enjoy himself, as he does in most affairs of life.

Another journey to be made once a year by a little band of descriptive writers—we were mostly always the same group—was when King Edward paid his yearly visit to the Duke of Devonshire in his great mansion at Chatsworth, in the heart of Derbyshire. Always there was a torchlight procession up the hills from the station to the house, and the old walls of Chatsworth were illumined by fireworks which turned its fountains into fairy cascades, and the great, grim, ugly mansion into an enchanter’s palace. Private theatricals were provided for the entertainment of the King—Princess Henry of Pless and Mrs. Willie James being the star turns. The performances struck me as being on the vulgar side of comedy, but King Edward’s love of a good laugh was a reasonable excuse, and surely a king, more than most men, gains more wisdom from the vulgar humor of people than from the solemnities of state.

I used to be billeted in a cottage at Eversley near Chatsworth, while other members of the press put up at an old hotel kept by an old lady who had more dignity even than the Duchess. She insisted upon everybody going to bed, or turning out, at eleven o’clock, and this was a grievance to a young journalist named Holt White, then of The Daily Mail, who was neck and neck with me in a series of chess games. One night when we were all square on our games and walking back together to the cottage at Eversley, he said: “We must have that decisive game. Let’s go back and get the chess things.”

I agreed, but when we returned to the hotel, we found it in darkness and both bolted and barred. By means of a clasp knife, Holt White made a burglarious entry into the drawing-room, but unfortunately put his foot on a table laden with porcelain ornaments, and overturned it with an appalling crash. We fled. Dogs barked, bells rang, and the dignified old lady who kept the hotel put her head out of the window and screamed “Thief!” This attempted burglary was the talk of the breakfast table next morning at the Devonshire Arms, and was only eclipsed in interest by a “scoop” of Holt White’s, who startled the readers of The Daily Mail by the awful announcement that the Duke had cut his whiskers, historic in the political caricatures of England.

I had the honor of acting as one of a bodyguard, in a very literal sense, to King Edward on the day he won the Derby. When Minoru won, a hundred thousand men broke all barricades and made a wild rush toward the Royal Stand, cheering with immense enthusiasm. According to custom, the winner had to lead in his horse, and without hesitation King Edward left the safety of his stand to come on to the course amid the seething, surging, stampeding mass of roughs. The Prince of Wales, now King George, looked very nervous, for his father’s sake, and King Edward, though outwardly calm, was obviously moved to great emotion. I heard his quick little panting breaths. He was in real danger, because of the enormous pressure of the foremost mob, being pushed from behind by the tidal wave of excited humanity. The King’s detective shouted and used his fists to keep the people back, as involuntarily they jostled the King. The correspondents, photographers, and others linked arms and succeeded in keeping a little air space about the King until he had led his horse safely inside.

By a curious freak of chance, I and a young colleague on the same paper—The Daily Chronicle—were the first people in the world, outside Buckingham Palace, to hear of the death of King Edward.

The official bulletins were grave, but not hopeless, and the last issued on the night of his death was more cheerful. All day I had been outside the Palace, writing in the rain under an umbrella, a long description of the amazing scenes which showed the depths of emotion stirred in the hearts of all classes by the thought that Edward VII was passing from England.

I believe now that beyond the hold he had on the minds of great numbers of the people because of his human qualities and the tradition of his statesmanship and “tact,” there was an intuitive sense in the nation that after his death the peace of Europe would be gravely disturbed by some world war. I remember that thought was expressed to me by a man in the crowd who said: “After Edward—Armageddon!” It was a great, everchanging crowd made up of every condition of men and women in London—duchesses and great ladies, peers and costers, actresses, beggars, workingwomen, foreigners, politicians, parsons, shop girls, laborers, and men of leisure, all waiting and watching for the next bulletin. At eight o’clock, or thereabouts, I went into the Palace with other press men, and Lord Knollys assured us that the King was expected to pass a good night, and that no further bulletin would be issued until the following morning.

With that good news I went back to the office and prepared to go home, but the news editor said, as news editors do, “Sorry, but you’ll have to spend the night at the Palace—in case of anything happening.”

I was tired out, and hungry. I protested, but in vain. The only concession to me was that I should take a colleague, named Eddy, to share the vigil outside the Palace.

Eddy protested, but without more avail. Together we dined, and then decided to hire a four-wheeled cab, drive into the palace yard, and go to sleep as comfortably as possible. This idea proceeded according to plan. By favor of the police, our old cab was the only vehicle allowed inside the courtyard of the Palace, though outside was parked an immense concourse of automobiles in which great folk were spending the night.

Eddy unlaced his boots, and prepared to sleep. I paced the courtyard, smoking the last cigarette, and watching the strange picture outside.

Suddenly a royal carriage came very quietly from the inner courtyard and passed me where I stood. The lights from a high lamp-post flashed inside the carriage, and I saw the faces of those who had been the Prince of Wales and Princess Mary. They were dead white, and their eyes were wet and shining.

I ran to the four-wheeled cab.

“Eddy!” I said, “I believe the King is dead!”

Together we hurried to the equerries’ entrance of the Palace and went inside through the open door.

I spoke to one of the King’s gentlemen, standing with his back to the fire, talking to an old man whom I knew to be the Belgian Minister.

“How is the King?” I asked.

He looked up at the clock, with a queer emotional smile which was not of mirth, but very sad.

“Sir,” he said, in a broken voice, “King Edward died two minutes ago.”

The news was confirmed by another official. Eddy and I hurried out of the Palace and ran out of the courtyard. From the Buckingham Palace Hotel I telephoned the news to The Daily Chronicle office.... The official bulletin was not posted at the gate until an hour later, but when I went home that night I held a copy of my paper which had caught the country editions, with the Life and Death of King Edward VII.