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THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



ward at the Victoria Tower, being photo- 

 graphically inclined, and halted to study 

 the "finder." Out of nowhere appeared 

 a "bobby" and jogged the photographer's 

 elbow. "Beg pardon, ma'am, but you 

 cahnt take that here, ma'am !" Visions of 

 Scotland Yard and the Tower floated be- 

 fore my eyes. I gasped. It was a hot 

 day anyway. "Go back there by that 

 tree, ma'am, and you'll get it nicely, 

 ma'am. I've got a box myself." Only a 

 fellow-photographer after all ! 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY THE HEART OE 



EONDON 



The Victoria Tower rises above the 

 King's entrance to the House of Lords. 

 St. Stephen's Tower, at the other end of 

 the long building (from St. Stephen's 

 chapel), is the clock tower, the home of 

 "Big Ben," the largest bell (13^ tons) in 

 London except "Great Paul" (16 tons), 

 which is the largest in England, in the 

 cathedral tower. But "Big Ben's" smooth 

 voice is heard all over London, and with 

 its soft full pealing we come to the Ab- 

 bey, which is, not geographically, but 

 sentimentally, the core of London, the 

 heart of her heart. We think of it less, 

 in spite of its many and regular services, 

 as a church than as a nation's walhalla, 

 the shrine of her noblest and best, as the 

 stage for stately ceremonial, as the reli- 

 quary which preserves history and poetry 

 and art. Yet it is as a church that she 

 endures through the centuries. The 

 monuments that we revere and deplore 

 are excrescences belonging neither to her 

 service nor her adornment. They bring 

 little to her ; she gives much to them. 

 Yet stripped of them all, though she 

 would be the lovelier, she would be the 

 poorer. She is today many things beside 

 "that altar to the most high God and to 

 the honor of His martyr, Saint Peter," 

 with which she began. 



Somewhere about 616, upon Thorney 

 or Bramble Isle, a small marshy islet by 

 the Thames, overgrown with thorns, sur- 

 rounded by oozy water, a Saxon king 

 built a church and monasterium, and as 

 there was a Cistercian abbey or minster 

 to the east of the city beyond the Tower, 

 where the Royal Mint stands today, this 

 became the minster of the west. It was 

 a small affair apparently, although a 

 splendid legend sends St. Peter to its 



consecration; but with Edward the Con- 

 fessor (io49-'65) begins the history of 

 the present great church, which was 

 erected upon the site of Edward's in the 

 latter half of the thirteenth century, 

 practically as it is today. The superb 

 chapel at the east end was built by Henry 

 VII (i502-'2o) ; there is nothing of its 

 kind (a florid perpendicular) lovelier. 



The interior of the abbey is doubtless 

 open to criticism. The monuments are 

 too many and often ugly ; the choir is too 

 long, usurping part of the nave; the 

 screen is ugly ; there are incongruities. 

 And yet, though one fears to move in the 

 duskiness for fear of treading upon 

 sacred dust, one's eyes stray upward and 

 away to the lofty, pointed arches, to the 

 great perspective of nave and choir and 

 transept; to the many chapels circling 

 adoringly about the sanctuary, as they so 

 often do in France, but rarely in Eng- 

 land ; and one hears in the stillness the 

 hushed tread of processions, breathes 

 the acrid odor of incense, senses the far- 

 away chanting that repeats England's 

 joy and sorrow, England's story through 

 almost a thousand years. Here her 

 Kings were crowned and here they were 

 buried ; here the people came to do 

 homage and reverence. The day after 

 its consecration Edward the Confessor 

 died and was buried in his church. The 

 Normans, grateful to him who be- 

 queathed to them a throne, made it a 

 place of pilgrimage, living, and followed 

 him here, dead. That fixed the rule. 

 The old Coronation Chair, made for Ed- 

 ward I, contains the Stone of Scone, em- 

 blem of Scotch power, which this Edward 

 broke, claiming to be the true "pillow of 

 Jacob." Some thirty kings have sat there 

 to receive a royal diadem. 



A PROCESSION OE KINGS 



Norman, Plantagenet, Lancaster, York 

 and Tudor, Stuart, Hanoverian, each in 

 his turn ; some gladly, some reluctantly, 

 fearing an uneasy crown. A few swift 

 years and then they come again to leave 

 no more, to mingle, through slow cen- 

 turies, their dust with those who, before 

 and after them, sit here in state. And 

 with them many others, maid and wife, 

 child and parent, poet, historian, soldier, 

 statesman, known and unknown to fame. 



It will not do to leave London without 



