POINTS CORNER: WESTMINSTER ABBEY, LONDON 



This is situated in the south transept and contains memorials of England's greatest 

 writers and poets from Chaucer onward. The bust on the left is of Longfellow. James 

 Russell Lowell's contributions to literature are memorialized by a stained-glass window in 

 the Chapter House. 



seeing its parks. When my brother, a 

 little lad of seven or eight years, came 

 home from his first London visit, small 

 sister asked: "What did you like best?" 

 In a tone of unalterable, unassailable 

 conviction came the answer : "The Zoo !" 

 Like an Irish friend, he cared more for 

 living than dead lions. After a very sat- 

 isfying visit to Westminster Abbey, I 

 foolishly asked this friend what he 

 thought of it. "Sure," said he; "it re- 

 minds me of a graveyard taken in out of 

 the rain." 



WHERE EREE SPEECH IS NO EMPTY ElGURE 



Hyde Park, as I remember it, was a 

 place of demagogues and loud-voiced 

 oratory; yet that is manifestly unfair. 

 The brightest and best of England's 

 youth and age ride in Rotten Row 

 (Route du Roi) of a summer morning; 

 drive beside the Serpentine of an after- 

 noon ; but almost every Sunday in the 

 year and some days in between hoarse 

 promoters of new labor laws or new re- 

 ligions hold forth just inside the gate to 

 floating audiences, which shift and drift 

 impartially from one speaker to another. 

 To know the park one should see it at 



both times, and, unless too middle-aged, 

 should join at least once the group of 

 very young and quite old, who sail toy 

 boats on its pretty waters. But to play 

 one ought to go on into Kensington Gar- 

 dens, and who dares now write of that 

 after Peter Pan? I have looked for him 

 often there — I know the places — but it is 

 too late. I am too old or not old enough. 

 St. James Park is lovely. It is not 

 large (93 acres), yet the gracious ar- 

 rangement of trees and shrubs, the wind- 

 ing water, give it an impression of spa- 

 ciousness. It skirts the broad avenue 

 leading to Buckingham Palace and is 

 flanked by stately buildings. It is love- 

 liest just before sunset, when the trees 

 are casting their longest shadows upon 

 the golden sward and the pelican and 

 heron upon Duck Island are pruning and 

 prinking for the night, their glistening 

 white breasts blushing softly in the sun's 

 last light. There are soft bird-calls and 

 rustlings and twitterings ; there is the 

 odor of many flowers ; the city's noise is 

 hushed to a distant hum ; far away the 

 Westminster bells boom softly ; the light 

 fades, flickers, and is gone — so comes the 

 night. 



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