SOMETIME in the sixth century a Saxon King, named Sebert, founded an Abbey, where Westminster now stands. It is another of the regular show places of London, and possibly the most interesting, unless it be the Tower. It has been rebuilt a dozen or more times, and is really the most beautiful building in London of its class.

The Abbey is three hundred and seventy-five feet in length, by two hundred in width, and its height from the pavement to the foot of the lantern is one hundred and forty feet. I know this, for I got it from the guide-book.

There is nothing in England, in the way of architecture, more striking or grand. The beautiful is not always the grand, or the grand the beautiful. Westminster Abbey is both. The old architects might not have been able to have built the Capitol at Washington, and they certainly could not have built the Court House in New York, and made it cost more than the Houses of Parliament, for they were not that kind of architects; they mostly died poor and did not wear diamonds, but they managed to erect a building that is worth the passage across the Atlantic to see.

On entering the Abbey you run the gauntlet of a dozen or more fellows who have the privilege of selling guide-books. They will not take “No!” for an answer, but manage somehow to compel the gratuity. They are Potiphar’s wives with designs upon your pockets, and you have to choose between yielding to them, like Joseph, or leaving some portion of your garments in their grasp. You always shed the sixpence. Then you wander about through the magnificent structure, reading tablets on which are inscribed the virtues of all sorts of men, till happily remembering that kings and queens were buried in the building, you ask whereabouts they may be lying. Some one gives the information, the party is made up, and you place yourself under the charge of what they call a verger, a beery old fellow, with a face that blazes like a comet, with some sort of a black gown over his shoulders, who conducts you to the gate of a chapel, at which stands another beery old fellow, with a like face and a similar gown on his shoulders, who deliberately asks you for sixpence apiece, which being paid, you pass in, very like you would in a circus. Then the beery old fellow commences in a sing-song, monotonous way, his descriptions:—

“The first on the left is the tomb of Queen Eleanor, who died in the year of our Lord,” and so on. He intones his service just about as those officiating in the other services do, only he goes on without making a stop or punctuating a sentence. He guides you from one room to another without the slightest pause, and when he gets through he and the one at the gate, who takes the money, go out and drink beer till another party is formed.

But it is a very cheap show, and I am under obligations to the Church of England for the delight. In fact, it is a big shilling’s worth—for a drinking man. One blast from the fiery orifice in the volcanic face of the verger is enough to save anybody sixpence in beer, and as for the book, why you have it, and it is worth the money. Thus, you see, you have the show of the building and the dead Kings thrown in. I was not sure that we should not have given the Dean a shilling or two, and I felt like offering it to him, but, unfortunately, I was out of silver.

It is not the magnificence and grandeur of the structure, or its sacredness as a place of religious worship, that give Westminster Abbey its interest to the average tourist. It is the burial place of the great dead of England, and its walls contain the dust of more great men than any building in the world.

Of course I did not enthuse a particle over the tombs of the old Kings, those ancient robbers, whose titles came from force and were perpetuated by fraud, thirteen of whom are buried here, and fourteen Queens, commencing with Sebert, the Saxon, and ending with George, the Second. They may sleep anywhere without exciting a thrill in me, for not one of them ever did the world any good, or added one to the list of achievements that really make men’s names worth remembering.

I do not like kings, and if we must have them, I much prefer them dead. Safe in an abbey, they are not making wars upon each other, and besides, a dead king can be kept much more cheaply than a living one. I pay sixpence willingly to see where a dead king lies. When I remember that they must die, I always feel encouraged.

But England has buried here those who made her glory on the field, the wave, and in the Senate and closet, and it is England’s glory that she does this. England has never let a great achievement go unnoted, or unremembered. In the floors and on the walls of this great church, are tablets, commemorating not only Generals and Admirals, but Captains and Lieutenants, who aided in repulsing the foes of the country, or extending its possessions, and the private soldier or common sailor receives his meed of praise, the same as his officer.

In this, England is wise, as she is in most things. In this faithful remembrance, the youth of England have a constant incentive to great deeds and meritorious acts.

Speaking of monuments and commemorative structures, how many has the United States? One was attempted to the memory of Washington, of the general form and style of a Scotch claymore, set on end, hilt downward, and it was placed in the mud, on the banks of the Potomac, where it has been surely and certainly sinking these thirty years at least, and is not yet half finished.

Occasionally, some enterprising woman, who wants a house, or to pay off a mortgage, or something of the kind, organizes a Washington Monument Association, and collects money for the purpose of completing it. But it never amounts to anything. The lady and the managers collect a great deal of money, but no stones are added to the monument, and there stands, or rather, is sinking, a monument, not to Washington, but to the inefficient management of the citizens of the country he freed, and their indifference to the fame of their best and greatest men.

England does not do this. There is never a name in English history that is not carefully preserved in the Abbey, and it is not permitted to wear out and fade. When time has meddled with it the chisel is brought into requisition, and it is restored.

If one wishes to thoroughly and completely appreciate the worthlessness of human reputation, he should walk through these walls and over these floors. While the fame of the heroes, poets and statesmen have been carefully cared for, the nobodies buried here and hereabouts, and there are thousands of them, have been permitted to fade out mercilessly. Sir Toby Belch, we will say, or Sir Toby Anybody Else, who was so circumstanced that he received the honor of being buried in the Abbey or the grounds adjacent, lies here under a slab, on which is a long inscription. The slab is here; but alas! where is the inscription? The iron-nailed shoes of generations have as completely obliterated it as though a chisel had been used for the purpose.

But not so the actually great. The slab that covers the remains of Dickens has flowers placed upon it every day, and the inscriptions to the memory of Shakespeare, Byron, Handel, Haydn, Macaulay, Sheridan, Garrick, Rare Ben Johnson, and others, who made English literature, and the innumerable warriors by land and sea who have extended English possessions and defended England’s greatness, are kept as distinct and as bright as the day they were erected.

One singular thing is that there are no bad men buried in the Abbey; that is, if you may believe the marble inscriptions. Marble is a bad material to tell lies upon, because of the limited space that can be used. Were there more room there would be more lies, I suppose, but the English have managed it tolerably well.

There was Warren Hastings, for instance, Governor-General of India, who in his day was held up as a monster of cruelty, and a model of rapacity and oppression. Even the English Parliament and the East India Company were forced to protest against his extreme cruelty to the East Indians. Nevertheless Hastings has a bust in the Abbey, and an inscription on it, in which he is given every virtue under the sun. He is extolled as being all that was merciful, just, kind, good, and wise, and if there is a virtue that is not ascribed to him, the man who wrote it forgot it. As a matter of curiosity I copied the epitaph, and here it is:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
THE RIGHT HONORABLE WARREN HASTINGS,
Governor-General of Bengal,
Member of His Majesty’s Most Honorable Privy Council, L. L. D., F. R. S.
Descended from the elder branch of the Ancient and Noble Family of
Huntingdon.

Pretty good, this, for a man who was the terror of the East, and who was publicly branded in Parliament as the most audacious, corrupt and cruel tyrant that ever seized anything that armed force could lay its hands upon. But as England reaped the benefit of a portion, at least, of his wickedness, England manufactures a record for him and permits it to stand among its other heroes, for the admiration of future generations.

I can imagine the ghost of Hastings, as he hovers over this tablet and reads it. He must have smiled a spirit smile. However, it is probably as correct as other history, marble or written upon paper. The inhabitants of the other world must be amused as they read what is said of them in this. A great many of them must feel as the horse thief did when he wept after the speech of his counsel in his defense.

“What are you sobbing so for?” asked the counsel.

“I never knew before what a good man I am,” was the reply.

There are hundreds buried in the Abbey who have no especial claim to the honor, that is so far as to deeds that survive the ages gone. They enjoyed what we of to-day would term a mere local reputation, and all that remains of them is what the marble says. The inscriptions are all in the same strain, and are curious specimens of obituary literature. For instance this:—

TO THE MEMORY OF
JAMES BARTLEMAN,
formerly a chorister and lay clerk of Westminster Abbey,
and Gentleman of His Majesty’s Royal Chapel.
Educated by Dr. Cooke,
He caught all the taste and science of that great master,
Which he augmented and adorned.
With the peculiar powers of his native genius,
He possessed qualities which are seldom united;
A lively enthusiasm, with an exact judgment,
And exhibited a perfect model
Of a correct style and a commanding voice;
Simple and powerful, tender and dignified;
Solemn, chaste and purely English.
His social and domestic virtues
Corresponded with these rare endowments;
Affectionate and liberal, sincere and open-hearted,
He was not less beloved by his family and friends,
Than admired by all for his pre-eminence
In his profession.
He was born 19 Septr. 1769. Died 15 April, 1821.
And was buried in this cloister,
Near his Beloved Master.

“Solemn, chaste and purely English” is very good. What could Mr. Bartleman ask more?

On the monument of Admiral Sir Wondesley Shovel the inscription reads:—

Mr. William Lawrence, who was a prebendary, gets this poetical effusion:—

As a specimen of old English, this can hardly be excelled:—

Ander neath Lyeth
The Bodyes of 3 sonns
of Mr. Christopher Chapman,
Richard Christopher and
Peter Peter dyed the 11th
of September, 1672.
Richard dyed the 1th of
February, 1672, and
Christopher Chapman,
M. of Artes, dyed the 25
of March, 1675.

The next is a memorial to an authoress, who was the most popular of her day, and whose pieces were the delight of London. To-day, she is only remembered by book-worms and antiquaries:—

MRS. APHRA BEHN,
Dyed April 16,
A.D. 1689.
Here lies a proof that Wit can never be
Defence enough against Mortality.

This lady was the authoress of many dramatic pieces—all as dead as their author.

The Wesley family are represented in this:—

NUTTY, SUSANNA,
URSULA, SAMUEL,
WESLEY.
1725, 1726, 1727, 1731.
Infant children of
Samuel Wesley,
Brother of John Wesley.

The British merchant was honored, as well as the British soldier:—

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
JONAS HANWAY,
who departed this life September 5, 1786, aged 74,
but whose name liveth, and will ever live,
whilst active Piety shall distinguish
The Christian.
Integrity and Truth shall recommend
The British Merchant.
And universal Kindness shall characterize
The Citizen of the World.

The wandering about among the tombs of so many illustrious dead, and the reading of so many fulsome epitaphs—albeit I know they were not altogether deserved—produced an impression, a feeling of solemnity, that no other one place in all England could conjure up. It was in vain that Tibbitts tried to make fun out of some of the quaint inscriptions. It could not be done, and in a very short time the youth succumbed to the influence of the mighty memory, and became a subdued and quiet admirer of the solemn grandeur of the place.

Three is the hour that religious services are held in the large nave. More out of curiosity, perhaps, than anything else, we determined to remain during the service. As we sat there looking over into the Poets’ Corner, the deep silence of the majestic building, growing more and more profound, there came trooping through the mind constantly changing pictures suggested by the memories awakened by the vivid recollections of the once great in literature and art, science and warfare, who are still alive in the hearts of all English-speaking people, although their bodies have been lying for years beneath the massive pillars and superb arches of Westminster.

As the eye wanders upwards along the walls, covered with tablets and rare pieces of sculpture, and seeks to unravel the intricacies of the fretted roof, just discernible through the dim light, the great organ peals forth the wondrous strains of the Processional.

At that instant, as though to lend a new and greater impressiveness to the scene, the clouds, which had been lowering all the afternoon, suddenly breaking with a glorious burst of sunshine, that comes streaming in through the tall, graceful windows, beautiful with their colored designs, lights up the Abbey even to its darkest recess with a light, soft, and mellow, which only intensifies the mystic feeling of reverence and joy combined. And then the boy choristers, with their fresh, innocent faces, sing in wondrous tones the Gregorian chant. Nothing more is needed; everything is complete. You are lost in a rapturous reverie, the mind is cleansed of all things earthly, and wanders unchecked and unfettered through the boundless realms of purity. One sits almost entranced; his very being filled with the wondrous power of the place. Gradually it dawns upon him that there is a discord somewhere, that something has occurred to mar the perfection of the whole. For an instant he rebels against the thought, and strives to believe that he still dreams. But the inspiration has fled. The music, which a moment before caused the tears to fill his eyes, has lost itself in the far-away cornices of the high columns, and in its stead there is the dull, monotonous chanting of a priest, who is intoning the service in a tired sort of way, as though he thought that, having done the same thing every afternoon for forty years, it was time for him to retire upon a pension, and enjoy the quiet of a pleasant home, where there was no absolute necessity of going through the ritual every afternoon at three o’clock.

The awakening was not a pleasant one, and so we left the Abbey, disappointed, as though we had been given the promise of something wonderful and then been denied it. The service, no matter how beautiful in and of itself, is not in keeping with the grandeur of the place. There is lacking, to an American, that sense of power and majesty in it that the massive building, glorying in its wondrous architectural beauties, demands. The clergymen had an aimlessness that was simply tiresome, and as they drawled out the words, it seemed as though they did not care whether it produced an effect upon the worshippers or not. But it did produce an effect. Not the one to be desired, perhaps, but an effect after all, for the greater number of them quietly left the place, and reached the open air with a sigh of relief, as if they had escaped from some very depressing, dispiriting place.

In America religion and religious services mean something more than form, and the ministers, no matter of what denomination, or in what sort of a building, throw something of life and fervor into their services. They act and talk as though they had souls to save, and that the responsibility of the souls of their congregations were upon them. This was not of that kind. The priests went through the service as though, having offered the bread of life to their people, it was for them to take it or let it alone, as they chose. Indeed, when one was a little slow, as though he had been up the night before, the other would look at him reproachfully, as if to say, “Look here; why don’t you hurry up and get through with this, and let us get home. I don’t want my dinner to spoil,” and the boys in the choir, though they sang like angels, did it, not as if they knew or cared anything about it, but as a mere matter of business, looking from one to another, and then upon the congregation. Whatever the effect upon the people, their beautiful music had no more effect upon them than as if they had been so many oysters.

These people would not do for a Western camp-meeting, or even for a fashionable revival in an Eastern church. But they have their uses.

One room in the Abbey is devoted to the effigies in wax of seven Kings and Queens, but few people visit it. They can see a more extensive collection of murderers at Madam Tussaud’s for the same money, and they go there.

The cloisters, as they are called, form a not uninteresting portion of the Abbey, they being the former places of residence of the monks of the establishment. In the various walks, with their quaintly carved pillars, and moss-covered arches, are buried many distinguished personages, most of whom belonged to the Abbey.

Another point of interest is the “Chapter House,” a circular room, of large dimensions, which was built in 1250 by Henry III., on the site of the earlier Chapter House belonging to the Abbey, founded by Edward the Confessor. It was the chamber in which the abbot and monks, in the time of the ancient monastery held their “Chapter,” or meeting for discussion and business. The stone seats upon which the abbot and the monks sat are still preserved.

In 1265, when the House of Commons came into existence, it first sat in Westminster Hall with the House of Lords; but the two bodies having parted, the Commons held its meetings in the Chapter House for nearly three hundred years. The last Parliament known to have sat here was that which assembled on the last day of the reign of King Henry VIII. After that the House passed into the possession of the Crown, and from 1547, when the House of Commons was transferred to Westminster Palace, until 1863, it was used as the depository of public records, and was very much disfigured. In 1865 its restoration was begun, and it now presents the same appearance it did in years gone by, save where the finger of Father Time has been laid rather heavily upon its once fair paintings and graceful proportions.

It does not appear that the nave and cloisters, though the last resting places of so many eminent persons, were treated with due respect in the reign of Queen Anne. At all events, the following occurs in the Acts of the Dean and Chapter, under date of May 6, 1710.

The Abbey is the especial pride of England, and well it may be. It is a delight in and of itself, and would be were it empty. But filled, as it is, with the enduring monuments of its glory, it possesses a double interest. Every American visits it, and every American should, for those who built it and those who sleep under its wonderful roof, are of the same blood and kin. America shares in England’s glory, if not in her shame. But then, we have some sins to answer for, and an Englishman may not blush in the presence of his cousin across the water.