Year: 1877

A SCENE IN WESTMINSTER.


When l went to Westminster Abbey the first
thought was naturally of Dickens. So disdain-
ing the aid of h-dropping guides, and guide-
DOCKS which do not guide, made my way rap
idly among the vulgar kings, nobility and gen.
try who cucumber the greater part of the build
ing, and at length stood reverential and awe
struck among the real gods and heroes in the
Poets Corner But could not find Dickens.
looked for freshly cut inscription on the
floor, supposing that SO recent a work would
easily catch the eye. But all the slabs and in
scriptions looked worn and gray, and the name
1 sought was nowhere TO be seen. Appeal would
speedily have been made to verger who was
volubly talking Of "King Emery and of "the
poet Haddison," had not my attention been at
tracted by three fair English girls who were
sitting on bench directly in front Of me. They
had the clean, pure, nicely cut faces and the
peerless complexion, telling of sweet and whole
some blood which nature by some inexplicable
process often produces in the midst of the fog,
dust and sitting smoke of this ridiculously
overgrown city. The strange thing about these
three London graces was that two of them were
weeping-not Ostentatiously so as to give rise to
an unpleasant suspicion of affectation, but
quietly and as if trying to conceal their emo
tioD. If the tear-stained faces had not been so
deliciously pretty the scene would have been
absurd. For though all around them were
statues and memorials of Shakespeare, Milton,
Gray, Ben. JonsoD, Cbaucer, Drayton and
Cowley whom Charles Lamb 80 much loved.
Dryden, Campbell, Southey, Thomson, Gold
smith, Handel, Addison, Garrick, Sam. john
son, Sheridan, and Macaulay, and many others
whom the world will always severe-yet
it was hard to associate with the names
or even the ashes Of any of them
that sense of recent, personal bereave-
ment which would find a natural express
sion in tears. One might as we'll hope for SYM
pathy in weeping for Homer, or even for
travagant admirer of Chaucer would find it no
doubt extremely difficult to pay him the tribute
of one poor tear. One was irresistibly remind
ed of the profane but funny Mark Twain weep
ing at the grave of Adam. But why were the
overfowing eyes of the graces fastened so i'm
tently on your correspondents feet? To be
sure he had heard unapprecative hotel menials
casually refer to his boots as "Wellington
boots in describing them with view to their
Identification when accidentally left in the
msrning at the door of No. 81 instead of 43.
He knew full well the strength of English pref
udice and conservatism. But could it bs that
the fashiening of them had been so direful,
could they be 50 fearfully and wonderfully
made as to awaken emotions so poignant and
distort the features of beauty with anguish?
These misplaced speculations caused him to
glance with feelings of mingled amusement


and apprehension at his feet. They were
standing directly above that beloved head
whose laurels are still kept fresh by the un-
forced tears of those to whom his kindliness
and universal human sympathy have caused
his untimely death to seem apersonal calamity
they were standing where many thousands of
pilgrim feet had stood before and had already
worn their tributary impress. What wonder.
when. as prelude to the afternoon service, the
first solemn notes of the organ began to resound
through the long-drawn aisles and fretted vault,
if saw that the graces were not weeping
alone?


No statue, bust or memorial tablet has yet
been raised to the memory Of Dickens His
name with the date of his birth and death is
cut on the pavement under which he lles-and
that is all in the vast Gothic pile made so fine


with tho monumental stone and marble carved
by the hands of Chantry, Roubilliac and old
Torrigiano-in q shrine where the rubbish of
worthless royalty and the lumber Of vicious and


obscure nobility lies in carefully secluded chap
els, entombed in costly memorials where art
l. t. ,I,o5 Ill ;obo D..


what king or noble of them all has or could
have monument so exquisite as the living
group of beautiful girls shedding their un-
bought but priceless tears at the grave of the
plebean story-teller?


Said Sir Godfrey Kneller when Pope went to
see him in his last illness, "By God, I will not
be buried in Westminster, for they do bury
fools there!' And there is some truth, too, in
the remark; but sometimes the ashes of persons
of real worth are allowed as matter of grace
and cOndescension to find a resting place here


generally in an obscure corner. The pavement
still tells where George Peabody's remains
once lay before their removal to America.
Lady Augusta Stanley, wife Of the present
brilliant unorthodox Dean Stanley, has recent
ly been buried in the Abbey. From all &C.
counts the good lady was as near an angel as a
mortal can be, but. as might be expected in
England, more famous on account Of the
Queens friendship than Oh account of her la
bors for the poor. But among the floral trib-
ntes still fresh on her grave was glad to see
many humble offerings, possibly from the indi-
gent whom she had befreuded side by side with
Victora's costly wreath.
''IN THE AMERICAN STYLE"


In England this means anything and every
thing that is vulgar, ugly, unsymetrical and
intolerable. In an Oxford street shop window,
among many hats of fashionable and elegant
contour, is displayed something made of the
fur of an animal which, for the credit of the de-
velopment theory, trust has been extinct for
many ages longer than the plesiosaurus.
The vely recollection of it is torment-a
nightmare. Hat All, Algernon! when thou
didst dance so madly in thy Bacchic frenzy
on the hats of London, as the mystic Atlanta
sometime sang-say, why was not this one?
Crushed, rolled in the DUST stamped under
Swinburne's satyr hoof, itmight have come
forth improved in color. shape and texture;
worse it could not haze been. Hat! Imagine
all that is wild and fantastic in the head-gear
Of Western scout, all that is awkward, in a
countryman's Sunday tile, long out of date
all that is formless and chaotic in the coiffure
of strange, mysterious tribes in the farthest
oriental clmes-imagne all that is grotesque,
monstrous and unutterable in hats, turbans,
caps or anything ever in any age or country
fashioned for the covering of the head, and you
will even then but family conceive this struct-
ure which is introduced in good, bold British
type, as "a HAT IN THE AMERICAN STYLE"
1t must have been Joaquin Miller who did
| this deed of shame. His morbid and lawless
imagination must have created it, and if human


head ever wore such hat it must have


been that of the precious darling Of
Belgravian saloons. But if L were on good
terms with Mr.. Evarts would have him make
an international question of this thing.


Genuine American crullers-a delicious
| pastry" So announces the cook in his shoI
| window. Your correspondent stops, expectant
gratified and proud. "Ha! here at least is one
American institution which has forced the
proud Briton to acknowledge its excellence