round the corner into the chapel itself. From here the nearest is that of Richard II., which is raised too high above us to see well. The lower part was formerly in a very bad state of repair, and through the holes in the wooden chest which contained the royal remains the bones of Richard and his wife Anne could be clearly seen. Indeed, the schoolboys used to amuse themselves by flipping marbles into the sepulchre. The jawbone of the King is said to have been picked out by one bold youth; smaller bones and such-like curiosities were the easy prey of the less venturesome. Edward the Third's, on the other hand, which comes next, has never been thus tampered with, although a few shields have been carried off. But we can still see the six gilt brass images of his children on this side, those on the other have been stolen long ago; these are headed by Richard's father, the warlike Black Prince, whose tomb some of us know at Canterbury Cathedral. Queen Philippa's monument, the third in order, has been stripped bare of all the "sweetly carved niches" and little alabaster {69} figures, not to speak of the gilt angels and other beautiful decorations, which once adorned it. The same sad tale of spoliation and vanished splendour must be repeated when we reach the top of the wooden steps which lead up into St. Edward's Chapel. The battered oak effigy of Henry V. need not detain us now, we speak of that great monarch later. Standing before the shrine itself the oft-told tale of our Saxon founder must not be omitted—the fascinating legend of his strange visions, one of which led him to select Thorneye as the favoured site of his monastic foundation. The story of his life and death are illustrated by the stone pictures on the screen, which divides the chapel from the high altar, and was probably put up by the pious Henry VI. One of the favourite scenes is the remission of the Dane-gelt, which may have taken place in the old Treasury, the Pyx Chapel; here we see the King pointing to the casks which contain his people's hard-earned money; upon them formerly danced a demon Dane, thus thwarted of his due. Edward lies upon his bed in another, calmly watching the scullion who rifles his treasure-chest, and escapes with a mild admonition from the gentle King. Further on we see him seated at dinner between his wife {70} and her father, Earl Godwin, while in front her brothers Tostig and Harold are disputing, as they quarrelled years afterwards over the crown, and Edward is roused to a prophetical burst of wrath. The most significant are the last ones, which recall the famous legend of the ring and the consecration of the Abbey. St. John, who, disguised as a beggar, received the ring from Edward, is shown delivering it into the hands of two pilgrims, who are bidden to return with it to England and deliver it back to the King, with a message intimating his approaching end. This ring, taken from the incorruptible finger of the royal saint a century after his death by Abbot Laurence, was deposited amongst the relics, and no doubt the wedding ring of England, which is still placed upon the finger of the sovereign after he has received the insignia of royalty, had its origin in this sacred ring. We turn to the shrine itself, and try to picture it in all its pristine beauty before the sacrilegious hand of the despoiler had touched it. West of the shrine is a modern altar, the ancient one was destroyed long since, but hitherto a wooden table was temporarily placed here at coronations, for which this marble altar was substituted on the last occasion. The modern gilt {71} group over it and the gilded cornice sorely afflict the eye, and are sadly out of keeping with the artistic work of the Roman artisans, Odericus and Peter. The wooden top, of no merit in itself, but dating from Mary Tudor's reign, is now covered by a velvet pall, which unfortunately conceals the saint's coffin, formerly visible from the chantry. On either side of St. Edward's altar were once golden pillars presented by Edward II.; the golden image of St. John the Evangelist stood upon one, that of the Confessor himself upon the other. The stone basement was entirely covered with elaborate decorations, glass mosaic, precious stones, and enamels; and the twisted pillars, also richly decorated, remind the Italian traveller of those in the cloister at St. John Lateran. Within the niches sick persons used to crouch all the long night, believing that this mere proximity to the dead saint would cure their diseases. The coffin itself is above, raised high, as the old writers tell us, "on a candlestick, to enlighten the world." It was originally encased in a wonderful feretory, made of pure gold and decorated with golden and jewelled images of kings and queens, of saints and angels. This was melted down, and all the valuable ornaments were sold, when Henry VIII. suppressed the {72} monastery. The last Abbot, John Feckenham, did his best to restore some of its former glory to St. Edward's Chapel. He rebuilt the basement of the shrine, which the monks had concealed before they fled, and painted over the gaps left by the theft of the mosaic work. He also rewrote the inscriptions on all the royal tombs, probably in most cases restoring the ancient words.

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THE WEST END OF THE CONFESSOR'S SHRINE, SHOWING THE MODERN ALTAR

A small portion of the ancient shrine is given in this illustration, but we can see the only twisted pillar which retains any of its original Italian mosaic decoration, and behind the candlesticks is more of this beautiful work. The altar and the gilded group and cornice over it are of recent date, i.e. the Coronation of King Edward VII. and Queen Alexandra; the red velvet pall with its blue linen cover were placed over the tomb of the saint at the same time. A portion of the tombs of Edward III. and Richard II. show on the south side of the chapel, with the windows of that of St. Edmund above.

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Neither Feckenham nor Queen Mary could afford to pay for a new golden top, and the present plain wooden one was perforce substituted. The only wonder is that the royal chapel was not stripped entirely bare of its treasures long before our time. The relics, no doubt, were taken at the suppression of the monastery. The silver head and armour of Henry V. were stolen in the reign of Henry VIII., after the monks, those careful custodians of the Abbey, had been dispersed. The silver cradle on the tomb of Edward IV.'s little daughter vanished later. We look around and see the empty places on Henry III.'s tomb whence the mosaics and jewels have been picked out; the arms of Richard II. and his queen are missing; that once wonderful work of art, Philippa's monument, so well described by Sir Gilbert Scott, is a ruin. The Coronation Chair, now raised safely out of {73} harm's way, is actually covered with the names of tourists. Yet neither Henry VIII. nor the Protestant Protector Somerset, not even those scapegoats the Puritan soldiers, are altogether to blame for these and other acts of vandalism. During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries people seem to have roamed about the Abbey, occasionally accompanied by a verger, usually free to write their names or to break off relics. The glass cases of the wax effigies, which are covered with such records, bear witness to the careless guardianship of the church in former days.

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THE TOMB OF HENRY III. FROM ST. EDWARD'S CHAPEL, LOOKING EAST

The tomb of our second founder, the builder of this portion of the Abbey Church, has, like the shrine of St. Edward, suffered much from the despoiler's hand. The tomb was made by the same Italian workmen who were employed upon the shrine, but the effigies, both of Henry and his daughter-in-law, Eleanor of Castile, who is buried at his feet, are by an Englishman, one William Torel. We see on this side one of the porphyry slabs which Edward I. brought with him from the Continent, when he returned from the Crusades a year after his father's death. In the niches below, some of the most precious relics were kept. Beyond the small black marble tomb of Elizabeth Tudor is that of Queen Eleanor, first wife of Edward I., flanked by one of the entrance turrets to the Chantry of Henry V.

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Fortunately there is still much left, and nothing can touch the historical interest even of these mutilated tombs. One little pillar on the shrine itself is practically intact, and from the north ambulatory, above the reach of a man's arm, we shall see some of the mosaic decoration which once adorned the whole of the tomb of Henry III. Thanks to their grilles, the silver-gilt effigies of Henry and his daughter-in-law, Eleanor of Castile, were secure from the despoiler's hand, and remain as examples of the skill of an English artist, one William Torel. The exceedingly interesting iron grille which guards Eleanor's image is also by an English hand, that of Master Thomas of Lewes, a {74} Sussex smith, and we inform our friends that Sussex was in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, probably till much later, an iron-smelting county—a fact which is recalled by the hammer ponds at the present day. Beneath our feet, protected by the linoleum, are fragments of the ancient pavement, and north and south of the shrine lie two Saxon queens whose bodies were removed here from the Confessor's church, when it was pulled down by Henry III. Both were called by the old English name of Editha. The elder is connected with the first historic foundation of the Abbey, for she, the Confessor's wife, was present at the consecration (Innocents' Day, 1066) of the choir and transepts, when her husband lay helpless on his deathbed. Her niece changed the Saxon name of Editha for the Norman Matilda or Maud when, by her marriage with Henry I., the two rival races were united in one family. It is pleasant here to turn to the foreigners amongst us and remind them that while we speak of English sovereigns who were continually at war with their ancestors, yet the discord was more apparent than real. For these very men, the sworn enemies of France and of Spain for many a long generation, were the husbands or {75} the sons of French, Spanish, and other foreign princesses. Not only were they blood relations, but the language of their courts and of their legal documents was French, and when they wasted the fair lands of France, or fought against Spain, Flanders, and Holland, they believed themselves to be striving to regain their lost heritages and the dowries brought them by their brides. Long after England and France were completely severed, Mary Tudor, herself the daughter of a Spanish mother, and the wife of a Spanish king, clung so fiercely to the last link which gave the English kings a claim to the fleurs-de-lis in their quarterings that her heart broke when Calais fell. We have already referred to the central tomb on the north of the shrine, which contains the body of our second founder, Henry III., himself by the way the husband of a French wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine. To him we owe the present beautiful church, and not even the memory of the money ground out of the oppressed Jews, or gathered in the form of unjust taxes from his wretched subjects, can damp our enthusiastic gratitude. The slabs of porphyry and jasper upon both sides were brought by Henry's son, Edward I., from Italy or France, when he returned across the Continent from the Crusades a year after {76} his father's death. The coffin itself is, like that of the Confessor, in the upper part of the tomb, and, unlike those of Edward himself and Richard II., has never been tampered with; there is no doubt that the embalmed body of the King still rests here, untouched by the ravages of eight centuries. As we look upon the lovely face of Henry's daughter-in-law, who lies at his feet, we forget that this is no portrait but a conventional and ideal queen. We think only of the young Spanish princess in the early days of her married life, before the birth of thirteen children in quick succession, the loss of many of these little ones, and the privations she suffered in the Holy Land had marred her beauty. Vainly did the old King try to keep Eleanor at home when his son, Prince Edward, went off to the Crusade. She continued to urge her wifely duty in answer to his fatherly solicitations, and to repeat that the way to heaven is as near from Palestine as from England. By the time she returned her kind father-in-law was dead, and her restless warlike husband was henceforth rarely by her side. Years afterwards when the Queen died, Edward seems to have remembered her wifely devotion with remorse, for never did any former English queen-consort have so magnificent a burial {77} nor so costly a tomb. Two other monuments (which no longer exist), containing her viscera and her heart, were put up at Lincoln and Blackfriars. At every stage where the funeral procession rested between Lincolnshire and Westminster the King raised a memorial cross in his wife's honour. All have been destroyed save three, but the last was at one time a conspicuous object in Charing village, and a modern copy of it has been placed in the station-yard at "Charing Cross." Eleanor herself bequeathed money towards the expenses of her funeral, and Edward gave large sums to the three convents, chiefly to Westminster, in order to provide for anniversary services at his wife's tombs, where wax tapers were always to be kept burning, and prayers constantly offered to Heaven for the repose of her soul. Edward's son and successor was strangely lacking in filial obedience. With his dying breath the warrior King, who had hammered the Scots and harassed the Turks, gave orders that his body was to remain unburied till Scotland was subdued, the flesh boiled, and the bones borne at the head of the victorious English army. His heart was to be taken out and confided to a band of knights, who were to fight for the Holy Sepulchre, carrying the casket in their {78} midst. These commands were disobeyed, and the plain tomb, without effigy or monument, is a silent witness to the second Edward's failure to "keep troth." The embalmed corpse was buried here soon after the King's death, but the upper slab remained loose, and for many a long year the cere-cloth was kept waxed, perhaps with the idea of carrying out the dead sovereign's behests at some future time. In any case the cover was left as it was till the eighteenth century, when some antiquaries were allowed to raise it, and looking in they beheld the body of Longshanks lying there in royal state, wrapped in the coronation robes, with orb and sceptre in either hand, a linen cloth concealing the features. We cannot forgive the wanton destruction which ensued. Boiling pitch was poured in, and the lid hermetically sealed after these vandals had satisfied their curiosity and taken notes of every detail. Havoc also was wrought to the outside about the same period, when the canopy was destroyed during a riot which broke out at the patriot Pulteney's burial in the ambulatory below, and the iron grille, upon which were two little heads of the King, disappeared at the same time. The words "Scotorum Malleus" and "Pactum Serva" were painted by Abbot Feckenham's orders, but may have formed {79} part of the original inscription. The most important trophy which the English conqueror brought from Scotland was the stone of Scone, a reminder now of the union of the two kingdoms, but then a constant source of irritation to the Scots, who tried in vain to get it back. The chair which encloses the stone was made in Edward's time, and has ever since been used as the seat of our sovereigns at their coronations. Once and once only a man not of royal birth was privileged to receive the insignia of government seated in the Coronation Chair, when Oliver Cromwell was installed Lord Protector in Westminster Hall. The huge sword behind the chair, carried before Edward III. on his warlike expeditions into France and Scotland, was probably used on the memorable occasion when he entered Calais in state after the siege, and his wife Philippa begged her stern lord for the lives of the twelve burgesses who brought him the keys of the captured town. We turn to the left round the shrine and approach the despoiled tomb of that good Flemish lady, who endeared herself to the hearts of her English subjects by her wise and kindly rule during Edward's frequent absences abroad and in Scotland. The face, a portrait this time, shows us a homely countenance with full cheeks and rather prominent eyes, {80} but pleasant withal and full of character. The design of the whole was by a Flemish artist, but English stone-masons worked on the details, and a certain John Orchard, the artist of the copper-gilt angels, which formerly adorned the canopy, and probably also of the figures on the King's tomb, made the little alabaster figures of Philippa's two children in St. Edmund's Chapel for the sum of twenty shillings. The white stone canopy with the wrought-metal tabernacle work and gilt angels was actually removed as insecure in the eighteenth century. The thirty alabaster niches, each containing the statuette of a royal mourner, and the alabaster angels with gilt wings have all gone, except the fragments of one, which was put together by Sir Gilbert Scott, and is in a safe but dark corner. No trace remains of the iron grille which Edward bought for his queen from a bishop's monument in St. Paul's Cathedral. The King's own tomb is next to that of his wife: he thus kept the promise which he made to her as she lay dying, and lies beside her in the "Cloister" at Westminster. Froissart tells a touching story of the scene between the royal couple, when Philippa held the hand of the husband who had so often been faithless to her, and asked this, her last boon. {81} Near her bed stood Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester, the only one of her fourteen children able to be present at his mother's deathbed; he is buried close to her tomb. Thomas was murdered by order of his nephew, Richard II.—who was himself destined to come to an untimely end at the hands of a relative—and the grave of the victim is not far from Richard's own monument. We saw in St. Edmund's Chapel the fourteenth-century brass which marks the last resting-place of the Duke's widow, Eleanor de Bohun, who retired to a nunnery after her husband's tragic fate. We have looked at the tombs of Edward III. and of Richard II. from the ambulatory side; both are of English workmanship. That of the elder monarch is finer and more elaborate than the other, which Richard raised in his own lifetime to receive the remains of his beloved first wife, Anne of Bohemia, and destined for his own corpse. Edward's effigy is purely a conventional one, but the long hair and beard have often been pointed out as a mark of his neglected lonely deathbed. True enough this once powerful King died alone save for the ministrations of an old priest, saddened in his last hours by the loss of his heir, the Black Prince. But his end was less tragic than that of his successor and grandson {82} twenty years later, over the details of which a veil of mystery still hangs. We only know that his cousin, Henry of Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, usurped the throne, and that the deposed Richard died in prison; his body was obscurely buried at King's Langley, and re-interred here long afterwards, with the honour due to a king, by his supplanter's own son, Henry V.

We see here the portrait effigy of the effeminate young King, whose hand used to be clasped in that of his young foreign bride, but the arms are both gone. The robes are stamped with Richard's badges, the rising sun of Crecy and Poictiers, which was his father's favourite emblem, the broomscods of the Plantagenets, the fleurs-de-lis of France, symbolic of the constant claim of our sovereigns to the French crown, and many others. Beneath the canopy are traces of the two-headed eagle, the arms of Bohemia, and also of the imperial eagle, for Anne was a sister of Wenceslaus, the good King of Bohemia, and a daughter of the Emperor Charles IV.; at her feet is the Austrian leopard. As we look at this royal couple, that fateful day of Anne's funeral is recalled to our memory, when her bereaved husband in a fit of ungovernable rage struck one of the powerful {83} nobles, who came late for the ceremony, such a fierce blow that for the second time in Richard's unfortunate reign the pavement was stained with blood. On the first occasion a knight, who had taken sanctuary here, was slain by John of Gaunt's servants. And in each case the Abbey was placed under an interdict for a time, till by priest and bell the church was cleansed from pollution. There is another brass, hidden beneath the linoleum near Edward the First's tomb, which connects Richard with the Abbey, and marks the burial of a commoner within the chapel of the kings—the only person not of royal blood ever interred here. A storm of popular indignation burst out when Richard commanded the Abbot to grant a grave for his favourite, John of Waltham, Bishop of Salisbury, within these sacred precincts, and the King was forced to resort to bribery before he could gain his point.

The circle of kingly tombs, which include those of two small princesses, is completed at the eastern end by the memorial of Henry V. The chantry chapel above is apparently in the shape of the King's initial, but this proves to be a mere coincidence, as the letter H was made after a different pattern in the fifteenth century. Henry IV. was {84} taken ill when saying his prayers before the shrine, and died in the Abbot's withdrawing-room, the Jerusalem Chamber; but the son erected no tomb here for his father's remains, rather the first act of his reign after the coronation was, as we have already pointed out, to bring his murdered cousin's body from King's Langley, and to inter it with royal pomp in the tomb which Richard had prepared for himself years before. In the Jerusalem Chamber we shall see the busts of the two Lancastrian kings. Here is only a bare and headless effigy to recall the victor of Agincourt, and a dilapidated helmet, saddle, and shield, on the bar above, all of which were carried at Henry's funeral. Henry's own will provided for the erection of this large memorial, which encroaches on the eastern part of both Eleanor and Philippa's monuments. We reach the chantry chapel above his tomb by stone steps worn by countless pilgrims, who painfully climbed them on their knees when they came here to pray for the dead hero's soul. Looking down from this chapel before the pall covered the shrine we used to see the Confessor's coffin, and can still enjoy the most striking view that exists of the church from east to west. On either side just below are the apsidal chapels. Facing the north {85} ambulatory and forming part of the screen to St. Paul's Chapel is the monument of Henry's standard-bearer, Lord Robsert, who received this coveted post as a reward for his valour at Agincourt. Amongst the now defaced shields round the tomb ancient students of heraldry believed that they discovered the quarterings of Chaucer's father-in-law, Sir Payne Roet of Hainault, and Robsert's crest was even identified with his. Inside, the chapel itself is blocked up by the huge statue of James Watt, one of the inventors of the steam-engine, but there are many fine old monuments against the walls. From here we have a good view of an altar tomb in the centre of the same chapel, the alabaster effigies upon which are in the costume of the early Tudor period, and represent Sir Giles Daubeney, the friend and Lord Chamberlain of Henry VII., with his wife Magdalen. Above them are suspended the banners of the Delavel family, which are over two hundred years old.

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ST. EDWARD'S SHRINE AND THE CHANTRY CHAPEL OF HENRY V.

In this illustration we see the niches in the shrine, where sick persons used to crouch all night in order to be cured of their diseases by contact with the saint's coffin, which is above, covered by the pall. Beyond is the Chantry Chapel of Henry V. with a bar across the top, upon which are fixed the dead King's helmet, sword, and shield, all of which were carried at his funeral. The tomb itself, with its headless and battered oaken effigy, is seen through the open gate; stone steps, worn by the knees of many pilgrims, ascend the turret to the right and lead into a little chapel, where now reposes the mummified body of Henry's queen, Katherine of Valois. It was buried here by Dean Stanley after it had been unburied for two centuries and then hidden away in one of the vaults. From here we see the effigy and tomb of Queen Philippa, the latter stripped bare of all its original splendour, including the alabaster angels and gilt statuettes of mourners.

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Standing on the south side we are now directly above the tomb of that masterful Countess of Buckingham, mother of Charles the First's favourite, whose own pompous monument will be found in Henry VII.'s Chapel. In the vault {86} beneath lay for more than a century the withered mummy of a French princess, the coquettish Kate, whom Henry V. courts so ardently in Shakespeare's play. Katherine lost her prestige at her son Henry VI.'s Court by her second marriage with a Welsh gentleman of no rank, but she thus became the ancestress of the great Tudor dynasty, which was destined to supplant both her royal husband's line, the Lancastrians, and their rivals, the house of York. Yet it was in the reign of her own Tudor grandson that Katherine's original sepulchre in the old Lady Chapel was destroyed, and her embalmed body in its broken wooden coffin placed by the side of Henry V.'s effigy. Possibly Henry VII. intended to suitably re-inter his noble grandame's corpse in his new chapel, but after his death nobody stirred in the matter, and there the remains lay, a curiosity for all visitors to the Abbey to stare at, till at last Dean Zachary Pearce buried them under the Countess of Buckingham's tomb. Dean Stanley removed the coffin and placed it in this chantry chapel against the east wall, where an altar dedicated to the Virgin used to stand. The ancient altar slab, found concealed beneath the step, now forms the cover of the Queen's tomb. On the wall behind are the {87} badges of Henry V. The antelope and the swan, which he inherited from his mother's family, the de Bohuns, are each chained to a tree, between them is burning the cresset light, an emblem taken by the young King at his coronation as a proof of his desire to be "a light and a guide to his people to follow him in all virtue and honour." The badges are repeated all over the stone-work inside and out, while the niches are filled with numerous statues, representing royal personages, mitred abbots, and saints, notably the patron saints of England and France, St. George and St. Denis—the latter carries his head in his hand. Upon the arch over the ambulatory is depicted Henry's coronation in the Abbey. His figure armed cap-a-pie is shown on the eastern side, crossing a raging torrent, while a castle, with troops drawn up in front of it, is carved in the background. The shields of England and France, to which kingdom Henry was, as son-in-law to the French king and by right of conquest, the acknowledged heir, are also prominent. We return below the chantry arch and descend into the ambulatory, whence we have a good view of the carvings alluded to, besides many others. Before us is a flight of stone steps which leads directly up to the other royal chapel, the mausoleum {88} of the Tudors and Stuarts. Beneath our feet is the family vault of the Royalist historian of the civil wars, Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, who was closely connected with the Stuarts, and shared the exile of his young master, afterwards Charles II. In later days the powerful Lord Chancellor fell from his high position at Court, and was sentenced to lifelong banishment by that same prince whom he had served so faithfully in his youth. Clarendon's daughter married James II., then Duke of York, and thus by the irony of fate the disgraced favourite was destined to be the grandfather of two Stuart queens, Mary and Anne.

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THE TOMB OF QUEEN PHILIPPA AND THE CHANTRY CHAPEL OF HENRY V. FROM THE SOUTH AMBULATORY

We see again the ruined tomb of Queen Philippa and the southern side of the Chantry Chapel. Here the coronation of King Henry V. is represented above the arch, and numerous little statuettes of kings, ecclesiastics, saints, and angels are carved above and below it. In the spandrels of the arch are the arms of England and France, while along the cornice are some of the royal badges. Beneath it are the steps leading up to the Chapel of Henry VII.

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At the top of the steps a triple portico leads into the centre of Henry VII.'s Chapel; on each side narrow doorways admit to the north and south aisles. The arch overhead is most elaborately carved and decorated with the same badges which we see on the bronze gates, and all over the inside of the chapel. Chief amongst these are the Tudor rose, the flower of York and Lancaster alike, and the portcullis, which was the emblem of Henry's maternal relations, the Beauforts, who traced their descent from John of Gaunt. This badge, originally a castle protected by a portcullis, was a symbol of Henry's undisputed (although not really {89} flawless) title to the throne, and he added the proud motto "Altera securitas." A crowned fleur-de-lis is constantly repeated on the walls, and on the gates the shield of France is to be seen next to the lions of England; for our English sovereigns continued to assert their right to the French succession. The other badges on the gates include the crown on a bush, which recalls Bosworth Field, when Lord Derby took the golden circlet from the hawthorn bush, where it fell when Richard was slain, and placed it on his step-son's head. The daisy root belongs to Derby's wife and Henry's mother, Lady Margaret, whose tomb we shall see in the south aisle. The falcon with a fetter-lock was a badge of Edward IV., which his daughter Elizabeth adopted after her marriage to the young Tudor king.

We pass through the middle gate and emerge into that beautiful chapel so extravagantly praised by old writers as the "orbis miraculum," the miracle of the world, so unfairly decried since by narrow-minded adherents of the Gothic style. Here, a contrast to the rest of the church, is pure Perpendicular of the Tudor period. The stone-work is decorated in every corner, and the details are elaborately carved, leaving no vacant space anywhere; {90} no less than 130 stone figures, 95 of which remain, contributed to the rich effect of the whole. Angels and archangels, saints and martyrs, apostles and evangelists, the hierarchy of heaven and the sainted ones of earth, all had places on these walls. Above our heads the fan tracery of the stone roof seems literally to hang from the sky, so delicate and light is the workmanship. The Cambridge graduate in our party, and those indefatigable sightseers our American friends, compare it with King's College Chapel, which was built about this period by the same King's munificence, and probably by the same architect. The windows were once all filled with painted glass, only a few fragments of which, notably the founder's figure at the east end, are left. The altar was dedicated to the Virgin, and had upon it her statue made of pure gold, but both were destroyed in the time of Henry's grandson, Edward VI., by order of the Protector Somerset, when the side altars were also swept away and the glass broken in a fury of Protestant zeal. Long afterwards the tomb of Edward VI. himself, which then took the place of the high altar, was broken in pieces by the Puritan zealots, who were unaware that they thus desecrated the monument of the first Protestant king.

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THE CHAPEL OF HENRY VII., LOOKING EAST

This unique and beautiful chapel was built by King Henry VII., and stands at the east end of the Abbey, raised above the level of the older church. The whole is a marvel of delicate carving and rich ornament. We see in the illustration the hanging pendants of the stone roof known as fan tracery, and the walls are covered with statues, the space between them filled up by Tudor roses, French fleur-de-lis, and other appropriate decorations. Behind the altar is the tomb of the founder himself; it is protected by a finely-worked grille, within which we see the gilt bronze effigies of Henry and his wife, fashioned by the master hand of Torrigiano, lying upon an altar tomb of black marble. Above are the banners of the Knights of the Bath, which date from the eighteenth century, and at the back of the stalls below are their coats of arms. George I. reconstructed the Order, and for a brief period afterwards the knights used to be installed here.

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{91}

The present altar was reconstructed, under Dean Stanley's supervision, from such pieces of the old Italian pilasters and frieze as could be found; one was actually discovered at Oxford in the Ashmolean Museum. Upon it stands the cross which was presented by the Ras Makonnen, Envoy from Abyssinia, as a votive offering for the present King's recovery from his sudden illness, when the Coronation was postponed in the summer of 1902. The stalls next claim our attention, and it must be pointed out that only part of these date from the sixteenth century, but the ancient seats are easily distinguished from the later ones by their quaintly carved misereres. The rest were added when the Order of the Knights of the Bath was reconstituted by George I. in 1725, and the banners above, as well as the coats of arms at the back of the top stalls, belong to the Knights. The Dean was made Chaplain of the Order, a post which he has held ex officio ever since. At that time, and for a long period, the installations of the Knights were held here. Upon one of the original stalls at the west end is a crowned figure of the founder, Henry VII., his face turned towards the east. So familiar has the name of this chapel become to us, that we are apt to forget that it was dedicated to the {92} Virgin Mary, and replaced the Early English Lady Chapel, which had stood on the same spot ever since the beginning of Henry the Third's reign. Henry VII. first intended to consecrate his new chapel to the memory of Henry VI., and arrangements were made for removing the saintly King's bones to Westminster from Windsor, but, owing partly to quarrels between the two convents, the scheme fell through and was abandoned by the royal founder. The stone was laid in 1503, and, although the building was not completed till 1519, before he died Henry had practically settled every detail with the Abbot as to the endowment. His wife's body already lay at the east end, and Henry arranged for his own interment in the same place, and for the memorial services, which were afterwards to be held in their honour. Some of the indentures between the King and Convent can be seen at the Record Office, others are in the custody of the Dean and Chapter. Sir Reginald Bray, head of the royal masons, is often spoken of as if he were the architect, but his death took place soon after the laying of the foundation stone, and the chapel was not finished for another sixteen years, long after Henry VIII.'s accession, when the monasteries were tottering to their fall. Abbot Islip supervised {93} the building, and it is more than likely that Sir Thomas Lovell, whose bust has lately been placed near Lady Margaret's tomb, had, as executor to both the King and his mother, a share in designing their monuments. In any case, Lovell was a patron of Torrigiano, the famous Italian sculptor, who was employed to make the beautiful effigies of the King, his wife, and his mother, as well as the rich altar tombs upon which the figures lie. A fine bronze grille, which is, like the gates, of English workmanship, preserves the founder's tomb from injury. The whole is decorated with roses and fleurs-de-lis, while upon the screen itself are the Welsh dragon of Cadwallador, the last British king, from whom the Tudors claimed descent, and the greyhound, a crest belonging to the Nevilles, who were relatives of Henry's wife. Nearly all the statuettes upon the outside have been stolen; but within, round the black marble altar tomb, are still intact twelve medallions, six on either side, each of which encloses two silver-gilt images. The saints represented are St. George of England, St. Denis of France, St. Edward and St. Peter, the patrons of the Abbey, as well as the King's own special guardians. Amongst these perhaps the most charming are the burly form of St. Christopher, with {94} the tiny infant Christ upon his shoulder, and the very graceful figure of St. Barbara with her tower in her hand, who is thus easily distinguishable from the conventional Mary Magdalene beside whom she stands. Finely moulded cherubs, also in gilt brass, support the royal arms, and we may trace the master hand of Michael Angelo's great rival in these as in all the other accessories. The effigies themselves are unique specimens of Torrigiano's art, equalled only by his other masterpiece, the recumbent figure of Lady Margaret in the adjacent aisle. The King's thin face and strongly marked features bear a striking resemblance to the ascetic lined countenance of his mother, but are in strong contrast with those of the youthful wife by his side, whose long flowing hair escapes under her close head-dress. In the vacant space to the east, within the grille, an altar used to stand, where precious relics, which included the leg of St. George, were kept. In the vaults below, Dean Stanley found the coffins of James I. and of Anne, his Danish queen. Close at hand is the altar tomb, with a white marble effigy by Boehm, of the Dean himself; behind it is the memorial window which he dedicated to his wife, Lady Augusta, whose own portrait is delineated there {95} as well as various familiar scenes from the life of her famous ancestor, Robert Bruce, including the well-known story of the spider. The coronation chair at the extreme east end of the chapel was made for Mary II., a queen regnant in her own right. Her husband, William III., whose claim to the crown was considered equal to his wife's, sat in St. Edward's chair. The vault in front of it is now filled up with a miscellaneous collection of bodies, including some of Charles the Second's illegitimate descendants, whose names were cut upon the pavement, as were those of the other persons interred in this chapel, by Dean Stanley's care. Within this vault once rested some of "the chief men of the Parliament by land and sea," notably the regicides Cromwell, Ireton, Bradshaw, a few of Cromwell's relatives, and the famous Admiral, Robert Blake. These, as well as all the other persons buried in the Abbey during the Commonwealth who were in any way connected with the republican party, were disinterred by order of Charles II., shortly after his restoration, and thrown into a pit in St. Margaret's churchyard, with the exception, that is, of the three arch offenders, the regicides. Charles wreaked a futile vengeance upon their mouldering corpses, which {96} received the treatment usually meted out to living traitors, and were hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn; the heads were chopped off and fixed up, as a warning to their admirers, outside Westminster Hall. A few steps to the left we see the stone which marks the grave of Cromwell's charming daughter, Elizabeth Claypole, whose untimely death broke her father's heart. The body was left undisturbed, probably out of respect for the memory of a woman who had been a favourite with Royalist and Roundhead alike. In the reign of Queen Anne a great General, the Duke of Marlborough, was temporarily buried in the Cromwell vault, but after many years the body was removed to his own mausoleum at Blenheim. Amongst the many soldiers' memorials in the nave and choir aisles will be found two, those of Creed and Bringfield, which recall Marlborough's famous victories, Ramillies and Blenheim. The right-hand chapel is filled up by the heavy monuments of the Richmond and Lennox family, and here, close to the old Duke's tomb, used to stand the wax figure of Frances, Duchess of Richmond and Lennox, now removed to the Islip Chapel. This lady was a noted beauty, and is said to have been the model for the figure of Britannia on the coins. Her {97} cousin, Charles II., much admired her, and might even have made her his queen had not "La belle Stuart" eloped with her other relative, the young Duke. On the opposite side is the costly monument which was raised by his widowed Duchess over the body of Charles the First's unpopular favourite, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who was cut off in his prime by an assassin's knife. The white marble effigies of the Duke and Duchess, and the group of their children above, are not without merit. The elder of these chubby boys succeeded to his father's dukedom and was notorious at the Restoration Court, while the younger was slain, bravely fighting for his king, in a skirmish with the Parliamentary troopers at Hampton, and buried below this tomb. Close by, a later and most unattractive monument records the name of a patron of poets, a literary man himself, Sheffield, Duke of Buckinghamshire. He built Buckingham House, where is now the palace, and there his wife, who was a left-handed descendant of the Stuart king, used to sit dressed in weeds on the anniversary of Charles the First's execution, and thus call attention to the royal blot upon her escutcheon. In the choir aisle another ugly memorial perpetuates her want of taste and the {98} forgotten fame of her pet doctor, one Chamberlain. Near his is a tablet to her other medical friend, the really notable royal physician, Dr. Mead, one of the first inoculators for smallpox.

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THE CORONATION CHAIR

This chair, the ancient seat of kings, stands in the royal chapel of St. Edward, backed by the fifteenth-century stone screen which closes the west end of the Chapel; within the wooden frame, which was constructed purposely to enclose it, is the famous stone called the Stone of Scone. This piece of Scotch granite was brought from Scotland in the early fourteenth century by the conquering English King, Edward I., and given over to the safe custody of the Westminster monks. In the Abbey it has remained ever since, and all our sovereigns from that time until the present day have received the insignia of royalty seated in the chair upon the historic stone. The latter has been the subject of many an old-world legend: it is said to have been Jacob's pillow when he saw the vision of the angels ascending and descending between heaven and earth; after which it became the seat of kings in Spain, in Ireland, and finally in Scotland, where there is no doubt that the Scottish sovereigns used it as a coronation throne. The chair itself bears little trace of its former splendour; it was originally decorated with paintings. The lions were regilded at the last coronation.

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Cut on the stones as we walk away down the chapel is the name of George II., the first Hanoverian king who was buried in England. With him lies his wife Caroline, a queen of good memory, and other members of their numerous family are in close vicinity. The later sovereigns of the Hanoverian stock gradually lost all sentiment for Westminster, and are interred at Windsor. Through the gates and round abruptly to the left is the southern aisle, where we find three royal ladies' tombs, and the names of many Stuart princes and princesses who were interred in the vaults. Margaret, Countess of Lennox, niece of Henry VIII., is the first we come to. Her marble altar tomb, with its recumbent effigy and the figures of her children round the sides, is a fair specimen of late Tudor art, but not comparable to the earlier ones by the Italian artist. Her elder son, Darnley, a broken crown above his head, kneels with his face turned towards the monument of his wife, Mary, Queen of Scots, whose fair fame must ever be blackened by her suspected complicity in his {99} murder. Of the second son, Charles, and his unhappy daughter Arabella, we cannot speak at length to-day. Arabella's coffin is next to that of Prince Henry, her cousin and fair-weather friend, but he made no effort to save her from the consequences of his royal father, James the First's wrath. The young Prince died three years before the distracted lady, who lost her reason and pined to death in the Tower. The body of their aunt, Mary Stuart, with its severed head, was already in this vault, brought here by her son's filial piety soon after his accession to the English throne. With these are other kinsfolk. Henry's sister Elizabeth, Queen nominally of Bohemia, but in her last days she was the sovereign of no tangible realm, only of the fragile kingdom of hearts. With his mother lies Prince Rupert, the dashing Cavalier and daring seaman; beside them are the coffins of Henry, Duke of Gloucester, and Mary, Princess of Orange, both the victims of smallpox—that terrible scourge which devastated rich and poor alike before the discovery of vaccination. They died at Whitehall Palace, where they had come to congratulate their brother, Charles II., whose troubles they had shared, on his peaceful restoration to the English realm. The heavy monument which James I. erected {100} above this vault to the memory of his "dearest mother" closely resembles that of her rival Elizabeth in the opposite aisle. This one cost about 100 pounds more than the other, and is therefore somewhat more elaborately decorated. The white marble portrait effigy represents the Queen in her middle age, and gives no idea of her youthful beauty; at her feet is the Scotch lion, much mutilated. Against the wall is the original warrant, signed by James himself, ordering the removal of Mary's coffin from Peterborough to Westminster. We have already referred more than once to the tomb of Margaret, Countess of Richmond and Derby, mother of Henry VII., the foundress of two colleges at Cambridge and of a chair of divinity at both Universities. Now let us stand beside it for a few moments and look upon the face of this cultured, religious woman, who, after many trials in early life, ended her days in a holy peace, secluded from the world by her own choice, yet ever ready to return to her son's Court when he desired her presence. Notice especially the moulding of the delicate yet capable hands. Torrigiano's head of Lovell just above is worthy also of the closest attention, but we can pass by the inartistic statue of Horace Walpole's mother, and the ugly {101} monument of General Monck against the wall. Monck himself deserves far more recognition than he usually receives. His share in the restoration of Charles II. was by no means his sole achievement, and he had, although a landsman and a soldier by training, previously distinguished himself on the sea in company with Admiral Blake, and later on he co-operated with his former foe, Prince Rupert, in many an action with the Dutch fleet. He died standing upright in his tent, refusing to be conquered even by death itself, and was buried with military honours. Charles II., who hated funerals and rarely attended one, walked behind the bier as chief mourner. Upon the step below are carved the names of Charles, of his nieces, Mary and Anne, and of their respective husbands. Their wax effigies, now in the Islip Chapel, used to stand here, and were the only monuments raised to the Stuart sovereigns—a fact which called forth much jesting comment from their political opponents. From this small chapel we pass to the one opposite, crossing once more the top of the steps. At the entrance is a stone which immediately arrests attention, for upon it is the touching epitaph dedicated by his admirer Tickell to the memory of Joseph Addison. We have seen Addison's statue {102} in Poets' Corner, where it was ultimately placed, after a proposal to put it up beside St. Edward's shrine had met with the contumely it deserved. Here the great master of English prose "rests in peace," with his friend James Craggs, whose memorial we have already pointed out at the entrance to the nave. Close to the grave is the mural monument of his "loved Montagu," the first Earl of Halifax, who was, like Sheffield, a patron of literature and literary men. Addison's memory must ever be dear to all who love the Abbey, for the sake of his reflections upon the church and its mighty dead; in connection notably with his creation of that genial knight, Sir Roger de Coverley. Buried beside Charles Montagu is his great-nephew, George Montagu Dunk, Earl of Halifax, who is chiefly remembered nowadays as the founder of the Colony of Nova Scotia; the capital, Halifax, was called after him. His monument is in the north transept. Beneath our feet, in General Monck's vault, lies their collateral ancestor, Admiral Edward Montagu, who was created Earl of Sandwich by Charles II. when Monck was made Duke of Albemarle, as a reward to the two Generals for their share in promoting the Restoration. Sandwich's tragic end and the battle {103} of Sole Bay are referred to on a double tablet, which we passed near the entrance to the south choir aisle. For some real or fancied slight put upon him by Prince James, Duke of York, who was then in supreme command of the fleet. Sandwich refused to leave his ship when she was blown up by the Dutch, and involved two naval lieutenants in his own fate. The fidelity of the young men to their doomed chief, and their faithful friendship for one another, is commemorated upon this memorial, which was put up by the two bereaved fathers.

Raising our eyes from the floor we see at the end of this chapel the large monument, which was put up by her successor, James I., in honour of Queen Elizabeth. The white marble effigy rests under a heavy canopy; the face was moulded from a mask taken of the features after death and is therefore a likeness, but those who desire to see a more realistic portraiture of the great Tudor sovereign in her old age should visit the Islip Chapel, where is her wax figure. The touching Latin inscription, thus translated, "Consorts both in throne and grave, here rest we two sisters, Elizabeth and Mary, in hope of one resurrection," reminds us that Mary Tudor lies {104} beneath her sister's tomb. For nearly half a century only a heap of stones from the broken altars marked the place of Mary's grave; beside the coffin is still a red velvet box, which contains the unfortunate woman's dried-up withered heart, which was broken at last, after many sorrows, with a final blow—the loss of our last piece of French territory. Perchance the word "Calais" is written upon it still in invisible ink. The children's tombs behind were made by the sculptor who was then (1607) at work on Elizabeth's monument. They mark the grief of James I. and his wife for the loss of their two daughters: the baby Sophia only lived three days, but her sister Mary had reached the fascinating age of two years when a slow fever carried her off. Between the two little sisters, his own aunts, Charles II. placed a heavy stone sarcophagus, containing some bones found in the Tower, near the room where the boy princes, Edward V. and Richard of York, are said to have been smothered, and which are most probably their remains. Edward was born in the precincts, where his mother took sanctuary from her husband's Lancastrian opponents, and was christened in the Abbey, the Abbot and the Prior standing as his sponsors. In later days the young {105} Prince marked his gratitude to the monks by contributing small sums of money, supplemented by gifts from the Queen, towards the building of the nave.

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THE NORTH AMBULATORY, SHOWING THE STEPS WHICH LEAD UP TO HENRY VII.'S CHAPEL

This view shows the carvings upon the north side of the Chantry Chapel of Henry V., where the King's coronation is repeated, and those upon the arch which connects Henry VII.'s Chapel with the rest of the church. Above this arch we see the figure of Henry V. on horseback, fording a stream, and to the left below is the tomb of Ludovick Robsert, a gallant soldier who carried the King's standard at Agincourt and was knighted after the battle. The banners hanging inside St. Paul's Chapel belong to the old family of Delavel, and the metal bust which is seen over the screen is that of Lady Cottington, the wife of Charles I.'s treasurer, whose tomb is underneath it; the bust is the work of the well-known sculptor Hubert le Soeur. The Dean and his verger are here seen descending the steps from Henry VII.'s Chapel, where baptisms, weddings, and other special services take place.

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We have lingered long amongst the royal tombs; it is time to complete our circle of the church by passing back along the north ambulatory. Just beyond the bottom of the steps upon the right we see the Chapel of St. Paul, into which we looked before from the chantry above. A tiny stone image, believed to be that of St. Anne, may be pointed out, as it is part of the ancient wall arcading; it is now almost concealed by the huge renaissance tomb of Sir John Puckering. Puckering was Keeper of the Great Seal in Elizabeth's reign, and the figures of the purse and mace-bearer standing above it are particularly noteworthy, for they are good examples of the costume of the period. We spoke of Pulteney, whose ugly monument takes the place of the screen on one side, in connection with his burial in the Islip Chapel, when Edward the First's canopy was destroyed. Sixteen years later a similar disgraceful scene took place at the funeral of a Duchess of Northumberland (the family vault is in St. Nicholas's Chapel), when the crowd, climbing {106} upon the screen in order to get a better view of the great lady's interment, smashed to pieces John of Eltham's beautiful canopy, not without some damage to their own heads and limbs. From here we get a good view of the grille which protects Eleanor's effigy, and on sunny mornings the outlines of an ancient picture can be traced on the stone panel below. The painting was done by Master Walter of Durham, the same artist who decorated the Coronation Chair, and represented, it is thought, one of the miracles attributed to the Virgin. In the eighteenth century a knight, a woman with a child in her arms, and a sepulchre were still clearly visible. From this side also one gets a better idea of Henry the Third's tomb in its original state than from the royal chapel, for the mosaic work has remained untouched on the upper part, where the arm of the relic hunter could not reach. We turn from the King's monument to a stone in the floor which marks the place where a very different sovereign, Pym, the King of the Commons, lay for a brief while. The coffin was buried under the brass of a famous warrior, Sir John Windsore, who fought for Henry IV. at Shrewsbury, a battle familiar to us in Shakespeare's historic play. The bodies of Pym {107} and of his friend Strode, the "Parliament driver," were disinterred and ejected with those of the other Commonwealth magnates after the Restoration. On our right is the Chapel of St. John the Baptist, called the Abbots' Chapel, for here are buried four of our mitred abbots, two of whose tombs form the screen. The original doorway is closed by that of Ruthall, Bishop of Durham, sometime private secretary to Henry VII.; a wealthy man ruined by his riches, which drew down upon him the cupidity of Henry VIII. and Wolsey,—not, however, before Ruthall had spent part of his vast wealth in the public service by building many bridges, notably one at Newcastle-on-Tyne. The present entrance was cut through a little chapel, where were once an altar and an image of St. Erasmus, which were originally given by Queen Elizabeth Woodville, and removed here when the old Lady Chapel was destroyed. Next to this is the chapel where Abbot Islip used to lie in solitary splendour, before the vaults were invaded by other coffins. A black marble table tomb, with an alabaster figure of the Abbot on the lower slab, stood formerly in the centre. Above, in the chamber where prayers were offered for the dead man's soul, are now the wax effigies. We {108} have referred before to most of these, except to the more modern ones of Nelson, a particularly attractive representation of the hero, and of Lord Chatham. In a locked cupboard are remains of the so-called ragged regiment, the earlier effigies, which were carried at the funerals of our kings and queens, or other exalted persons. Outside, the chapel is decorated with Islip's quaint device, a play upon his name Islip: an eye with a hand holding a slip or branch, and a man slipping from a tree. In the ambulatory, not far from his successor Islip, lies another Abbot, Esteney, to whom we have referred in connection with the completion of the nave. His altar tomb has been lowered, and the fine brass is now only slightly raised from the floor; it was originally in the adjacent chapel of St. John the Baptist, but was moved, and thus mutilated, in the eighteenth century to make way for the colossal monument of General Wolfe. We avert our eyes with a shudder from the marble group which represents Wolfe's death above, and divert our party's attention to the bronze bas-relief below, where the British troops are depicted landing on the river bank, then scaling the heights of Abraham, and finally drawn up on the plain before Quebec. {109} In an unmarked grave near this lies the Admiral, Sir Charles Saunders, without whose co-operation even the young hero, James Wolfe himself, could not have taken the city, for the sailors not only transported the soldiers to the foot of the cliffs, but protected their base and also cut off the supplies from the besieged town above. Just inside the first of these three little chapels, which technically belong to the north transept, a beautiful renaissance tomb attracts attention. Four kneeling warriors support a slab of black marble, upon which are the armour and accoutrements of the dead General, whose alabaster figure sleeps below. Sir Francis Vere was a member of a famous family, "the fighting Veres," and himself did good service for his queen and country in the Netherlands. The effigy without armour marks the fact that Vere died in his bed, not upon the field of battle. At the extreme end of St. Andrew's Chapel a large and somewhat heavy monument, after the pattern of a four-post bed with a canopy, commemorates "a brood of martial-spirited men," the Norrises, who, like Vere, spent their lives in the service of the Maiden Queen. All, father and sons, were famed in war or distinguished at the council board; four were killed {110} in battle, one died of a broken heart, and the youngest only survived his parents. While all the rest bow their heads in prayer, he alone looks cheerfully upwards. Behind this are the statues of Mrs. Siddons and her brother, John Kemble, to whom we alluded before in connection with the earlier actors and actresses, and other comparatively modern memorials of more or less interest. In the middle chapel, that dedicated to St. Michael, the theatrical monument to Lady Elizabeth Nightingale, a grotesque tour de force of Roubiliac's, is sure to call forth some remarks, but we prefer to pass to a curious tablet on the wall beyond it, which commemorates a certain Mrs. Ann Kirton, with a large eye above it (presumably that of the widower), whence tears pour over the inscription. Hidden away, at the back of another monument on the opposite side, is a tablet in the worst style of the eighteenth century. Above a small sinking ship the large and material soul of a gallant seaman is seen ascending to heaven, and we remind our party of Cowper's well-known poem on the wreck of the Royal George and Admiral Kempenfelt's untimely end.

His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men.

{111}

To the right as we pass back again is a mural memorial to Sir John Franklin, the discoverer of the North-West Passage. The loss of himself and of his brave crew amidst impenetrable walls of snow and ice is portrayed upon it; beneath is an oft-quoted epitaph by Tennyson—lines which stir the hearts of all who pause to read them.

The circle of the apse has now been completed, and we pass through the iron gate into the Statesmen's Aisle. Around us on every side are the graves and statues of British politicians, whose names are for the most part household words at home and still remembered abroad. With these are also the memorials of soldiers, sailors, lawyers, and a few others, to some of which we shall allude in passing. Conspicuous against the first column is Sir Robert Peel's statue, inappropriately draped in a Roman toga. Beyond his was placed in 1903 Brock's figure of William Ewart Gladstone, who is represented in an attitude familiar to those who have heard him speak, when addressing the House of Commons, or at a political meeting. Gladstone's Life has already been in the hands of the reading public, but the official biography of Benjamin Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield, the leader of the opposite party, is only now being written, although {112} twenty-five years have elapsed since his death. Beaconsfield's statue stands by the next pillar, and, if it be a day in late April, we should see primrose wreaths arranged around the feet, a homage from those who cherish the imperialist ideas which were inaugurated by Disraeli. Before very long a memorial, also voted by Parliament, to Robert Cecil, Marquess of Salisbury, Beaconsfield's successor as head of the Tory party, is also to be placed with his compeers in this temple of silence and reconciliation.

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INTERIOR OF THE NORTH TRANSEPT

The north transept is called the Statesman's Aisle, and is filled with the statues of ministers of State and of other politicians; besides these we find lawyers, soldiers, and sailors. From this point there is a good view of Sir Robert Peel's statue in the right foreground, with Gladstone and Beaconsfield prominent behind him. We look down the aisle and see the rose window, which was filled with painted glass in the eighteenth century under Dean Atterbury's rule, and the fine early wall arcadings below. In the spandrels are two beautiful stone angels, which are just visible in the illustration.

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Beyond are the tombs of the first and third Dukes of Newcastle. The first, William Cavendish, was a loyal supporter of Charles I., in whose service he lost his estates and fortune, but he returned to prosperity after the Restoration. His wife shared his troubles and his rewards. Her reputation as a literary woman and an authoress is marked by the pen and inkhorn beside her effigy; in her hands is an open book. The third Duke, John Holles, married their grand-daughter, and was reputed the richest subject in the kingdom by his contemporaries. He lived in the reign of Queen Anne, when the standard of wealth was far less high than it is in these days. One of the slender columns in St. Michael's Chapel behind still {113} retains the original polish, and gives us some idea what the whole church looked like before our London atmosphere had corroded and blurred the surface of the Purbeck marble. Statues of the three Cannings stand between these two tombs. The nearest to our generation, he died in 1880, is Stratford Canning, better known by his title of the Viscount de Redcliffe, who was for fifty years British Ambassador in the East. His cousin, Earl Canning, Viceroy of India during the Mutiny, was succeeded in that post, after the outbreak was quelled, by Lord Lawrence, whose grave and bust we saw in the nave. From the third statue, that of George Canning, Prime Minister in 1827, we look across the transept to his colleague in his last Cabinet, Lord Palmerston, a statesman who must ever be associated with our foreign policy for the first half of Queen Victoria's reign. Further to the left we see another Tory politician, Viscount Castlereagh, with whom George Canning once actually fought a duel; but the two men made up their quarrel, and Canning afterwards succeeded his former foe at the Foreign Office. Castlereagh was unfortunate in his end and unpopular during his life. He committed suicide while temporarily insane, and his burial here was the {114} occasion of a great outburst of feeling, when the indignant mob outside hammered on the doors of the church while the funeral service proceeded inside. The huge monument, which fills up the last arch on the western side, was erected by Parliament, at the cost of 6000 pounds, as a tribute to the fame of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. Bacon was guilty of this enormity, while Westmacott perpetrated the equally tasteless allegorical group over the west door, which commemorates the younger Pitt. Father and son lie together in this aisle. Not far from theirs are the graves of two other statesmen, Henry Grattan, the eloquent Irish orator, and his dear friend, Charles James Fox, "near whom in death it would have been his pride to lie." We saw the monuments of Pitt and Fox on our first entrance into the nave. Chatham's name must ever recall the severance of the United States from the Mother Country, while his son, "the great Commoner," is associated with our struggle to break the power of Napoleon, whose downfall Pitt did not live to see. Between the last columns further south is the statue of Chatham's brilliant legal adversary, Lord Mansfield. Behind him stands another distinguished lawyer, who belonged to a later generation, Sir William Webb Follett, {115} Attorney-General in Peel's last Ministry. Before turning the corner into the western aisle it is impossible not to notice the two Admirals, Vernon and Wager, whose memorials unfortunately cover the wall arcading on either side of the north door. Their very names are unknown to the average person nowadays, but they did good service on the high seas for England's glory in their own time, the eighteenth century. Vernon owes a posthumous fame amongst sea-faring men to the fact that the sailor's drink, a mixture of rum and water first introduced by the Admiral, was called grog in his honour; he was familiarly known as "Old Grog" on board ship, a nickname inspired by his grogram boat-cloak.

In another place we have already dwelt at some length upon these makers of our Empire in war and peace alike, whose names may be seen upon the walls on every side. While the tariff question is the topic of the hour, and Cobden, the original champion of free trade, is constantly appealed to by our modern politicians, we must not omit to look at that statesman's bust, which will be found, with a number of other interesting memorials, at the back of Chatham's monument. Near this the tablet to Warren Hastings records a page in the history of {116} our Indian Empire which it is best to leave unturned, for it is stained with the life-blood of a man's broken heart, a heart broken by a trial dragged out interminably till the culprit, whether he were innocent or guilty, was punished far beyond his deserts. Macaulay's famous description of Hastings's trial is well known, and we are reminded of his no less familiar essay on Lord Clive by the monuments of two men, a soldier and a sailor, who co-operated with Clive in the foundation of our Indian Empire. The East India Company is responsible for the inartistic, grotesque erections which traduce the memory of these gallant men, Admiral Watson and Sir Eyre Coote, while they also perpetrated the scarcely less offensive, although smaller monument which commemorates Major Stringer Lawrence, Clive's intimate friend and valued comrade, the hero of Trichinopoly, which is near the west end of the nave. The Admiral sits unclothed, save for a Roman toga, amongst palm-trees and allegorical figures above the ancient doorway, while his chief achievements are recorded in the inscriptions "Calcutta freed," "Ghereah," and "Chandernagore taken," with the dates 1756 and 1757. Coote expelled the French from the Coromandel coast in 1761, and twenty years later {117} defeated them again with their ally, Hyder Ali, in the Carnatic. The General masquerades as a Roman warrior, with a native captive and a figure of Victory on either hand. Such was, in fact, the taste of the period when these preposterous groups were all the fashion. We turn from this with pleasure to the fine bust of Richard Kane, which is against the opposite wall, and single him out for a passing mention on account of his connection, as Governor, with the Island of Minorca, one of "the lost possessions" of England.

Facing us now, as we make our way westward, is the seated figure of Sir Fowell Buxton, and a little further to the left Joseph's extraordinarily vivid but unpleasing figure of William Wilberforce. Both men are indissolubly connected in our minds with the abolition of Slavery. With them are associated the pioneer of the anti-slavery agitation, Granville Sharp, and their fellow-worker, Zachary, father of Lord Macaulay. Sharp's tablet is not far from the latter's bust in the south transept, and we have already noticed the elder Macaulay in the Whigs' Corner. Between the philanthropists is Sir Stamford Raffles, the founder of Singapore, a man no less zealous than they in the struggle for the suppression of slavery. To us Londoners his name {118} must ever be dear, for we owe the Zoological Gardens to his initiative.

We are standing now in the aisle dedicated to the memory of that great English composer, Henry Purcell, and thus often called the "Musicians' Aisle," although the memorials to musicians are comparatively few. Purcell's modest tablet with the well-known epitaph, "Here lyes Henry Purcell, Esq., who left this life, and is gone to that blessed place, where only his harmony can be exceeded," hangs against the pillar near Raffles. We passed a modern one hard by to Balfe, a composer of many popular ballads; while on the north wall are the monuments of Purcell's master, Dr. Blow, who first preceded and then succeeded his young pupil at the Abbey organ, and Dr. Croft, who followed after Blow. Stones in the floor mark the graves of Dr. Samuel Arnold, another Abbey organist, and Sterndale Bennett, who is considered by some authorities worthy to rank with Purcell as a musical composer. A tablet to Dr. Burney detains us for a moment, while we remind the lovers of literature in our party of his daughter, the novelist, Fanny Burney, and of their friendship with Dr. Johnson, whose grave we saw in Poets' Corner. Other memorials, chiefly those to sailors, are upon this {119} wall, but we cannot tarry much longer, our friends are craving mercy for tired brains and aching limbs. Just before the iron gate the portrait medallion of Charles Darwin, which is closely companioned by tablets to three other modern scientists, Joule, Adams, and Stokes, attracts notice, and the next moment we tread upon the graves of Darwin and Herschel, all placed purposely in the vicinity of Sir Isaac Newton. Doctors of medicine as well as men of science will be found in the nave. We have already referred to the fashionable Dr. Mead, and his no less popular intimate, Dr. Freind, is also here. Freind's brother was headmaster of Westminster School, and many of the Latin inscriptions on contemporary monuments were written by him, including the one under his brother's bust; so many in fact that Pope, whose own pen was ever busy commemorating his cronies with fulsome laudations, such as those on Kneller and Craggs, wrote the following mocking lines:—

Freind, for your epitaphs I'm grieved Where still so much is said, One half will never be believed, The other never read.

The jibing prophecy has been literally fulfilled, for these Latin epitaphs are most certainly never read, {120} while Pope's verses, which are usually in English, stand a better chance. Close to us on the right-hand wall is the bust of a great modern geologist, Sir Charles Lyell, which stands above the monument of his distinguished forerunner, Woodward, who is often called the founder of English geology. Opposite is that of Dean Buckland, who was twice President of the Geological Society and a distinguished authority in that science. The windows along the north side commemorate celebrated civil engineers, Stephenson, Locke, Brunel, and Trevithick. To the genius of these men and to James Watt, whose statue we saw in St. Paul's Chapel, the wonderful railway and steamship system of modern days was, in the first instance, due. Few, indeed, are the arts, crafts, and sciences of the last two centuries which cannot claim some representative in the Abbey. Thus, as we cross over to the west cloister door on our way out, we tread upon the graves of the father of English watchmakers, Thomas Tompion, and his clever apprentice, George Graham; near them lies Telford, the builder of the Menai Bridge; close to him is Robert Stephenson, the designer of the tubular bridge across the Menai Straits, who was buried beside Telford, twenty-five years later, at his own request.

{121}

We have brought our walk round the inside of the church to a conclusion, but in order to complete the circuit of the outside, such of the monastic buildings which are still extant must be visited on the way out. A narrow doorway opposite Telford's grave leads immediately into the cloisters, which formed the central part of the monastery. Here it was that the busy daily life of a Benedictine brotherhood was carried on: in this, the west walk, the monks kept a school, where the novices and boys from the neighbourhood received the only education obtainable in England before the grammar schools were founded. The adjacent north walk was used as a library in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and divided off by screens at either end. In this part used to be the Prior's seat, and around him were bookcases containing parchment rolls and illuminated missals, to which, after Caxton's time, printed volumes were added. The Consuetudines of Abbot Ware, the Litlington Missal, the Liber Regalis, and the Islip Roll are still extant, but most of the precious manuscripts which the Westminster brethren illuminated and copied with such loving care in this library, each scribe seated in his own alcove, were destroyed or carelessly lost after the Dissolution, when the monks had all been {122} dispersed, and printed books were rapidly superseding the written folios. In the eastern walk beyond this the Abbot sat enthroned on special days, in order to hear complaints and redress grievances. There also it was that he held his Maundy on the Thursday before Good Friday, and washed the feet of beggars. Towards the west in the southern part, which completes the square and was used as a passage-way, is the entrance to the great refectory where the brethren dined. Nothing of the hall is left save the ancient wall, but outside the door are remains of the niches which were used for towels; the lavatory itself was round the corner in the west cloister. The cloisters, and the monastic buildings which surround them, were built at different periods, chiefly by the generosity and energy of the Abbots. The Norman monastery remained intact long after Henry the Third's time, but the new cloister, which was begun by Abbot Byrcheston, was gradually built as the church progressed, and the north end of the eastern arm was practically part of the south transept. Both the east and north walks were completed under Edward I. in the same style, the Early English; but the other two were not begun till Langham's abbacy in the fourteenth century, {123} and the cloister was not entirely finished till the fifteenth. To Langham's generous bequest and Litlington's talent for architectural design the monks owed the completion of this most important part of their monastery. We shall see as we go out the head of Litlington, carved on the archway in Dean's Yard after his death, for he did not live to see the whole work which he had planned carried out. In walking round the cloisters it must be remembered, however, that successive restorations and remodellings of the window traceries have in many instances destroyed all traces of the earlier style, and the more ancient portions are now in so decayed a state that a fresh restoration must soon be undertaken.

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* * * *

THE SOUTH TRANSEPT AND CHAPTER HOUSE

From Dean's Yard we get the best view of the south transept and the group of buildings which surround it. Thus we see the Chapter House behind the roof of the ancient dormitory, now the Chapter library and the great school, while at the back of the old houses to the left are the leads which cover the cloisters. To the right is the small arch which leads into Little Dean's Yard, and the immediate foreground is filled by the green, where the Westminster boys are allowed to play football between school in winter. The elm trees, themselves of some antiquity, are interesting, for their forerunners were planted by Feckenham, the last Abbot of Westminster, and gave the name of the Elms to the whole square which is now called Dean's Yard.

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From the west door we pass down the north walk, pausing to observe a modern tablet which recalls the Boer War: it commemorates seven of the Queen's Westminster Volunteers who fell in South Africa, fighting side by side with their civic comrades the C.I.V.'s. Some round holes in the stone bench below are said to be the marks of an old English game, called "nine men's morris," which was popular in mediaeval times; and if this be so, we can only suppose that even the more studious brethren in the library had their lighter {124} moments, or that the novices were allowed to play here. The lover of quaint epitaphs in our party is sure to stop a little further on in order to decipher an almost obliterated rhyming inscription, which tells how faithfully William Lawrence served a Prebendary, and "gained this remembrance at his master's cost." Our feet are treading now upon the graves of Garrick's contemporaries, Spranger Barry, his wife Ann Crawford, and Mrs. Cibber. As we turn into the east walk we see the names of two other lights of the eighteenth-century stage, Betterton and Mrs. Bracegirdle, cut in the pavement; the mural tablet close by to "Jane Lister, deare child," by its very simplicity is sure to attract the child-lover. Before moving on, let us look up at the east cloister door with its delicate thirteenth-century moulding, which is far more beautiful than the later Perpendicular work of Abbot Litlington's time above the west door. Lower down a grand portal with a double doorway, of the same earlier date, leads through a dark vestibule into that incomparable specimen of Early English architecture, the Chapter House. In one of the outer arches are fragments of figures and foliage representing a tree of Jesse, and in the tympanum above we see two decaying but still beautiful {125} stone angels. The centre was once filled by a group of the Virgin with the infant Saviour in her arms, no trace of which now remains. The Chapter House, which was built at the same time as Henry the Third's church, ranks as one of the finest in England, but it has suffered much damage at various periods from the hands of careless guardians and from the well-meaning efforts of successive restorers. It was originally designed for the use of the convent, but ever since the dissolution of the monastery it has been in the possession of the Government, and has never been under the jurisdiction of the Dean and Chapter. Here it was that the monks used to assemble in conclave, under the presidency of the Abbot, about once a week, to discuss their affairs, and summary justice was administered to such of the elder brethren who had broken the rules of the Order. These were flogged near the central pillar, under the eyes of the other monks, who sat round on the stone benches against the wall; the younger offenders were chastised in the cloisters. Quite early in the reign of the first Edward, however, the kings began to use this council chamber of the monastery for their own purposes, and would often hold synods of the clergy within its walls, usually with the purpose of {126} extorting subsidies. About the middle of the fourteenth century the Abbot lent the Chapter House to the Crown for the use of the Commons, who met henceforth in the monastic precincts till they were removed by an edict of Edward VI.'s to the old chapel of St. Stephen's. The wise head of the monastery, Abbot Henley, made a stipulation at the same time that the Government should bear the expense of all future repairs. Whether this compact was faithfully carried out at first we do not know, but after the Dissolution, when the building lapsed finally to the Crown, it fell into a shocking state of ruin, and was used as a kind of lumber-room for State documents. In the eighteenth century it was fitted up as a record office, and the architecture ruthlessly maltreated. The original roof, which was in a ruinous condition, was removed altogether; wooden shelves, galleries, and staircases concealed the painted walls; a boarded floor was added half-way up, and rolls of dusty and inflammable parchments increased the constant risk of fire. In 1834 when the houses of Parliament hard by were burnt, watchers were stationed on the roof of the Chapter House, ready to remove the Doomsday Book and other valuable records should the conflagration spread and the safety of {127} this historic building be seriously threatened. So urgent did the danger from fire appear long afterwards to Sir Gilbert Scott, when he was Surveyor of the Abbey fabric, that he prevailed on the Government of 1865 to remove the records, and obtained a grant of money from Parliament for the purpose of restoring the place as far as possible to its original aspect. Altered as it must have been by this restoration, yet Scott did his work well, and as we look around us we see traces of its ancient splendour, although irreparable damage from neglect and misguided attempts to repair the ravages of former generations has been wrought at various times. The very interesting mural paintings, for instance, which date from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, have been slowly yet surely fading ever since the wooden panelling was removed forty years ago, and well-meant modern experiments, which were intended to preserve the colour, seem only to have added to their destruction. Above the inner door are two graceful stone figures, one of which is said to represent St. John the Baptist; the central medallion of Christ is by Sir Gilbert Scott, but does not compare favourably with the thirteenth-century sculptures. The tracery of the windows was restored after the pattern of {128} the only one which Scott found intact, but the ancient painted glass had long disappeared, and the present glass, the work of Messrs. Clayton and Bell, was inserted at the end of the last century as a memorial to Dean Stanley. Part of one window is still unfinished, waiting until sufficient funds are forthcoming, but the remainder have now been filled up. The east window was given by the generosity of Queen Victoria as a token of her admiration for her old friend, while the cost of the one next to it was defrayed entirely by American subscribers. Historical scenes closely connected with the Abbey are here represented; above them are figures of those sovereigns and abbots who rank as benefactors to the foundation. We passed just now in the vestibule a small medallion portrait with a modern window above it, both of which were put there as a memorial to James Russell Lowell, who was for many years the United States Minister in London, and whose brilliant speech in this very place, when he supported Dean Bradley's appeal for funds to worthily commemorate Dean Stanley, will never be forgotten by those present on that occasion. Railed off in the centre of the floor are remnants of the ancient encaustic tiles, with which the whole was once paved, and {129} round about them are glass cases containing many interesting documents, seals, and other relics, which should be studied at leisure by the antiquarian members of our party. These are already admiring the famous Litlington Missal and the Liber Regalis, an illuminated book containing the order of the Coronation Service, which was prepared for the use of Richard II., and is probably the actual volume which the boy King held in his hands during the long and, to a child, tedious ceremony. There is also a fine manuscript containing an agreement between Henry VII. and the Bermondsey convent. Others are attracted to the skeletons of rats, mice, and sparrows which were found when cleaning out the old organ pipes. In the vestibule as we go out we see a curious old doorway, which was originally the entrance to the royal treasury, now called the Pyx Chapel. Upon the other side hang strips of the human skin with which it was once entirely covered, like the door which used to divide the chapels of St. Faith and St. Blaise, in the south transept. The latter was taken down long ago, but in Scott's time the frame, which still had some skin adhering to it, was extant, but it was then carried off by the Abbey master-mason and has been since entirely lost sight {130} of. The gruesome relics on the south transept door were traditionally supposed to be the skins of the Danes, but the one here was said to be that of a man flayed alive for robbing the royal treasury in the time of Edward I., which was fixed upon the treasury entrance as a warning to the monks, who were implicated in the crime. Sir Gilbert Scott, however, believed the skins to have been those of men who were executed for sacrilege. Beneath the Chapter House itself is a crypt, which was also used as a depository for treasure, and formed part of the King's wardrobe in Edward the First's reign. It is still a moot-point as to which strong room was broken into by the robbers, but this need not detain us now. The door leads nowhere at present; but in the Confessor's day, when the chamber was built, and for long afterwards, it admitted at once into the treasury chamber. Behind it now there is only an empty space beneath the library stairs, within which, late in the eighteenth and early in the nineteenth century, one of the Chapter officials seems to have kept his wine, for the names of different wines and the dates are written upon the stones. Beyond the fourteenth-century staircase, which led up to the monks' dormitory, a wall, probably of the same period, divides this part of {131} the treasury from the rest, and one of the Norman columns has been built into the middle of it. In Scott's day a modern door led to the Chapter library from the vestibule, but he restored the original staircase with the entrance into the east cloister, which is on our left when we emerge. The spacious chamber above was originally the dormitory, whence the monks passed to and fro into the church over this vestibule by a covered passage-way, which crossed the end of St. Faith's Chapel and descended by stone steps, some of which remain, into the chapel of St. Blaise in the south transept. After having been occasionally used as a library under different Deans, part of this dormitory (the rest is incorporated in the schoolroom) was restored and fitted up by Dean Vincent in the seventeenth century, and is now the Chapter library. In the cloister beyond the library entrance a heavy oak door, clamped with iron bars, leads into the chamber or chapel of the Pyx. Behind this is another equally formidable-looking door, and upon each are three complicated locks, only two of which are used at the present time. There is little doubt that these locks date from the seventeenth century and are not the original ones belonging to the Treasury, of which the Keeper of the Royal {132} Wardrobe and the Abbot had duplicate keys; for we know that when Parliament sent Sir Robert Harley to seize the regalia in 1643, no keys were produced by the Dean, the locks were therefore broken, and new ones were put on by order of the House. The whole question of the Pyx Chapel is one of vast interest, and much of its history is still an insoluble riddle. It is enough to tell our party that the regalia and Crown jewels were kept here for many centuries, and that in later times the pyx, a box containing the standard pieces of gold and silver money, took the place of the ancient treasure. The pyx is now in the Mint, and quite recently the treasury chamber, which is at present under the control of the Board of Works, has been cleared out after centuries of neglect, and most of the old chests have been temporarily removed. Now that the chapel is empty, it is possible to appreciate the fine proportions of its architecture. This vaulted chamber and a few other substructures beyond it, including the dark cloister, belong to the Norman monastery, and were built during and after the Confessor's time. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries most of the old monastic buildings were gradually pulled down to make way for more airy and convenient {133} new structures, but these remained untouched when the rest were destroyed. The Pyx Chamber appears to have been a chapel at one time, there are traces of an altar and a thirteenth-century holy-water basin at the east end, as there are also