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stein. The secretary for war, William St. John Brodrick, and the undersecretary of the foreign office, Lord Cranborne, were present, and the other cabinet ministers were represented.

ALL LANDS REPRESENTED. The British ambassador to the United States, Lord Pauncefote; the Russian ambassador to Great Britain, M. de Stael; the Danish minister, M. de Bille, and the Turkish ambassador, Costaki Anthopulo Pasha, were also present, with members of all the legations, including the consul general of Monaco, Lord Rosebery; the lord chief justice, Baron Alverstone; Baron Revelstoke, Baron Mount Stephen, Sir William and Lady Vernon Harcourt and the agents general of twenty British colonies were there.

The boom of the abbey bell announcing midday was faintly audible within the abbey as the organ broke the hushed silence with the funeral march by Tschaikowsky, which merged later into Chopin's more familiar dirge.

Away in the distant nave were heard the voices of the famous abbey choir chanting in sad minor, “I am the resurrection and the life,” the vast congregation rising as the strains floated upward and rose and. fell in mournful harmony, filling the lofty edifice to the uttermost crevices of the distant roof and anon falling gently as autumn rain on tie ears of the somber-clad listeners.

Slowly, silently, the procession of surpliced choristers moved nearer up the nave and under the oaken screen dividing the choir from the body of the cathedral.

GRIEF IN THE REFRAIN. The voices of the singers grew more distinct with every step until the words of the refrain, “The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away,” struck a responsive sigh in every lieart. As the singers filled each side of the choir stalls the clergy, escorted by vergers with crape-covered staves, proceeded into the sanctuary itself.

The venerable dean of Westminster Abbey had taken his place in the chancel, surrounded by the clergy, when the congregation, standing, prepared themselves to pour forth their feelings in “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” which henceforth will forever be associated with President McKinley's dying moments.

But here occurred the only jar in the solemn service. A great portion of the congregation, being Americans, naturally expected the old familiar chant, which is regarded almost as America's national anthem. Instead of this, however, the organist played the English version, by

Rev. J. B. Dykes, a tune quite foreign to American ears. For a few moments the effect was most painful alike to those wishing to sing as to others who were merely listeners.


After trying weakly to join in unison with the choir, giving to the time-worn words the unfamiliar sounds, the greater portion of the congregation abandoned the attempt, while many unbidden tears were shed and bespoke the helpless sorrow of those to whom the relief of song was denied.

Sullivan's exquisite anthem, “Yea, Though I Walk From the Light of the World,” rendered by the choir, went far to soothe the mourners for the absence of congregational singing, while the spectacle of the venerable dean reading the lesson—a gray-haired old man whose feeble voice was barely audible within a short radius of the chancel rail-recalled the last occasion when he had officiated at a funeral service there, namely when Mr. Gladstone was laid to rest among the historic dead within the abbey.

But by far the most impressive moment of the service was the short pause for silent prayer in behalf of the widow and family of the late President.

SOLEMN HUSH OVER ALL. As the great organ's note, like a deep sigh, faded into solemn silence, the last jarring clang of the chimes outdoors momentarily punctured · the stillness as though for a record of passing time. Then a hush fell

upon the densely thronged church and for fully five minutes every head was bowed in silent prayer-hushed and silent as the unnumbered dead who sleep beneath the abbey stones.

It was an awful, soul-inspiring moment. One could not help recalling the scene five years ago, at St. Louis, when at the mention of the name of McKinley 10,000 men had cheered like half-demented savages for half an hour by the clock.

Some of those present on that occasion were even now kneeling with bowed heads, 'their subdued attitude beneath, the abbey's towering roof being more expressive of genuine feeling than the wildest cheers and frantic flag-waving in that memorable yellow pine board convention hall.

Faintly, as if apologizing for disturbing the eternal commune between the living and the dead, the organ broke the silence, while the choir almost imperceptibly added their voices to the refrain, “I Heard a Voice From Heaven.”

OFFICE FOR THE DEAD.. For the remainder of the service the sacrist recited the prayers, the choir organ again sang an anthem, the dean pronounced the benediction and the congregation stood while the dead march in “Saul” was played. But during all this and as the choir and clergy slowly filed out the menory of that impressive pause lingered.

Even when Mr. Choate, standing beneath the screen at the end of the nave, received the silent greetings of the distinguished mourners, their mute salutation was but a repetition of the greeting to the illustrious dead during that awful pause.

A similar service was held at St. Paul's Cathedral in the afternoon, attended by 6,000 persons.

SORROW OF THE PRESS. The London morning papers again appeared with black borders and long accounts of the ceremonies in Canton and of memorial services and tributes throughout the world. The editorials generally comment upon the widespread sympathy evoked. “Seldom, if ever," says the Standard, “has a common sorrow found expression in so many lands."

The Daily News finds "this spontaneous manifestation of mourning" deeply suggestive and impressive, being paralleled only at the death of Victoria.

Several London theaters were closed September 19. Those remaining open witnessed some remarkable demonstrations. The programmes began with the dead march in “Saul,” the audiences standing. At the leading variety houses the “Star Spangled Banner" was also played, and was received with ringing cheers and shouts of "Down with anarchists.” At a concert in Queen's Hall Sir Arthur Sullivan's "In Memoriam” overture and Tchaikowsky's “Pathetique Symphonie” were played in memory of Mr. McKinley.

All the American business houses in London were closed, and the managers and employes attended the memorial services at various churches. On many English houses the shades were half drawn and flags, draped in crape, were at half-mast.

At the request of members of the stock exchange and other business men in the city, a memorial service was held in the Church of St. Lawrence Jewry. The church was crowded.

Mr. Choate, the American ambassador, sent the following telegram to King Edward at Fredensborg :

"Your majesty's telegram of the 14th has deeply affected Mrs. McKinley in this hour of her sore affliction, and I am charged to convey

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