But as this might not be, then would I keep away from it entirely, and study it from books as I had always done.
One day a departing caller carelessly left behind her a pamphlet entitled The Deanery Guide to Westminster Abbey. With a natural curiosity I picked it up and opened it.
That bore an advertisement of Rowland’s Macassar Oil!
But I got no farther than the first fly-leaf, for that bore an advertisement of Rowland’s Macassar Oil! I promptly forgot the existence of Westminster Abbey in the delight of finding that my London contained such a desirable commodity. Not that I wished to purchase the lotion, but I was absorbingly interested to learn that there really was such a thing. I had never heard of it before except in connection with the Aged, aged man, a-sitting on a gate, who manufactured Rowland’s Macassar Oil from mountain rills which he chanced to set ablaze. The remembrance of that dear old white-haired man, placidly going his ways, and content with the tuppence ha’-penny that rewarded his toil, filled my soul to the exclusion of all else, and he made a welcome addition to the census of my own London. It was pleasant, too, to reflect on the sound logic of the English people when they coined the word “anti-macassar.” How much more restrictedly definite than our word “tidy”!
Well, then next it came about that I went for a walk.
And, as was bound to happen sooner or later, I was strolling unthinkingly along, when I found myself with the Houses of Parliament on my right hand and Westminster Abbey on my left. I was fairly caught, and surrendered at discretion. The only question was which way to turn. As I had no choice in the matter, I should logically have gone, like John Buridan’s Ass, straight ahead, and so missed both; but the Abbey, with an almost imperceptible nod of invitation, compelled me to turn that way, and involuntarily, though not at all unwillingly, I entered.
Whereupon I made the startling discovery that I was in the Poets’ Corner! Now, I had definitely planned that if ever I did visit the Abbey, I would enter by the North Transept, and gradually accustom myself to the atmosphere of the place. I would go away after a short inspection, and return several times to revisit it, before I even approached the Poets’ Corner. And to find myself thus unexpectedly and somewhat informally introduced to an inscription attesting the rarity of Ben Jonson, took me unawares, and my eyes rested coldly on the words, and then passed on, still uninterestedly, to Spencer, Milton, and Gray.
I took a few tentative steps, which brought me to the bust of our own Longfellow.