From the organ pealed those American songs to which half a century ago, in another war for Freedom, men marched to battle, and, even if by ways of defeat and death, to ultimate Victory. How many there were that April day for whom the sight of the Stars and Stripes was blurred with tears. How the familiar airs and simple words pained us with the memory of our distant homes. Perhaps for the first time we understood the solemn significance of this dedication to war of what we hardly knew was so unspeakably dear. In the Crypt of St. Paul's, Mausoleum of England's greatest soldier and sailor heroes, their ashes rest who once fought and conquered. If it is given to those who have gone before to hear our human appeal, perhaps the immortal spirits of Nelson, of Wellington, of Kitchener, whose tragic fate is its unfulfilled destiny, may have rested like an inspiration on that kindred nation offering the sacrifice of all it holds most sacred to the cause of Divine Justice. After the solemn benediction thousands streamed slowly out to mingle with the multitudes gathered before the great Entrance where Queen Anne in crown and scepter keeps majestic guard, and where in peaceful days doves flit and flutter down to peck at the grain strewn about her royal feet. Stern and momentous times have passed over that old, gray Cathedral; times of a Nation's grief and a Nation's rejoicing. But of all such days, in its centuries of existence, none has been so momentous for the destiny of the Empire as that sunny April day. And yet--and yet--perhaps more touching, more solemn, even than the High Service at St. Paul's, that which stirred Americans even more who love England with only a lesser love, and made us realize as never before what America stands for, joint defender now of the new Civilization, was the silent symbol of her dedication to the Cause of Human Freedom, for all London to see and on which, seeing, to reflect. It was the symbol of that for which Statesmen who were also prophets, have lived and toiled. It rose against the glowing West, never to be forgotten by those who saw it at the close of Our Day, for it marked the new Epoch. Now at last "Let the dead Past bury its Dead." Along Whitehall, down Parliament Street, and where towards the left Westminster Bridge spans its immortal river, stand the Houses of Parliament, their delicate tracery of stonework etched against the sunset sky. Hurrying crowds, released from the day's toil, stopped here, as if by a common impulse, to gaze upwards, and, gazing in silent wonder, they saw such a sight as London has never seen before. On the highest pinnacle of the Victoria tower where the flag of another nation has never before shared its proud eminence there floated together from one flagstaff Old Glory and the Union Jack. That was America's supreme consecration. [signed] Annie E. Lane (Mrs. John Lane) Pour La Patrie