And we have a task before us--to see that the memory of those who have fought for us and died for us should be as stably and as durably commemorated as possible. It is not that I think of a memorial as being in any sense a reward for the honoured dead. If there is one thing which our heart tells us, it is that they have a nobler reward than that. A new life, doubtless, a passing from strength to strength. But as Shelley so immortally said, ‘Fame is love disguised,’ and we owe it to our love and gratitude not only to remember, but to commemorate. I defy anyone, however simple and stolid, to set foot in our great Abbey, and not be thrilled with the thought, ‘After all, humanity is a splendid thing, so full of devotion and greatness as it is!’ Statesmen, monarchs, writers, artists, men of science, men of learning, there they sleep; there is a generous glow in many young hearts, which may thus be kindled. The poet of boyhood makes the boy, just disengaging himself from the beloved school and stepping into the world, say to himself: ‘Much lost I: something stayed behind, A snatch maybe of ancient song, Some breathings of a deathless mind; Some love of truth; some hate of wrong. And to myself in games I said, “What mean the books? Can I win fame? I would be like the faithful dead, A fearless man and pure of blame.”’ This, then, is our present task--to see that our dead are worthily commemorated for our own sakes and for the sake of those who come after. How shall we do it? In the first place, we must not do it idly and carelessly--we must take thought, have a plan and a purpose, not be in too great a hurry. Hurry is the worst foe of memorials. We have a national habit--I think it is rather a sign of greatness--not to do anything until we are obliged; but the result of that often is a loss of grace and fineness; because people who must act, and are a little ashamed of not having acted, accept any solution.