The parts of London which almost made a poet of that restless German dullard, Karl Baedeker, last week fell under a blanket of wrath. Buildings which were standing two centuries before Berlin was even founded were cracked, gutted, undermined. Names of heroes and works of great memory were trampled.
Somerset House, where wills going back to 1382—including those of Shakespeare, Nelson, Gladstone—are filed, lost its lovely staircase. John Nash's nobly curving Regent Street was ripped by a time bomb. A German squadron boasted it had toasted victory in champagne in the sky, and then dropped the empty bottles on the palace which...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
