s "Plymouth Brethren."

After leaving Bristol, I went to London, the metropolis of the world.
The first important place visited was Westminster Abbey, an old church,
founded in the seventh century, rebuilt in 1049, and restored to its
present form in the thirteenth century. Many eminent men and women are
buried here. Chaucer, the first poet to find a resting place in the
Abbey, was interred in 1400. The place where Major Andre is buried is
marked by a small piece of the pavement bearing his name. On the wall
close by is a monument to him. Here are the graves of Isaac Newton,
Charles Dickens, Alfred Tennyson, Charles Darwin, and many others,
including Kings and Queens of England for centuries. In the Poets'
Corner are monuments to Coleridge, Southey, Shakespeare, Burns,
Tennyson, Milton, Gray, Spencer, and others, and one bearing the
inscription "O Rare Ben Jonson." There is also a bust of Longfellow, the
only foreigner accorded a memorial in the Abbey. The grave of David
Livingstone, the African explorer and missionary, is covered with a
black stone of some kind, which forms a part of the floor or pavement,
and contains an inscription in brass letters, of which the following
quotation is a part: "All I can add in my solitude is, may heaven's
rich blessings come down on every one, American, English, or Turk, who
will help to heal this open sore of the world."

Concerning this interesting old place which is visited by more than
fifty thousand Americans annually, Jeremy Taylor wrote: "Where our Kings
are crowned, their ancestors lie interred, and they must walk over their
grandsires to take the crown. There is an acre sown with royal seed, the
copy of the greatest change, from rich to naked, from ceiled roofs to
arched coffins, from living like gods to die like men. There the warlike
and the peaceful, the fortunate and the miserable, the beloved and
despised princes mingle their dust and pay down their symbol of
mortality, and tell all the world that when we die our ashes shall be
equal to Kings, and our accounts easier, and our pains for our sins
shall be less." While walking about in the Abbey, I also found these
lines from Walter Scott:

"Here, where the end of earthly things
Lays heroes, patriots, bards and kings;
Where stiff the hand and still the tongue
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong
The distant notes of holy song,
As if some Angel spoke again
'A