the opposite side of the
great hall. As we had walked over the ground where this General fell, we
viewed his statue with more than ordinary interest. We were taken from
one scene of interest to another, until we found ourselves in the
"Whispering Gallery." From the dome we had a splendid view of the
Metropolis of the world. A scaffold was erected up here to enable an
artist to take sketches from which a panorama of London was painted. The
artist was three years at work. The painting is now exhibited at the
Colosseum; but the brain of the artist was turned, and he died insane!
Indeed, one can scarcely conceive how it could be otherwise. You in
America have no idea of the immensity of this building. Pile together
half-a-dozen of the largest churches in New York or Boston, and you will
have but a faint representation of St. Paul's Cathedral.

* * * * *

I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster
Abbey. We entered the building at a door near Poets' Corner, and,
naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose
imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse
mankind. I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw. In almost any
church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in
the Poets' Corner. A few only have monuments. Shakspere, who wrote of
man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one.
Addison's monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing
more erected to their memories than busts or medallions. Poets' Corner
is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about
it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some
departed friend. All seemed to regard it as classic ground. No sound
louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger
treading over the marble floor with a light step. There is great
pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are
familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes,
as we would from those of a bosom friend. The genius of these men
spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and
varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time. None
can portray like the poet the passions of the human soul. The statue of
Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere.
He looks as if he had just left the st