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continued our walk to Westminster Abbey, and entered. If palaces have not come up to my expectations, this far exceeds them. The church is huge, built in the form of a Latin cross, a great pile of grandeur. The interior is indeed most beautiful, and one might spend weeks within, and yet feel that the half had not been seen. Such a succession of wonderfully beautiful monuments and memorials to the distinguished, illustrious, and talented dead. As works of art, this exquisite sculpture delighted my eye more than anything I had ever seen. Kings and queens lie here, statesmen and historians, generals and philosophers, inventors and poets, and the remains of many that were great on earth, and the beautiful marble covers them! But oh, I know I would rather lie like the poorest peasant under the greensward, where the sun could shine on my resting-place. The reclining statue of the wife of Dean Stanley is lovely beyond description. The angelic expression of the beautiful sweet face seems to tell us that she has found rest in her ‘Father’s mansion’ and is satisfied. How short a time ago does it seem that I heard the Dean in our own Trinity. His body now rests here. The words inscribed on the monument in memory of Franklin, the Arctic explorer, were sadly touching: so simple, and yet so full of meaning:—
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