with granite, and a lofty column in the centre, double the crowd and the
tumult of business, and you will have some idea of the view.

It was a relief to get into St. James's Park, among the trees and
flowers again. Here, beautiful winding walks led around little lakes, in
which were hundreds of water-fowl, swimming. Groups of merry children
were sporting on the green lawn, enjoying their privilege of roaming
every where at will, while the older bipeds were confined to the regular
walks. At the western end stood Buckingham Palace, looking over the
trees towards St. Paul's; through the grove on the eminence above, the
towers of St. James's could be seen. But there was a dim building, with
two lofty square towers, decorated with a profusion of pointed Gothic
pinnacles, that I looked at with more interest than these appendages of
royalty. I could not linger long in its vicinity, but going back again
by the Horse Guards, took the road to _Westminster Abbey_.

We approached by the general entrance, Poet's Corner. I hardly stopped
to look at the elaborate exterior of Henry VIIth's Chapel, but passed on
to the door. On entering, the first thing that met my eyes were the
words, "OH RARE BEN JONSON," under his bust. Near by stood the monuments
of Spenser and Gay, and a few paces further looked down the sublime
countenance of Milton. Never was a spot so full of intense interest. The
light was just dim enough to give it a solemn, religious appearance,
making the marble forms of poets and philosophers so shadowy and
impressive, that I felt as if standing in their living presence. Every
step called up some mind linked with the associations of my childhood.
There was the gentle feminine countenance of Thompson, and the majestic
head of Dryden; Addison with his classic features, and Gray, full of the
fire of lofty thought. In another chamber, I paused long before the
ashes of Shakspeare; and while looking at the monument of Garrick,