this land of “merrie England” as their home.  London, like a mighty Babel, rose before them, her gigantic towers telling of man’s greatness, while the resplendent shining of the sun, reflected from a million turrets, proclaimed that there was one above all.  St. Paul’s, with its dome of grandeur, reflecting not only honor upon her world-renowned architect, Sir Christopher Wren, but standing a living memento that Christ hath built his church upon earth.

Westminster must be visited by every stranger.  As Natalie roamed over this vast structure, in itself a world of curiosity, like so many small churches roofed in by one great canopy, she lingered in the south transept, in what is called the Poet’s Corner.  Here are the tombs of many of the most famous poets of England.  Chaucer, Edmund Spencer, Francis Beaumont, and others, have tablets here erected to their memory, while in other chapels are monuments erected in memory of sovereigns, who have long since gone to render an account of their deeds done here, to the one great Sovereign of the universe.  As the eye of Natalie rested upon the tomb of the gentle Mary, Queen of Scots, the history of whose brief life, and the many cruel indignities which were heaped upon her, rushing to her memory, she stood as if riveted to the spot, when a voice near her attracted her attention, and a rough-looking old sailor, tarpaulin in hand, threw himself at her feet, exclaiming,—­“Bless the memory of old England!  She is more sensible than I ever thought for.  They couldn’t have done a nobler thing than to have placed her likeness here!” and thus the jolly fellow’s tongue flew, as if he would re-spin all the forecastle yarns of his lifetime, much to the discomfiture of the eagle-eyed guide, who bade the intruder begone; but our nautical friend, deigning to give this polite invitation to depart no further notice than he would have given to the juvenile whales, as they were taking first lessons in spouting of their maternal protector, the guide seized him by the shoulder, and was about to show honest Jack what virtue there was in “force of arms,” when Mr. Alboni interfered, saying,—­let us at least hear what the honest fellow would say for himself.”

“Your honor,”, exclaimed Jack, whose very countenance spoke as plainly as a nose which appeared as if it had been imitating the feathered tribes, in their efforts to satisfy thirst, for so long, that its tendency had become upward in sympathy, and eyes which it were difficult to follow in the direction of both at the same time, could speak, that he who had been accustomed to guiding his bark by stars of the first magnitude, all his days, would not now, at this age of life, be guided by this “star” of diminutive light.  “Your honor,” said the astonished tar, as he discovered the beautiful form before him to be actually possessed of life and breath, and was no senseless piece of statuary, “shiver my topsails, but if I didn’t take the lady to be her representation, my name’s not John Sampson!”