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, started to find that I stood upon his grave.  What a glorious galaxy of genius is here collected—­what a constellation of stars whose light is immortal!  The mind is completely fettered by their spirit.  Everything is forgotten but the mighty dead, who still “rule us from their urns.”

The Chapel of Henry VII., which we next entered, is one of the most elaborate specimens of Gothic workmanship in the world.  If the first idea of the Gothic arch sprung from observing the forms of trees, this chapel must resemble the first conceptions of that order, for the fluted columns rise up like tall trees, branching out at the top into spreading capitals covered with leaves, and supporting arches of the ceiling resembling a leafy roof.

The side-chapels are filled with tombs of knightly families, the husband and wife lying on their backs on the tombs, with their hands clasped, while their children, about the size of dolls, are kneeling around.  Numberless are the Barons and Earls and Dukes, whose grim effigies stare from their tombs.  In opposite chapels are the tombs of Mary and Elizabeth, and near the former that of Darnley.  After having visited many of the scenes of her life, it was with no ordinary emotion that I stood by the sepulchre of Mary.  How differently one looks upon it and upon that of the proud Elizabeth!