of the right English spirit not to be mentioned) one or two gigantic statues of great mechanicians, who contributed largely to the material welfare of England, sitting familiarly in their marble chairs among forgotten kings and queens.  Otherwise, the quaintness of the earlier monuments, and the antique beauty of some of them, are what chiefly gives them value.  Nevertheless, Addison is buried among the men of rank; not on the plea of his literary fame, however, but because he was connected with nobility by marriage, and had been a Secretary of State.  His gravestone is inscribed with a resounding verse from Tickell’s lines to his memory, the only lines by which Tickell himself is now remembered, and which (as I discovered a little while ago) he mainly filched from an obscure versifier of somewhat earlier date.

Returning to Poets’ Corner, I looked again at the walls, and wondered how the requisite hospitality can be shown to poets of our own and the succeeding ages.  There is hardly a foot of space left, although room has lately been found for a bust of Southey and a full-length statue of Campbell.  At best, only a little portion of the Abbey is dedicated to poets, literary men, musical composers, and others of the gentle artist-breed, and even into that small nook of sanctity men of other pursuits have thought it decent to intrude themselves.  Methinks the tuneful throng, being at home here, should recollect how they were treated in their lifetime, and turn the cold shoulder, looking askance at nobles and official personages, however worthy of honorable interment elsewhere.  Yet it shows aptly and truly enough what portion of the world’s regard and honor has heretofore been awarded to literary eminence in comparison with other modes of greatness,—­this dimly lighted corner (nor even that quietly to themselves) in the vast minster, the walls of which are sheathed and hidden under marble that has been wasted upon the illustrious obscure.  Nevertheless, it may not be worth while to quarrel with the world on this account; for, to confess the very truth, their own little nook contains more than one poet whose memory is kept alive by his monument, instead of imbuing the senseless stone with a spiritual immortality,—­men of whom you do not ask, “Where is he?” but “Why is he here?” I estimate that all the literary people who really make an essential part of one’s inner life, including the period since English literature first existed, might have ample elbow-room to sit down and quaff their draughts of Castaly round Chaucer’s broad, horizontal tombstone.  These divinest poets consecrate the spot, and throw a reflected glory over the humblest of their companions.  And as for the latter, it is to be hoped that they may have long outgrown the characteristic jealousies and morbid sensibilities of their craft, and have found out the little value, (probably not amounting to sixpence in immortal currency) of the posthumous renown which they once aspired to win.  It would be a poor compliment to a dead poet to fancy him leaning out of the sky and snuffing up the impure breath of earthly praise.