I have just returned from a stroll of two hours through Westminster Abbey.  We entered the building at a door near Poets’ Corner, and, naturally enough, looked around for the monuments of the men whose imaginative powers have contributed so much to instruct and amuse mankind.  I was not a little disappointed in the few I saw.  In almost any church-yard you may see monuments and tombs far superior to anything in the Poets’ Corner.  A few only have monuments.  Shakspere, who wrote of man to man, and for man to the end of time, is honoured with one.  Addison’s monument is also there; but the greater number have nothing more erected to their memories than busts or medallions.  Poets’ Corner is not splendid in appearance, yet I observed visiters lingering about it, as if they were tied to the spot by love and veneration for some departed friend.  All seemed to regard it as classic ground.  No sound louder than a whisper was heard during the whole time, except the verger treading over the marble floor with a light step.  There is great pleasure in sauntering about the tombs of those with whom we are familiar through their writings; and we tear ourselves from their ashes, as we would from those of a bosom friend.  The genius of these men spreads itself over the whole panorama of Nature, giving us one vast and varied picture, the colour of which will endure to the end of time.  None can portray like the poet the passions of the human soul.  The statue of Addison, clad in his dressing-gown, is not far from that of Shakspere.  He looks as if he had just left the study, after finishing some chosen paper for the Spectator.  This memento of a great man, was the work of the British public.  Such a mark of national respect was but justice to one who has contributed more to purify and raise the standard of English literature, than any man of his day.  We next visited the other end of the same transept, near the northern door.  Here lie Mansfield, Chatham, Fox, the second William Pitt, Grattan, Wilberforce, and a few other statesmen.  But, above all, is the stately monument to the Earl of Chatham.  In no other place so small, do so many great men lie together.  To these men, whose graves strangers from all parts of the world wish to view, the British public are in a great measure indebted for England’s fame.  The high pre-eminence which England has so long enjoyed and maintained in the scale of empire, has constantly been the boast and pride of the English people.  The warm panegyrics that have been lavished on her constitution and laws—­the songs chaunted to celebrate her glory—­the lustre of her arms, as the glowing theme of her warriors—­the thunder of her artillery in proclaiming her moral prowess, her flag being unfurled to every breeze and ocean, rolling to her shores the tribute of a thousand realms—­show England to be the greatest nation in the world, and speak volumes for the great departed, as well as for those of the living present.  One requires no company, no amusements, no books in such a place as this.  Time and death have placed within those walls sufficient to occupy the mind, if one should stay here a week.