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March 6th.—­Wordsworth, whom we met yesterday at dinner at the Oaks, expressed his dislike to monuments in churches; partly from the absurdity and falsehood of the epitaphs which sometimes belonged to them, and partly from their injuring the architectural beauties of the edifice, as they grievously did in Westminster Abbey and many other cathedrals.  He made an exception in favour of those old knightly monuments, which he admitted added to the solemnity of the scene, and were in keeping with the buildings; and he added, ’I must also except another monument which once made a deep impression on my mind.  It was in a small church near St. Alban’s; and I once left London in the afternoon, so as to sleep at St. Alban’s the first night, and have a few hours of evening light to visit this church.  It was before the invention of railways, and I determined that I would always do the same; but, the year after, railways existed, and I have never been able to carry out my project again:  all wandering is now over.  Well, I went to this small country church; and just opposite the door at which you enter, the figure of the great Lord Bacon, in pure white, was the first thing that presented itself.  I went there to see his tomb, but I did not expect to see himself; and it impressed me deeply.  There he was, a man whose fame extends over the whole civilised world, sitting calmly, age after age, in white robes of pure alabaster, in this small country church, seldom visited except by some stray traveller, he having desired to be interred in this spot, to lie near his mother.’

On referring to Mallet’s Life of Bacon, I see he mentions that he was privately buried at St. Michael’s church, near St. Alban’s; and it adds, ’The spot that contains his remains lay obscure and undistinguished, till the gratitude of a private man, formerly his servant’ (Sir Thomas Meautys), ‘erected a monument to his name and memory.’  This makes it probable that the likeness is a correct one.

November 8th, 1845.—­On our way to take an early dinner at Foxhow yesterday, we met the Poet at the foot of his own hill, and he engaged us to go to tea to the Mount on our way home to hear their adventures, he and his Mary having just returned from a six weeks’ wander among their friends.  During their absence we always feel that the road between Grasmere and Ambleside is wanting in something, beautiful as it is.  We reached the Mount before six, and found dear Mrs. Wordsworth much restored by her tour.  She has enjoyed the visit to her kith and kin in Herefordshire extremely, and we had a nice comfortable chat round the fire and the tea-table.  After tea, in speaking of the misfortune it was when a young man did not seem more inclined to one profession than another, Wordsworth said that he had always some feeling of indulgence for men at that age who felt such a difficulty.  He had himself passed through it, and had incurred