What a life must be that of one whose years are passed chiefly in and about the great Abbey!  Nowhere does Macbeth’s expression “dusty death” seem so true to all around us.  The dust of those who have been lying century after century below the marbles piled over them,—­the dust on the monuments they lie beneath; the dust on the memories those monuments were raised to keep living in the recollection of posterity,—­dust, dust, dust, everywhere, and we ourselves but shapes of breathing dust moving amidst these objects and remembrances!  Come away!  The good Archdeacon of the “Eternal Hope” has asked us to take a cup of tea with him.  The tea-cup will be a cheerful substitute for the funeral urn, and a freshly made infusion of the fragrant leaf is one of the best things in the world to lay the dust of sad reflections.

It is a somewhat fatiguing pleasure to go through the Abbey, in spite of the intense interest no one can help feeling.  But my day had but just begun when the two hours we had devoted to the visit were over.  At a quarter before eight, my friend Mr. Frederick Locker called for me to go to a dinner at the Literary Club.  I was particularly pleased to dine with this association, as it reminded me of our own Saturday Club, which sometimes goes by the same name as the London one.  They complimented me with a toast, and I made some kind of a reply.  As I never went prepared with a speech for any such occasion, I take it for granted that I thanked the company in a way that showed my gratitude rather than my eloquence.  And now, the dinner being over, my day was fairly begun.

This was to be a memorable date in the record of the year, one long to be remembered in the political history of Great Britain.  For on this day, the 7th of June, Mr. Gladstone was to make his great speech on the Irish question, and the division of the House on the Government of Ireland Bill was to take place.  The whole country, to the corners of its remotest colony, was looking forward to the results of this evening’s meeting of Parliament.  The kindness of the Speaker had furnished me with a ticket, entitling me to a place among the “distinguished guests,” which I presented without modestly questioning my right to the title.

The pressure for entrance that evening was very great, and I, coming after my dinner with the Literary Club, was late upon the ground.  The places for “distinguished guests” were already filled.  But all England was in a conspiracy to do everything possible to make my visit agreeable.  I did not take up a great deal of room,—­I might be put into a seat with the ambassadors and foreign ministers.  And among them I was presently installed.  It was now between ten and eleven o’clock, as nearly as I recollect.  The House had been in session since four o’clock.  A gentleman was speaking, who was, as my unknown next neighbor told me, Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, a leading member, as we all know, of the opposition.  When he sat down there was