bones repose far away, in the little church at Stratford-on-Avon. Then
I saw the tombs of David Garrick, the great actor and delineator of
Shakspeare's characters; George Frederick Handel, the eminent composer,
the author of that beautiful anthem, "I know that my Redeemer liveth;"
the great Milton; rare old Ben Jonson; Edmund Spenser, author of the
"Faëry Queene;" and those of Southey, Dryden, Addison, Gray, Campbell,
and other well-known English poets.

Then, among the names of the dead of our own day, I saw those of
Dickens, Bulwer, Macaulay, and Dr. Livingstone.

Kings, queens, statesmen, soldiers, clergymen, authors and poets here
have equal station. Some may lie under richer tombs than others, but
all rest beneath the vaulted roof of Westminster Abbey, the place of
highest honor that England can offer her departed sons.




CRIP'S GARRET-DAY

BY SARAH J. PRICHARD.


Crip was having a dismal--a very dismal time of it. Crip was eleven, it
was his birthday, and Crip was in disgrace--in a garret.

Wasn't it dreadful?

It happened thus: Crip's father was a shoemaker. The bench where he