have escaped the posthumous misfortune of a tomb in Westminster Abbey or
St. Paul's. In such case the world would have missed one of the most
charming of associations, and the great poem the most poetical of its
features. For surely it was fit that he who sang so touchingly of the
dead here sleeping, should find near them his last resting-place; that
when the pleasant toil in libraries was over, the last folio closed by
those industrious hands, the last manuscript collated, and the last
flower picked for the herbarium, he who here so tenderly sang of the
emptiness of earthly honors and the nothingness of worldly success should
be buried humbly near those whom he best loved, and where all the moral
of his teaching might be perpetually illustrated. I wondered, as I stood
there, whether Horace Walpole ever thought it worth his while, for the
sake of that early friendship which was so rudely broken, to come there,
away from the haunts of fashion, or from his plaything villa at
Strawberry Hill, to muse for a moment over the grave of one who rated
pedigrees and peerages at their just value. Probably my Lord Orford was
never guilty of such a piece of sentimentality. He was thinking too much
of his pictures and coins and eternal bric-a-brac for that.

A stone set in the outside of the church indicates the spot near which
the poet is buried. I was very anxious to see the interior of the
edifice, and, fortunately I found the sexton busy in the neighborhood.
There was nothing, however, remarkable to be seen, after sixpence had
opened the door, except perhaps the very largest pew which these eyes
ever beheld. It belonged to the Penn family, descendants of drab-coated
and sweet-voiced William Penn, whose seat is in the neighborhood. I do
not know what that primitive Quaker would have said to such an enormous
reservation of space in the house of God for the sole use and behoof of
two or three aristocratic worshipers. Probably few of my readers have
ever seen such a pew as that. It was not so much a pew as a room. It was