couple of Bunker Hills rising in my bosom. As such feelings were inconsistent with this temple, dedicated to peace, and as I was a delegate from Ohio to the World's Peace Convention, I prudently retired out of the British domain and seated myself again at the transept, to take a last look before going to the Continent.

At the four corners there are crowds, looking down on hrongs beneath, moving in and out under canopies, and into the ourts. Opposite is a large glass chandelier, almost the counterpart of the fountain, which, with its sisters three, are making melody by graceful water jets amid the palm and flower groves below. The sight woos the thirst, and the hum almost sinks one in a swound," like a murmur of bees. White as ghosts, the long lines of statuary guard the little apartments, with varied hangings suspended from their roofs. Away down on either hand is seen one living stream moving amid gorgeousness, and under glancing sunlight.

How many hearts beat within those vital frames, the mechanism of which, comparable with nothing in this vast theatre of ingenuity, is hidden from the eye! How many immortal souls are here intent on seeing-seeing-seeing; forgetful of every thought as to the wondrous mind-mechanism which evolved all these wonders. "Ye fools and blind! for whether is greater, the gold, or the temple which sanctifieth the gold?" The gold must perish, the temple and its spirit survives.

Wrap those moving bodies in the silks of yon pagoda; or bury them amid the glitter of those Indian gold cloths, but they will not stay. Those flowers may be renewed by the genial breath of spring; those bodies, of form so radiant, must lie in "cold obstruction." Surround their tombs with the bronze and stone which line the nave; their memory is soon erased by the footstep of time. Yet this undying mind is perpetual. It lives through its creations. Nation to nation, man to man, hands down the results of the vigilant life. Who can tell what thoughts have been here developed to bless the race? What

ideas of beauty suggested, what cordialities cultivated to decorate this world of tears?

Behold below, a world's representatives interlacing themselves. As Shakspeare has it:

"No man living

Can say this is my wife, there; all are woven

So strangely in one piece."

Listen to the hum of speech; look to the produce of thought. Hear ye not therein the shuttle of kindness flying from heart to heart, weaving its viewless warp and woof into one sublime fabric, many-hued as that tapestry, intricate as that mechanism; a fabric fit to be hung from the battlements of heaven, between the sins of man and the majesty of God!

The sun is sinking toward America. Its slanting radiance kisses the concave crystal. The statues in the transept fling long shadows down the nave. The thousand glitters of the glass are reflected from jewels and glass within. What if all the minds here represented by their results were gathered into a common mental palace, so transparent that the most profound thought of each and all could be perceived; the astronomer sweeping the sky with that telescope, down to the humble African who made yon miserable human image; the genius of the sculptor bodying forth his exquisite ideal in stainless Parian, embracing the tiny thoughtlet of him who mechanically turns a machine which thinks for him; could we not then approximate toward the idea of an Omniscient Reason, in the largest sense of that term? Yet these all these are the varied product of His hand, modified through the contaminated reason of man!

With such reflections half saddening the spirit, and with a curiosity to see the delightful environment of Hyde Park which surrounds the palace, I am led to the open air, to be freshened into new life by the side of a river of beauty-the Serpentine, set in emerald. A massive stone bridge arches it, over which are passing crowds from the exhibition, horsemen practising in

the park, and coaches drawn by blooded horses. Soldiers and policemen are around here, as they are everywhere in London, Before us spreads the stream, with its water-fowl, ducks and swans. Sharp-pointed boats dart from under the bridge, and skim away as gracefully as the water-fowl themselves. A few sail boats shoot in and out, as if playing amid the splendid elms which line the stream, and which in clumps all through this park throw their shadows deep and inviting. Walks are distributed about in negligent precision. Boys with water spaniels and mimic ships are laughing away merry May hours in their pastimes. But these elms, how perfect each one appears! It is remarkable to one used to seeing nature in her unpruned, careless dress, how much like leafy architecture a noble tree may be made.

A perfect study for the Painter is each old elm, its long branches intertwisted neatly and gracefully; its shadows and lights conspicuous as those in a Gothic Minster; bending over to its sustaining mother, the earth, with a freight of foliage, and bestowing upon her verdurous bosom a rich gift of shade,

Far off, before me, yet clear as if in reach, stands the Duke Wellington in bronze, upon his lofty steed against the blue sky. Here come some of his class-a troop of soldiers in hats nearly as big as themselves. The lofty towers of Apsley House, the Duke's residence, are about his monument. Let the eye skim around to the right, until it meets between the trees the glittering palace, full of its throbbing life and myriad illustrations of life-results. At least tenscore of flags-white, blue, red and variegated, waver to the mild wind; while the transept at both ends is surmounted proudly with England's ensign 100 feet above the concave ! The colors of the iron work are but dimly seen from here, yet most gratefully do they task the eye. The Park is speckled for miles with gayly-dressed women and soldiers.-Sheep, too, lazily lie about the lawns. Just behind yon trees, shut in by a gate guarded by soldiers, are at least count, 500 carriages and their liveried attendants, awaiting the pleasure

of their masters and mistresses." Thank God," I mentally ejaculated, "I am no man's man." Could we not put these tight-legged, gold-tipped, hat-laced, powder-headed, bow-scraping, velvet-pawed footmen and drivers to a better account in Ohio? Make men out of them, albeit apparent manikins now? They do not know any better. If they could only feel what it is to have a free heart beating beneath the meanest vesture-but Pshaw! Velvet Paw must needs be Velvet Paw; else England's aris tocracy would have to wait on itself, a degradation which would knock the underpinning out of one branch of the Constitution, and perhaps out of another. Look from the ignoble growth of men, to the noble growth of those old knotty, shaggy, twisted, Elms-Centuries of storms they have stood. They have been like true men, gnarled into greatness!

But we must be going homeward. Having bid farewell to this glorious Park, those graceful swans, whom I have just called to the bank and fed; to the Crystal Palace, in which a whole education has been mine, I strike for Victoria gate, thence through Sussex to Hampstead road. The scenes, however, in this English Park must remain written here forever. Our only drawback is that no more of our friends are along, to see the same beauties and enjoy the same delights which we have, in this Park. Would that my descriptions could convey one tenth of the satisfaction to my readers which I have felt within its bound.

THERE

VII.

Westminster and Dover.

"Traveller!

Remember these our famous countrymen,

And quell all angry and injurious thoughts."

Southey.

THERE are two spots to be visited before leaving England, that deserve especial mention. They have often been described; but every traveller observes them under peculiar circumstances. Westminster Abbey and Dover Heights-classic in association; do they not thrill to the inmost heart?

On Sabbath we went to Church in Westminster. It was a rare moment when we passed beneath that crumbling arch, and entered that venerable pile. Black and streaked with age; with the tracery and sculpture corroded by time; the very image of venerableness and awe, Westminster Abbey stands confessedly before the eye, the selectest spot of interest upon English ground. We stood in the midst of the consecrated fabric, aisle opening within aisle, niches around, and the sculp tured forms erected near the tombs of the buried great, lifelike, standing and reposing about us, and all richly painted with a dim and mellow lustre from the lofty circular window before us. The Abbey within is in the shape of a cross. From one branch came the organ tones and the singing, responsive to the service at the opposite end. All around were seen the trophies and arms, the scrolls and images, with their Hebrew, Latin, and English inscriptions.

We were compelled to stand during service. However much I wanted to hear a specimen of English preaching, yet I could