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would nerve the arm of Americans, as British gold never could the hired legions of England. One of the most preposterous notions which ever found its way into the human brain, was, that the descendants of the men who built their cabins on Plymouth Rock, could ever be conquered.



has always seemed to me that the embarkation of the Pilgrim Fathers must have been one of the finest spectacles ever presented. I have often thought, that when the Mayflower weighed her anchor, she must have seemed like a life-boat bearing away a few noble hearts from a sinking wreck—another ark freighted with men saved to people a New World. I once read a stirring anecdote of that Mayflower. It appears that one man, who had intended to sail in her, manifested some indecision when they were about to haul in the plank: "I don't know," he said, "as I had better go." "Well, then," exclaimed the brave commander, "jump ashore; if you want to go, you can go and have our fare; if not, you can stay. At any rate, we want no faint-hearted men among this crew." The man jumped ashore. The plank was the next instant hauled in, and in five minutes all her sails were set, and she was “leaving Old England's shores behind."

England has never been trod by a nobler company of men than the Pilgrim Fathers. They did not leave England because they were unwilling to struggle and die for their principles; but they saw the atmosphere of Europe was too cold and chilling for the growth of freedom, and they flung aside all but the hope that they might, in the fine language of Channing, "transplant the tree of liberty to a new and more congenial clime." There never had been a crisis in the world's history to call forth such men; they had never been needed before. They were true heroes-not in the common use of the term, for such heroes had driven them from their homes; but Christian, brave men, who could not be intimidated by the threat of



tyranny, nor conquered by sword and cannon. They had no confidence in the weak panoply of the soldier, although they could fight when it became necessary. They afforded a strong proof of the truth of that wise saying of an old historian, "No man ever yet failed, who had faith in God and a determination to be free."



HE same despotism that oppressed the Puritans, urged their descendants into rebellion. There never was a greater outrage upon common sense, than the arrogant claim of England to tax the colonics with no representation in the legislature which governed them. The Americans rejected that claim with scorn, and the conflict began.

England could command the largest naval power on earth; and what had America as an offset? Only a few rusty firelocks laid by from the old French and Indian wars; and, as old Stark said, a few kegs of powder, which "they were obliged to set fire to a week or ten days before they wanted to shoot." But then was raised the voice of Adams and Hancock, “To arms; for our chains are forged, and their clanking may be heard on the plains of Concord, and Lexington and Bunker Hill!" What! subdue such men? England might as well have undertaken to chain the comets.

It makes one's blood thrill to think of the American Revolution. Rotteck says, that in the Declaration of Independence, "America planted herself between magnificence and ruin." It is a sublime idea. What a terrible thing it would have been even to England, if we had failed! Humanity would not have recovered from the disastrous blow in a hundred years. But to fail under such circumstances was impossible. The great Chatham foresaw all this; and England, who never takes advice from her friends until it is too late-England, who commenced the war for the glory of her name and the wealth of her empire, might have saved herself millions of money,



and tens of thousands of lives, and the eternal disgrace of being expelled from the fairest portion of the habitable globe, had she only listened to the voice of that tongue, turned to dust in this grave.



E stopped a few moments before the superb monument of Sir Isaac Newton. It is grand and expressive; worthy of the illustrious man to whom it was erected. The inscription is in Latin, short, but full of meaning. It concludes with this beautiful sentiment: "Mortals have reason to exult in the existence of so noble an ornament to the human race."

After looking at the monuments of which I have spoken, I directed my attention to the architecture of the Abbey. It is an immense pile, built in the form of a cross, its length from east to west being 416 feet, and its breadth about 200. The two fine towers on the west end are 225 feet high. Around the choir of the Abbey there is a succession of small chapels, filled with curious antique monuments, and the effigies of royal families lying in state.

We were led through every part of the Abbey by a pale old verger, who had been so long cloistered within those sacred walls, that he seemed to have lost all sympathy with the external world. His face was pale as marble; his step, as solemn and still as you ever heard in the chamber of death; and his voice seemed to come up as in hollow tones from the sepulchre : a fitting representative of the spirit of the place.

We passed several hours among the chapels. The verger seemed inclined to finish his explanations as soon as possible; but we did not like the idea of being hurried through these impressive chambers, and expressed a wish to remain a while: this we were denied. But knowing that in such cases there is one argument that never fails in England, I slipped a half crown into the old fellow's hand, which settled the matter without further words.



I will only speak of two of the chapels: St. Edward's and Henry the Seventh's. In the centre of the former stands the venerable shrine of St. Edward, which was once considered the glory of England. But the sepulchre was long ago broken open, and the ornaments stolen from his body. Edward was the last Saxon king of England. He died the year of the battle of Hastings (1066), and was canonized in 1269. Henry III. pledged the jewels belonging to the shrine of Edward to foreigners; being compelled, as the record still preserved in the Tower states, to take this course "by heavy emergencies." No very creditable way for a king to raise money.



ERE Matilda, Queen of England, daughter of Malcolm, King of Scots, and wife of Henry I., is buried. It was her custom every day in Lent to walk from her palace to the Abbey barefoot, clothed in a garment of coarse hair, kissing the feet of the poorest people she met in her way, and dispensing charities. In this chapel, in a large plain coffin of gray marble, lies the body of the great Edward, called the English Justinian. He died in 1307. Four hundred and sixty-seven years after his burial, his tomb was opened by the Dean of Westminster. "The body was perfect, having on two robes, one of gold and silver tissue, and the other of crimson velvet; a sceptre of gold in each hand, measuring near five feet; a crown on his head, and many jewels quite bright: he measured six feet and two inches."

Here, too, Henry V., of Jack Falstaff memory, and victor of Agincourt, sleeps. In this chapel are also to be seen the two coronation chairs. The most ancient of these chairs was brought with the regalia from Scotland, by Edward I., in 1697 (after overcoming John Baliol), and offered at St. Edward's shrine. In this chair the monarchs of England are crowned, and to this place they come for their sepulchres.

Henry the Seventh's chapel is called "the wonder of the



world." It stands at the east end of the Abbey, and is so neatly joined to it that it seems to be part of the main edifice. It is adorned with sixteen Gothic towers, beautifully ornamented, and jutting from the building in different angles. It is built on the plan of a cathedral, with a nave and side-aisles. The entrance to this chapel is through curiously-wrought ponderous gates of brass. The lofty ceiling is worked into an astonishing variety of designs, and my surprise may be imagined when I was told that it was all wrought in solid stone. A celebrated French architect afterward told me, that one man could not complete the work upon that ceiling in less time than a thousand years. The pavement is of white and black marble. This splendid chapel was designed to be a kingly sepulchre, in which none but the royal should sleep; and the will of the founder has been so far observed, that none have been admitted to burial here who could not trace their descent from some ancient family of kings. But nothing is so universally and justly admired, for its antiquity and fine workmanship, as the magnificent tomb of Henry VII. and his Queen Elizabeth, “ the last of the House of York that wore the English crown." This tomb stands in the body of the chapel, enclosed in a curious chantry of cast brass, most admirably designed and executed, and ornamented with statues. Within it are the effigies of the royal pair, in their robes of state, lying close together, carved on a tomb of black marble.



ERE at last found rest the remains of the two young princes who were basely murdered by their treacherous. uncle, Richard III. The story is faithfully told in a Latin inscription over their grave. We remember that these two boys. were confined in the Tower, stifled with pillows, and then privately buried. One hundred and ninety years passed away before their bones were discovered, and then they were found among the rubbish of the stairs leading to the White Tower.

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