Our guide, a rubicund verger of cheerful demeanor, said that
this was true in a few instances.
There is a beautiful statue in memory of Horace Walpole's mother; and I
took it to be really a likeness, till the verger said that it was a copy
of a statue which her son had admired in Italy, and so had transferred it
to his mother's grave. There is something characteristic in this mode of
filial duty and honor. In all these chapels, full of the tombs and
effigies of kings, dukes, arch-prelates, and whatever is proud and
pompous in mortality, there is nothing that strikes me more than the
colossal statue of plain Mr. Watt, sitting quietly in a chair, in St.
Paul's Chapel, and reading some papers. He dwarfs the warriors and
statesmen; and as to the kings, we smile at them. Telford is in another
of the chapels. This visit to the chapels was much more satisfactory
than my former one; although I in vain strove to feel it adequately, and
to make myself sensible how rich and venerable was what I saw. This
realization must come at its own time, like the other happinesses of
life. It is unaccountable that I could not now find the seat of Sir
George Downing's squire, though I examined particularly every seat on
that side of Henry VII's Chapel, where I before found it. I must try
again. . . . .
October 6th.--Yesterday was not an eventful day. I took J----- with me
to the city, called on Mr. Sturgis at the Barings' House, and got his
checks for a bank post-note.
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