The fog darkened again as we
went down Regent Street, and the Duke of York's Column was but barely
visible, looming vaguely before us; nor, from Pall Mall, was Nelson's
Pillar much more distinct, though methought his statue stood aloft in a
somewhat clearer atmosphere than ours. Passing Whitehall, however, we
could scarcely see Inigo Jones's Banqueting-House, on the other side of
the street; and the towers and turrets of the new Houses of Parliament
were all but invisible, as was the Abbey itself; so that we really were
in some doubt whither we were going. We found our way to Poets' Corner,
however, and entered those holy precincts, which looked very dusky and
grim in the smoky light. . . . . I was strongly impressed with the
perception that very commonplace people compose the great bulk of society
in the home of the illustrious dead. It is wonderful how few names there
are that one cares anything about a hundred years after their departure;
but perhaps each generation acts in good faith in canonizing its own
men. . . . . But the fame of the buried person does not make the marble
live,--the marble keeps merely a cold and sad memory of a man who would
else be forgotten. No man who needs a monument ever ought to have one.
The painted windows of the Abbey, though mostly modern, are exceedingly
rich and beautiful; and I do think that human art has invented no other
such magnificent method of adornment as this.
Our final visit to-day was to the National Gallery, where I came to the
conclusion that Murillo's St.
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