But the only consolation Ethel could get was the writing of the epitaph.

She worked at this for half an hour, and smeared herself very much with violet ink.

"Here is laid my pink begonia," was her first attempt.

Tom came into the room to learn his lessons at the other side of the table.

"Tom," she said, "please don't say your verbs out loud. I can't write poetry when you do. Tell me a rhyme for begonia. 'Here is laid my pink begonia.'"

"'Toss it over the wall, or let it alone-will-you?' That is the only rhyme in the English language," said Tom.

"You are very unkind," said Ethel, leaning her cheek on an inky hand, and rubbing her hair till it was a wild black mane. Then she tried what would happen if she began in quite a different way. At last she read out in sad tones:--

"Here my poor begonia lies, Drop a tear and wipe your eyes."

To which Tom only answered in a jaunty tone, throwing his penknife out of his pocket.

"Here's my knife to bury your roots, Lock the greenhouse, and wipe your boots."

Ethel's mouth gave a little twitch; but she would not laugh when Tom made fun of her poetry.

She went into the greenhouse, carrying a piece of black stuff and a pair of scissors, the penknife, and her verses printed in violet.

Then she dug a hole in the earthen floor, under the greenhouse shelf, in a warm corner near the pipes. Next she dug her begonia root out of the pot, popped it into the hole, and covered it up, and left a bit of stick standing upright, holding in a notch the wonderful epitaph.

Tom found her there, drying and smearing her face with an earthy corner of her pinafore. Tom had Kafoozalum peeping out from under his jacket-front; but Ethel sobbed afresh at the sight of the red bow with the kitten behind it.

"Come and take care of my geraniums with me, Ethel," said Tom.

"Oh! boo-hoo-no-no! You are very unkind."

"Why, what have I done? _I_ didn't roll on my head in the begonia pot, did I, p.u.s.s.y?"

"Oh! boo-hoo--go 'way!"

So Tom went away. But the next time Ethel went into the greenhouse with a bright face, she could not help laughing at Tom's addition to her verses. She read:--

"Here my poor begonia lies, Drop a tear and wipe your eyes-- The door was open--if you had locked it, The bow with the kitten couldn't have knocked it."

The winter pa.s.sed; and Ethel's birthday came in the spring.

"Here is a silver pencil for you to write poetry with," said Tom, mischievously. Poetry or not the silver pencil was worth having, and Ethel felt that teasing Tom was fond of her. Ah! what could she do without Tom, or without the teasing either? "Come into the greenhouse,"

he said; "there's a begonia for you."

"Is there? I thought I had all my presents."

She went racing to the greenhouse, and came back with a disappointed face. "Why do you cheat me, Tom? This is not the first of April."

"Come and see." He led her into the greenhouse to the pink begonia's grave.

They both stooped down to the corner of the earthen floor near the hot pipes.

There was a dark red folded leaf growing above the earth.

"Oh, Tom! it is my own dear old plant."

"Yes--it is growing up again for another summer," he said. "I found it a week ago; but I kept it for a birthday surprise."

"Tom," said Ethel, seizing his arm in her delight, "put my poetry in your pocket, and let us go and ask mother if we should put it in a pot."

"What? put the poetry in a pot? Whatever for?"

"Oh! no, I didn't mean that at all--I mean----"

"Never mind--here go the verses, though they've served their turn."

So the pink plant went into a pot again, and grew more beautiful than ever; and the only poetry Ethel ever made went into Tom's pocket.

STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

_By_ EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

VI.--THE MONUMENTS.

As we walk round the building once more, I shall not attempt even to name the greater number of the Monuments, but confine myself to telling you something about the more remarkable ones. The earliest monuments were really the tombs of persons buried here; many of the modern ones simply commemorate ill.u.s.trious men and women buried elsewhere.

We will first make the round of the chapels, and begin with that of St.

Benedict, where once an indulgence of two years and forty days could be obtained by hearing ma.s.s at the altar. But the altar has gone, and in its place rises the stately tomb of Frances Howard, Countess of Hertford, whose effigy lies where once stood the candlesticks and sacred host. Close by is the tomb of Archbishop Langham, who was buried here in 1376, with his head towards the altar, little dreaming that that altar would ever be displaced to make room for the tomb of a heretic lady.

Through an ancient oaken screen we enter the adjacent Chapel of St.

Edmund. Here is the once beautiful tomb of William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, and half-brother to Henry III. Some of the monuments in this chapel are of great interest as examples of ancient art, but there is not much to say about their occupants. Frances Hokes, who died in 1622, is represented in Greek costume, and Horace Walpole and others have highly praised this statue. Close by lies Lady Knollys, who attended Anna Boleyn on the scaffold. In the monument of Elizabeth Russell we have the earliest of the sitting figures, which have been so strongly condemned by many who maintain that a rec.u.mbent or bowed figure is the only proper one for a tomb. Her marble finger points to a death's-head at her feet, and hence arose the story that she died from a p.r.i.c.k of a needle, and some chose to add that it was a judgment upon her for working on Sunday. But we must leave the men and women "of high degree"

who throng this chapel, and the tiny alabaster babies of Edward III. in their little cradle, and pa.s.s on to the Chapel of St. Nicholas. This chapel is rich in monuments of the Elizabethan era, and was once bright with gold and colouring.

Of the royal tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII. I have already spoken, but there are some others of great interest. One bay, or chapel, is nearly filled by the monument of James I.'s favourite "Steenie"--George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, who was a.s.sa.s.sinated by Felton at Portsmouth, in 1628. In another bay are two beautiful modern monuments, harmonising well with their surroundings: the one of the Duke of Montpensier, brother of Louis Philippe, the other of the late Dean Stanley. The Duke of Richmond and his beautiful d.u.c.h.ess, "La Belle Stuart," occupy a bay with their colossal canopied tomb. Of the other tombs in the Chapel of Henry VII., we should specially mention that of General Monk in the south aisle. He had a splendid funeral. For the three weeks that he lay in state forty gentlemen of good family stood as mutes with their backs against the wall, twenty each day alternately.

In the Chapel of St. Paul is the once gilded tomb of Lord Bourchier, the standard-bearer of Henry V. at the battle of Agincourt. The altar has given place to the tomb of Frances Sydney, the wife of Ratcliff, Earl of Suss.e.x, who figures in Scott's story of "Kenilworth." Near at hand is the tomb of Sir Thomas Bromley, the Lord Chancellor, who presided at the trial of Mary, Queen of Scots. But the chief feature of this chapel is the colossal marble effigy of James Watt, the celebrated improver of the steam-engine--a splendid monument, from the chisel of Sir F. Chantrey.

The adjoining chapel, dedicated to St. John the Baptist, contains the tomb of one of Cromwell's officers, Colonel Edward Popham. Where the altar once stood stands the loftiest monument in the Abbey--the tomb of Queen Elizabeth's Chamberlain, Lord Hundsdon. The old statesman had waited long for an earldom, which the queen had granted and revoked three times over. She came at last to see him, and lay the patent and the robes of a peer on his bed. "Madam," said the old man, "seeing you counted me not worthy of this honour whilst I was living, I count myself unworthy of it now that I am dying."

Visitors are not admitted into the beautifully sculptured, but dark, little chapel of Abbot Islip. Just beyond it we enter what is now called the eastern aisle of the south transept, formerly the separate chapels.

Here we find the celebrated tomb of Sir Francis Vere. Above the warrior's effigy, supported by four kneeling knights, is a plain canopy, upon which lies his helm and breastplate. Looking round, we see many interesting memorials: Admiral Kempenfelt, who went down in the _Royal George_; Sir John Franklin, who perished among Polar icebergs: Telford, the engineer; Sir Humphry Davy, the philosopher: all these and many others are commemorated in this aisle.

Emerging now into the north transept, we find ourselves amongst what has been termed "the dead Parliament of Britain." Famous statesmen look down upon us from their marble pedestals, and beneath the central pavement are the graves of Chatham, Pitt, Fox, Castlereagh, Canning, Wilberforce, Grattan, and Palmerston. The magnificent monument to the great Earl of Chatham cost 6,000. Close beside it stands the huge pile of sculpture by Nollekens, in memory of the three captains who fell in Rodney's famous victory over the French in April, 1782. Nearly opposite to Chatham's monument is Chantrey's fine statue of Canning. On each side the transept, and in the contiguous western aisle, the eye rests upon sculptured marble bearing honoured names--Warren Hastings, Richard Cobden, Palmerston, Beaconsfield, and others whose lives are part of our country's history. As we stand here we may well remember the words of Macaulay: "In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow a s.p.a.ce. High over these venerable graves towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from above, his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England to be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes."

From the north transept we pa.s.s to the nave along the north aisle of the choir. Here we enter what has been termed a "Musicians' Corner;" amongst a few other organists and composers lies Henry Purcell, whose epitaph (written by Dryden) declares that he has gone to "that blessed place where only his harmonies can be excelled." The sitting figure of the great philanthropist, William Wilberforce, a little farther on, is not generally admired.