the queen. I would also love to dwell upon many pleasant interviews with Rev. Messrs. Stovel and Overbury, with whom I formed a pleasant acquaintance, and whose kindness I have occasion to remember. I might also give some rapid portraits of Dr. Croly, the author of Salathiel, and the Angel of the World, who is now in the decline of life; of Montgomery, the poet, whose works have been so mercilessly handled by Macaulay; of William Chalmers, who bears the name, and inherits much of the greatness, of his departed relative; of the many distinguished ministers of Jesus, whose voices I heard in eloquent pleadings in their own pulpits, or in Exeter Hall, the great theater of moral and benevolent controversy. As much as I admired many of the clergymen of London, I do not think they are superior in oratory to our own ministers. Many of the most eloquent men in London would be considered dull here, and some who have large crowds attending upon their preaching would hardly draw congregations in Boston and New York. They use more words, and their discourses are far less compact and nicely finished, than our own preachers. And yet I should judge them to be, on the whole, more efficient men, doing more good than men of like eminence in our own country. They enter into the great measures of the day, the reforms of the age, with more zeal than our ministers, and many of them shine more on the platform than in the pulpit. But for eloquence, finish, and mental power, I do not think they excel, and of all the men I heard, but one or two would be likely to draw large congregations in New England. In this general estimate of the ministers of London, I think my traveling companions concurred.

VIII.

BUNHILL FIELDS.

WE have seen the living ministers of this great metropolis; we have visited their churches; we have heard their voices, and it is fitting that we should now direct our steps to a spot where reposes some of England's most precious dust, in humble and venerated charnels. Every body has heard of Bunhill Fields, where so many of the old Nonconformist ministers are interred. It was on one dull, melancholy day, when such clouds as are never seen any where else but in London were resting like a pall all around, that I directed my steps towards this hallowed spot. I confess to no superstitious reverence for stones and blocks of marble, be they found in old ruined abbeys, cold, stately cathedrals, or time-honored cemeteries; but as I entered Bunhill Fields, I could not divest myself of the idea that sainted forms were hovering round, and instinctively the tread became lighter, and the conversation less gay, as one name after another was studied out upon time-defaced marble. One of the first graves over which I paused was that of Mrs. Susannah Wesley, the mother of John and Charles. She was the wife of Rev. Samuel Wesley, and the daughter of a clergyman. A plain slab marks the spot where she lies, and by it we are informed that she was the mother of nineteen children, several of whom became eminent men in their times. The name of the mother of John

Wesley deserves to be remembered. It is worthy of a higher place in the esteem of men than that of Queen Elizabeth, or any of the proud dames who thronged her court, and enjoyed her bounties.

At a little distance is the grave of John Bunyan, whose name will never die. The stone which covers him is large and uncomely; the inscription is nearly effaced, and the whole bears the marks of neglect and time. What Christian would visit London without shedding a tear over the grave of Bunyan? It must be some one whose heart has not been made glad by the perusal of that delightful allegory, penned by him in the shades of a gloomy prison. That grave is one of the most sacred pilgrim spots which I visited during my absence from home. Bunyan has crossed the River of Death, and been admitted into the Celestial City, and his grave is with us unto this day.

Near by rest the ashes of Dr. Isaac Watts, the sweet singer of Israel: his mission of minstrelsy has ceased. On a large, square stone we see his name and age; and a simple inscription which he ordered to be put there, and which can hardly be read without tears—“ In uno Jesu omnia."

Not far away, we find the remains of Dr. John Gill, the able expounder of a strong Calvinist theology, and near by him Dr. John Owen, whose name we love, and whose works are read by many a fireside. In other parts of this burial field are the ashes of noble men who lived for God, and of whom the world was not worthy, and on whose simple gravestones may be read the names of Richard Price, George Burder, Nathaniel Mather, and a multitude of others who endeared themselves to a grateful church by their holy lives and selfdenying labors.

L