of every
visitor. The monument to Dr. Busby, the famous Westminster schoolmaster,
is a fine piece of sculpture. Addison represents Sir Roger de Coverley
as standing before it and saying, "Dr. Busby! a great man; he whipped my
grandfather; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I
had not been a blockhead--a very great man." If we turn round we see the
statue of Addison himself, by Westmacott, in the farther corner of the
transept. He was very fond of meditating in the old Abbey, and in the
_Spectator_ are many beautiful thoughts suggested by his visits to the
place. I will conclude our survey of the tombs with a few of his
words:--"When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy
dies within me; when I read the epitaph of the beautiful every
inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a
tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the
parents themselves I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we
must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who have deposed
them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men
who divided the world by their contests and disputes, I reflect with
sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, factions, and
debates of mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some
that died yesterday and some that died six hundred years ago, I consider
that day when we shall all make our appearance together."

THE BIRDS' PETITION.

We four little birdies, scarce able to fly,
Are starv'd with the cold of the frosty sky;
Through the trees and the hedgerows the white snow is driven,
And lies around everywhere under the heaven;
It hangs on the woods, it covers the wold,
It spreads over city, and hamlet, and hold.

Happy ye little folk! sheltered at home
From the blasts that over the white world roam;
You are merry and gay 'mid your plentiful stores,
Oh, think of us ready to die out of doors!

The ground yields no worm, few berries the trees,
Oh, throw us some crumbs, little folk, if you please!

So, when the summer-time comes with the flowers
Decking the meadows, the wild wood, and bowers,
Every garden and grove shall resound with our song:
Oh, hear now our cry, for the winter is long!
The berries are scarce, so deep lies the snow,
But there's comfort in crumbs for birdies, you know!

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