At no great distance I saw the bust of that amiable writer, Goldsmith:  to whom, as well as to Butler, whose monument is in a distant part of the abbey, though they had scarcely necessary bread to eat during their life time, handsome monuments are now raised.  Here, too you see, almost in a row, the monuments of Milton, Dryden, Gay, and Thomson.  The inscription on Gay’s tombstone is, if not actually immoral, yet futile and weak; though he is said to have written it himself: 

“Life is a jest, and all things shew it, ’I thought so once but now I know it.”

Our Handel has also a monument here, where he is represented as large as life.

An actress, Pritchard, and Booth, an actor, have also very distinguished monuments erected here to their memories.

For Newton, as was proper, there is a very costly one.  It is above, at the entrance of the choir, and exactly opposite to this, at the end of the church, another is erected, which refers you to the former.

As I passed along the side walls of Westminster Abbey, I hardly saw any thing but marble monuments of great admirals, but which were all too much loaded with finery and ornaments, to make on me at least, the intended impression.

I always returned with most pleasure to the poets’ corner, where the most sensible, most able, and most learned men, of the different ages, were re-assembled; and particularly where the elegant simplicity of the monuments made an elevated and affecting impression on the mind, while a perfect recollection of some favourite passage, of a Shakespeare, or Milton, recurred to my idea, and seemed for a moment to re-animate and bring back the spirits of those truly great men.

Of Addison and Pope I have found no monuments here.  The vaults where the kings are buried, and some other things worth notice in the abbey, I have not yet seen; but perhaps I may at my return to London from the country.

I have made every necessary preparation for this journey:  In the first place, I have an accurate map of England in my pocket; besides an excellent book of the roads, which Mr. Pointer, the English merchant to whom I am recommended, has lent me.  The title is “A new and accurate description of all the direct and principal cross roads in Great Britain.”  This book, I hope, will be of great service to me in my ramblings.

I was for a long time undecided which way I should go, whether to the Isle of Wight, to Portsmouth, or to Derbyshire, which is famous for its natural curiosities, and also for its romantic situation.  At length I have determined on Derbyshire.

During my absence I leave my trunk at Mr. Mulhausen’s (one of Mr. Pointer’s senior partners), that I may not be at the needless expense of paying for my lodging without making use of it.  This Mr. Pointer lived long in Germany, and is politely partial to us and our language, and speaks it well.  He is a well-bred and singularly obliging man; and one who possesses a vast fund of information, and a good taste.  I cannot but feel myself happy in having obtained a recommendation to so accomplished a man.  I got it from Messrs. Persent and Dorner, to whom I had the honour to be recommended by Mr. Von Taubenheim, Privy Counsellor at Berlin.  These recommendations have been of infinite use to me.