To my mind Westminster possesses, apart from the Abbey, but one Church--that of St. Margaret’s. Other modern churches there are, but one does not heed them: they are things of to-day; even St. John’s and St. Martin’s are but of yesterday. St. Margaret’s is eight hundred years old; if not built by the Confessor, it was built--that is to say, the first church on this site was built--soon after his death. The history of St. Margaret’s Church must be told by an ecclesiastic; we need only remember that Caxton lies buried here; there is a tablet to his memory put up in 1820 by the Roxburgh Club. Raleigh is buried here--within the chancel. James Harrington, author of “Oceana,” is buried here. John Skelton, with whom we have conversed in Sanctuary, is buried here. Here Milton was married to Katharine Woodcock, who died in childbirth a year later: [Illustration: CARVING FROM THE DOORWAY OF EMANUEL HOSPITAL.] Methought I saw my late espousèd saint Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave. Mine, such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in heaven, without restraint, Came vested all in white, pure as her mind. Her face was veiled; yet to my fancied sight Love, sweetness, goodness in her person shined. [Illustration: MEDAL WORN BY THE CAPTAIN OF THE GREY COAT BOYS.] In the churchyard of St. Margaret’s were interred the remains of those persons who were turned out of the Abbey at the Restoration: the mother of Cromwell; his daughter; Admiral Blake, whose remains ought to have been taken back again long ago; and in this church, or this churchyard, have been buried a crowd of persons illustrious and of high degree in their generation, whose deeds have not survived them and whose memory is only kept alive by the monuments on the walls and nothing else. It is a church filled with monuments: it reminds one of such a [Illustration: BLUE COAT SCHOOL, CAXTON STREET.] church as the Grey Friars’ in the City, which was crowded with tombs of the illustrious Forgotten. Not far from the church is the old-new Burial Ground, in the Horseferry Road. It is now a public garden, and a pleasant garden, with seats and asphalted paths and beds of grass and flowers. Against the wall are ranged the tombstones of the obscure Forgotten. I suppose it makes very little difference to a man whether he has a headstone provided for him against the wall of a public garden, or a tablet--nay, a monument--against the wall of St. Margaret’s Church, as soon as he is properly and completely forgotten.