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left empty. The seats of the stalls are double -upon the tops of the lower seats are carved subjects too obscene for description, scenes of lewdness that would disgrace the rooms of a brothel!
I cannot resist the temptation of giving you the striking description which Horace Walpole writes to his friend Montagu, of the funeral of George II. " I walked in as a rag
of quality, which I found to be the easiest way of seeing the royal funeral. The charm was the entrance of the Abbey, where we were received by the dean and chapter in rich robes, the choir and almsmen bearing torches; the whole Abbey so illuminated, that one saw it to great. er advantage than by day; the tombs, long aisles and fretted roof, all appearing distinctly, and with the happiest chiaro obscuro. There wanted nothing but incense, and little chapels here and there, with priests saying mass for the repose of the defunct; yet one could not complain of its not being Catholic enough! I had been in dread of being coupled with some boy ten years old; but the heralds were not very accurate, and I walked with George Grenville, taller and older, to keep me in countenance. The real serious part was the figure of the duke of Cumberland, heightened by a thousand melancholy circumstances.—This grave scene was fully contrasted by the burlesque duke of Newcastle. He fell into a fit of crying, the moment he came into the chapel, and fung himself back in a stall, the Archbishop
hovering over him with a smelling bottle; but in two minutes his curiosity got the better of his hypocrisy, and he ran about the chapel with his glass, to spy who was or was not there. Then returned the fear of catching cold; and the duke of Cumberland, who was sinking with heat, felt himself weighed down, and, turning round, found it was the duke of N. standing upon his train, to avoid the chill of the marble!"
Edward, the Confessor's chapel, has suffered a great deal from the ravages of time, and now presents nothing but a mouldering pile of ci-devant magnificence. The coronation-stone in this chapel, is regarded as the palladium of the royal line. When I saw the two chairs in which the kings and queens sit at the coronation, I pictured to my imagination Sir Roger de Coverley in one of them, and whispering in the Spectator's ear, " that if Will Wimble saw those two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco stopper out of one or t' other of them."
In 1802, Westminster Abbey caught fire, but was not materially injured. The part consumed had not been finished like the rest; it was some masonry work hastily patched up, and lined with painted canvas. Before I left this building, I was shown the wax images of some royal personages, habited in the costume in which they usually appeared-but I turned with disgust from this puppet-show among the tombs of kings!
I afterwards rode to the Tower of London, which is a congeries of barracks, armouries, dungeons and offices, and looks more like a small town than a fortress. This antique citadel lies near the Thames, and is enclosed by an old wall mouldering in ruins, and a ditch, traversed by draw-bridges, which lead to the various edifices composing the Tower. The White Tower is the most remarkable building in the
group, and has a most grim look. The armouries and jewel office are the principal curiosities in this assemblage of buildings. The Tower was used as an occasional royal palace, from its foundation under the Conqueror, to the time of Elizabeth. Richard III., in the arbitrary spirit suited to his character, ordered the surveyor of the royal works “to take and seize for use, as many masons, bricklayers and other workmen, as should be thought necessary for the hasty expedition of the king's works within the Tower.” In this structure, we contemplate a monument originally raised to despotism; and, in succeeding ages, alternately applied to public security and private oppression. In the Tower, Rochester, More, and Russel fell victims to religion, liberty and virtue,-Essex, Balmerino and Kilmarnock resigned their lives to the repose of their country.
One of the first victims within the precincts of the Tower, was the Earl of Arundel, in Richard II.'s time; the duke of Montrose, natural son of Charles II, was the last person
who perished here by the axe of judicial mur. der. He was one of the handsomest and most accomplished persons of the age:—but neither his personal attractions nor the ties of kindred preserved him from the vengeance of the unrelenting James. When he mounted the scaffold, he cautioned the executioner against conducting his business in a slovenly manner. His advice was not followed; 4 blows were necessary to separate the head from the mangled body of Monmouth!
In the Spanish armoury, are the spoils of Philip II.'s Invincible Armada. I saw spears, lances, some of the instruments of the Inquisition,
“ And many an bideous engine grim
And sin to give their work a name.” The axe with which Anne Boleyn was mourdered, lies on one of the windows. On removing an intervening curtain, you see a painted wooden figure of Queen Elizabeth, dressed as she was at Tilbury, in 1588. In the Horse armoury is shown the collar of torment, formerly used for the necks of such wives as defiled the marriage-bed, or scolded their husbands! There would be a great many necks put to the torture in modern times, if this collar were applied to every gallant wife, or scolding Xantippe!
In the other armouries, the visiter will see numerous stands of arms in racks, or symme
trically arranged, forming a variety of devices, Several beautiful pieces of ordnance, cannon taken in battle, and mortars, are shown, and fill the reflecting mind with horror. Milton has fabled these engines of destruction, as the invention of the Devil-indeed, Satan never inspired into the heart of man a more fiendish thought than that of making use of“ such implements of mischief.” Prejudice alone blinds us (says Henry Kirke White,) to the absurdity and the horror of those systematic murders which go by the name of wars--where man falls on man, brother slaughters brother, where death in every variety of horror, preys “ on the finely-fibred human frame," and where the cry of the widow and the orphan rise up to Heaven, long after the thunder of the fight and the clang of arms has ceased, and the bones of sons, brothers and husbands slain, are grown white on the field.*
Walpole observes that a Gothic cathedral strikes one like the enthusiasm of poetry; St. Paul's like the good sense of prose
Beneath the spacious roof of the Grecian temple, the spirit is concentrated within itself: it seeks the repose of solitude, to admire the noble display of architectural beauty in a magnificent edifice, worthy of being a repository of the collected genius of the human race. The inside of St. Paul's is vast and spacious; but a small part of it, however, is destined to the religious ser.
*"L'éclat des victoires"-says a profound writer—" n'est que la lueur des incendies."