We descended to the Chapel of Edward the Confessor, within the splendid shrine of which repose his ashes.  Here we were shown the chair on which the English monarchs have been crowned for several hundred years, Under the seat is the stone, brought from the Abbey of Scone, whereon the Kings of Scotland were crowned.  The chair is of oak, carved and hacked over with names, and on the bottom some one has recorded his name with the fact that, he once slept in it.  We sat down and rested in it without ceremony.  Passing along an aisle leading to the grand hall, we saw the tomb of Aymer de Valence, a knight of the Crusades.  Near here is the hall where the Knights of the order of Bath met.  Over each seat their dusty banners are still hanging, each with its crest, and their armor is rusting upon the wall.  It seemed like a banqueting hall of the olden time, where the knights had left their seats for a moment vacant.  Entering the nave, we were lost in the wilderness of sculpture.  Here stood the forms of Pitt, Fox, Burke, Sheridan and Watts, from the chisels of Chantry, Bacon and Westmacott.  Further down were Sir Isaac Newton and Sir Godfrey Kneller—­opposite Andre, and Paoli, the Italian, who died here in exile.  How can I convey an idea of the scene?  Notwithstanding all the descriptions I had read, I was totally unprepared for the reality, nor could I have anticipated the hushed and breathless interest with which I paced the dim aisles, gazing, at every step, on the last resting place of some great and familiar name.  A place so sacred to all who inherit the English tongue, is worthy of a special pilgrimage across the deep.  To those who are unable to visit it, a description may be interesting; but so far does it fall short of the scene itself, that if I thought it would induce a few of our wealthy idlers, or even those who, like myself, must travel with toil and privation to come hither, I would write till the pen dropped from my hand.

More than twenty grand halls of the British Museum are devoted to antiquities, and include the Elgin Marbles—­the spoils of the Parthenon—­the Fellows Marbles, brought from the ancient city of Xanthus, and Sir William Hamilton’s collection of Italian antiquities.  It was painful to see the friezes of the Parthenon, broken and defaced as they are, in such a place.  Rather let them moulder to dust on the ruin from which they were torn, shining through the blue veil of the Grecian atmosphere, from the summit of the Acropolis!

The National Gallery, on Trafalgar Square, is open four days in the week, to the public.  The “Raising of Lazarus,” by Sebastian del Piombo, is considered the gem of the collection, but my unschooled eyes could not view it as such.  It is also remarkable for having been transferred from wood to canvass, without injury.  This delicate operation was accomplished by gluing the panel on which it was painted, flat on a smooth table, and planing the wood gradually away till the coat of hardened paint alone remained.