surpassing all the imitations of the stage. There the historian of the Roman Empire thought of the days when Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres, and when, before a senate which still retained some show of freedom, Tacitus thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were seen, side by side, the greatest painter and the greatest scholar of the age. The spectacle had allured Reynolds from that easel which has preserved to us the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, and the sweet smiles of so many noble matrons. It had induced Parr to suspend his labours in that dark and profound mine from which he had extracted a vast treasure of erudition, a treasure too often buried in the earth, too often paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostentation, but still precious, massive, and splendid. There appeared the voluptuous charms of her to whom the heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith. There too was she, the beautiful mother of a beautiful race, the Saint Cecilia, whose delicate features lighted up by love and music, art has rescued from the common decay. There were the members of that brilliant society, which quoted, criticized, and exchanged repartees under the rich peacock-hangings of Mrs. Montague. And there the ladies, whose lips, more persuasive than those of Fox himself, had carried the Westminster election against palace and treasury, shone round Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. The sergeants made proclamation, Hastings advanced to the bar and bent his knee.

The

CORONATION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH. 397

culprit, indeed, was not unworthy of that great presence; he had ruled an extensive and populous country, and made laws and treaties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down princes; and in his high place he had so borne himself, that all had feared him, most had loved him, and that hatred itself could deny him no title to glory except virtue. He looked like a great man, and not like a bad man. A person small and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage which, while it indicated deference to the court, indicated also habitual self-possession and self-respect, a high and intellectual forehead, a brow pensive but not gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision, a face pale and wan but serene, on which was written, as legibly as under the picture in the council-chamber at Calcutta, Mens æqua in arduis; such was the aspect with which the great proconsul presented himself to his judges."

The only other event of any interest associated with Westminster Hall;-the last occasion also on which it presented the striking splendour of ancient times,—was the coronation of George the Fourth, which was solemnized on the 1st of August, 1820. At the magnificent banquet, the King sat on a gorgeous throne, on a raised dais, immediately under the great window at the south end of the Hall. At long ranges of tables were seated the guests, including the peers, and the knights of the different Orders, in their robes; every ceremonial was followed which had been in use in the days

of the Tudors and Plantagenets; and lastly, the champion Dymoke rode into the fine old Hall attended by the Duke of Wellington as High Constable of England, and the Marquis of Anglesea as Lord High Steward, both of them also on horseback. The total expense of the coronation ceremony of George the Fourth, the pageant of a day, was estimated at one hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

399

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

EARLY PLACES OF WORSHIP ON ITS SITE.-ERECTION OF THE PRE. SENT EDIFICE.-SCENES AND CEREMONIES IN IT.-POETS' CORNER. CHAPELS OF ST. EDMUND, ST. NICHOLAS, ST. PAUL, EDWARD THE CONFESSOR, ISLIP, HENRY THE SEVENTH.-CLOISTERS.―JERUSALEM CHAMBER. -- CHAPTER HOUSE.

WILLINGLY would we enter into a detailed history of Westminster Abbey, and dwell at leisure on its ancient monuments, its architectural magnificence, its host of romantic and historical associations. But volumes might be written on the subject, while the character of the present work compels us to restrict ourselves to a brief history of the venerable pile, and the principal objects of interest which are contained within its walls. Perhaps there is no other religious structure in the world which awakens so many heart-stirring emotions, or which can boast so many exquisite specimens of ancient art, or so many interesting monuments to the illustrous dead. Who is there who has ever found himself beneath the roof of Westminster Abbey, without being struck with feelings of admiration and awe, or without being sensitive of the influence of the sublime? Who is there who has ever wandered among its tombs of departed kings and warriors, of statesmen and poets, without becoming

the moralist of an hour; or who has ever quitted
its walls, without being impressed with sensations of
not unpleasing sadness, in which the selfishness of
the present hour is entirely absorbed in memories
of the past.
"When I look," says Addison, “upon
the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies
within me when I read the epitaphs of the beau-
tiful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I
meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone,
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 deposed them, when I consider rival wits
placed side by side, or the holy men that divided
the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect
with sorrow and astonishment on the little compe-
titions, factions, and debates of mankind. When
I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that
died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago, I
consider that great day when we shall all of us be
contemporaries, and make our appearance together."
Such are the reflections which many have felt in
wandering through Westminster Abbey, but which
none have so beautifully described.

Unrivalled work of ages that have gone,
Thou glorious Abbey, which I gaze upon!
How dear to me is thy religious pile,

Each ancient tomb, and each familiar aisle !

Dear, when at noon the vulgar crowd have fled,

To hear thy walls re-echo to my tread;

Through the stained glass to mark the sunbeams pour
Their blood-red tints upon the marble floor;