the category of London sights, visit it, having just left the Industrious Fleas, on their way, as, if we recollect rightly, Mr. Pugin says, to the Surrey Zoological Gardens. We write not to these; we would fain address ourselves to those who are sufficiently the victims of "Ignorance and Superstition," as the utilitarian phrase is, to venerate what was really venerable, and to admire what was truly beautiful, in the institutions and works of our forefathers. We hope our reader, whosoever he may be, is able to appreciate the majestic elegance, and the sweet solemnity, of those magnificent edifices which Henry the Eighth, of brutal and sacrilegious memory, mischievous Cromwell, the barbarian promoters of the renaissance, and succeeding hordes of deans and chapters, and of collegiate and parochial authorities, have but partially demolished and defaced. We wish that he may have been initiated into the mysteries of the "long drawn aisle and fretted vault," that to him their "dim religious light" is not darkness. We trust that he can look with worshipful gravity upon the hobgoblin visage of the corbel carved grotesque and grim," and that he has too much respect for the bishop sculptured upon the old Norman font, to think him like Punch, notwithstanding the way in which he holds his crosier. We would have the "stern saints and tortured martyrs," frowning from the canopied niche where fanaticism happens to have left them, inspire him with a salutary awe; and if an idea that there is anything droll in their countenances should chance to cross his mind, we would gladly believe that he feels ashamed of it. We should rejoice to know that the very technicalities of old English art, mullion and transom, crochet and finial, crypt, clerestory, and cloister, are musical to his ears. We should like him to feel the difference between the new Houses of Parliament and the Post Office.

We will forbear to expatiate on the exterior of Westminster Abbey, further than to discharge our malison on the bad taste of Sir Christopher Wren, for erecting those unsightly turrets at its west end, as truly gothic in one sense, as they are the reverse of gothic in another-with their clumsy totality and nondescript details. There are two occasions on which a view of the building externally may be had with advantage. One of these is, as in the case of "fair Melrose," by moonlight-that of a midsummer sky. Then, the broad unclouded moon, sinking behind its western turrets, (whose deformities, of course, are veiled,) and the dusk expanse of its form rising, "like an exhalation," upon the obscure glimmer of the atmosphere, it seems like some unsubstantial vision,-some mystic shadow of the past. Or it may be seen on a fine autumnal day, sleeping, as it were, in the smile of Heaven; the pure soft blue of the sky above it, its turrets and pinnacles glowing with the slant sunlight, and all its nether proportions reposing in dark shade. It requires these accessories of time and circumstance; for, besides certain disfigurements which it has undergone, it is incrusted, not by the lichen of antiquity, but by the soot of London. However, it has escaped whitewashing.

To inspect its interior, the visitor enters at the gate on the east side of the south transept, or "" Poets' Corner." But will he not pause ere he approaches the sanctuary, to reflect that he is about to tread upon the ashes of genius,-to hold converse with the manes of the illustrious dead?

He crosses the threshold, and "Please, sir," says a verger (if he is so civil), "you must leave your stick." A seasonable circumstance of common-place, truly, and admirably calculated to moderate exuberant emotion! He surrenders the instrument which, it has been presumed, he might convert to purposes of desecration, and prepares himself to wonder and admire. He looks around him; but the incipient thrill of awe and veneration, which his own imaginings had originated, is suddenly checked and quelled. He feels not that spiritual presence in which he had prepared himself to stand. The Genius Loci is not at home-nor is he.

The truth is, that Poets' Corner is an eyesore. The monuments in it, few of them of any artistic merit, many of them very ludicrous, and all out of place and character, are mere disfigurements of the south transept. Some of them, that of Shakspere, for instance, would very well become a theatre; others, like the Duke of Argyle's, with its attendant "Eloquence" and Minerva, a pantheon; and a few would be decent ornaments to a town-hall; but the combined effect of the whole is to render the place which they deform as much as possible like a statuary's shop. The effigy of Handel, in the absurd costume of the early part of the last century, is a positive burlesque. This grand effort of serio-comic art is very well described in a book sold in the abbey by the vergers, and probably the composition of one of them, entitled, "A Historical Description of Westminster Abbey, its Monuments and Curiosities," wherein the statue of the great composer is set forth as appearing in an attitude" "very expressive of devout attention to the harmony of an angel playing on a harp in the clouds over his head." The monument erected to the memory of David Garrick is also as eminent an exemplification of our grandfather's ideas of the graceful. This, too, is thus, with equal felicity, described in the erudite work last quoted. "Garrick's throwing aside the curtain which discovers the medallion, is meant to represent his superior power to unveil the beauties of Shakspere. Tragedy and Comedy are assembled with their respective attributes to witness and approve the scene."

Dr. Stephen Hales has been honoured with a monument, whereof it is said, in the same book, "There are two beautiful figures in relief, Religion and Botany; the latter holds a medallion of this great explorer of nature to public view; Religion is deploring the loss of the divine, and at the feet of Botany, the winds are displayed on a globe, which allude to his invention of the ventilators.'

Around the basement of Addison's monument are the Nine Muses, and the pedestal of the bust of Matthew Prior is supported by Clio and Thalia. Cold as the marble they are carved in, what mockeries are these vain abstractions of the feelings we would cherish for the dead!

Of these busts and statues, while not one of them is placed in compliance with architectural requisition, many are so ill and confusedly arranged, that any merit they may chance to possess is rendered altogether ineffective. The bust of Milton would appear to much greater advantage on a mantel-shelf than it does where it stands.

Before quitting Poets' Corner, we cannot refrain from quoting from the "Historical Description," the following rich passage relative to Sir William Davenant. The bard, it states, "upon the death of Ben Jonson, succeeded him as poet laureate to Charles the

First; but having lost his nose by an accident, was cruelly bantered by the wits of the succeeding reign."

But

Nor can we help wondering, though, perhaps, we ought not to wonder, at the impudence with which rank has elbowed aside its betters into a corner. there is another poets' corner, all their own, and really a place of honour- -a corner in the heart.

And now the chapels, among these Henry the Seventh's, of which every one has heard so much, are to be seen. These chapels, as most people are aware, intervene behind the altar on the way from the south to the north transept, and admission is obtained to them through a grating on the right hand side of the former, near the chancel. Through this may be caught a glimpse of some interesting antiquities, and a good view of the vergers in attendance reading the morning papers.

In answer to the application of the visitor for admission, he is requested to wait only three minutes, as a party has just been let in. The object of this delay will presently be seen.

He has now, therefore, to kill time as he best may. He casts his eye along the fine vista afforded by the south aisle, upwards to the light and lofty roof, with its chaste and elegant groinings; and the more he perceives of the beauty of the original building, the more he regrets the anomalies by which it is deformed. Fain would he resign his spirit to that deep and holy calm, which, if he is conversant with old ecclesiastical edifices, he has so often experienced within their walls;-but he cannot.

He is in the

midst of bustle and confusion, and the sight-seers around him are behaving as if they were at the Art Union. Not a brow reflects the solemnity of the place. Some seem as if they came as much to be seen, as to see; and in place of the devotee numbering his beads, or the pilgrim leaning on his staff, here is a young lady tricked out in finery, trying to look interesting; there a smart youth with curls, and a shirt pin, who has thrown himself into an attitude, and seems standing for a full length "portrait of a gentleman."

But a batch of people has collected at the grating, and with these he is let in. Whereupon the company, each and all, are requested to stand and deliver the sum of sixpence; the collective contributions now amounting to a sufficiency to remunerate the verger who is to conduct them.

Now, sixpence may not be a ruinous sum to him, the said visitor; but it is more than many others can spare; and surely the " poor man's church" should be freely open to the poor man. In the meantime, for the information and attraction of such as may consider the amount reasonable, we would recommend the Dean and Chapter to adorn the entrance to their curiosityshow with a placard, inscribed, "All this at sixpence." At the same time, we would suggest that this traffic in holy things is not particularly decent, and moreover, gives occasion to the ungodly to rail.

The mite, however, is dropped into the clerical begging-box, and the donor proceeds to enjoy his sixpenny-worth.

He is ushered into the chapel of St. Benedict. "This monument, gentlemen and ladies," com

mences the guide, "is an ancient tomb of stone, which had formerly a canopy of wood; the figure that you observe lying down upon it, is the effigy of Archbishop Langham; very much admired by the curious." And thus he runs on, passing from one tomb to another, till he has explained all that he thinks fit, which includes nothing that is worth hearing. And then he hastens off to the next chapel, with the holiday folks at his heels.

The visitant remains behind, anxious to inspect architectural details, to decipher an inscription, to examine an ancient tomb. But back comes the official with, "Now sir, if you please; the company is waiting;" and away he is obliged to go, to be hurried, in like manner, through the remaining eight chapels which form the exhibition.

But we are wrong. It is not the chapels which constitute the exhibition, but their contents, the statues; so that the whole show is very much like Madame Tussaud's, and the resemblance was till very lately completed by some figures in wax-work, which were considered to be by no means the least interesting part of it.

Gladly would the stranger linger in these sacred abodes; long and intently would he dwell upon the fine old sculptures, which, intermixed with modern monstrosities, they contain; delighted would he be to restore in imagination altar and altar-screen, with its tabernacle work and imagery, crucifix, tapers, and worshippers. But he is allowed time for nothing of the sort; and a cursory glance at even the banners, the stalls, and the fan tracery of the ceiling of Henry the Seventh's chapel, and at the dismantled shrine of Edward the Confessor, is all that is conceded to him by the authorities.

And wherefore? It is feared, perhaps, that were the Public permitted to take their time in viewing these antiquities, they would employ it in doing mischief. But, surely, the officials in attendance might prevent this; besides, the National Gallery is open to all, and yet the pictures are not injured. It is true that many of the older monuments have been mutilated and disfigured; but the perpetrators of these atrocities have been pleased, in many instances, to record the date of them. The cheek of the effigy (if we recollect rightly,) of Philippa Duchess of York, who died in 1433, bears the name of a Mr. Dummer, apparently carved upon it with a knife, and the date of the sacrilege, of which the wretch would seem to have been proud, subjoined. It is that of a late period in the sixteenth century, when exploits of this kind were regarded as pious rather than otherwise.

Moreover, having made the circuit of the chapels, any one may loiter in the north transept, and the remainder of the edifice as long as he pleases; and yet no new initials, and outline caricatures and gibbets, are found to be executed on the walls.

Of the majority of the monuments in the chapels, it is difficult to say whether they are more pompous than ugly, or more ugly than pompous. We speak of those which have been erected subsequently to the Reformation; for it is a curious fact, though it is by no means now noticed for the first time, that the commencement of bad taste in their design and embellishments, ensued immediately upon that event. They are nearly all offensively ostentatious, exhibit a most incongruous jumble of the different styles of architecture and ornament, and are studiously placed where they ought not to be. Take, for example, the monument of Baron Hunsdon in the chapel of St. Erasmus. It consists of a medley of the Greek and Egyptian styles, the absurdity of which is enhanced by colouring and gilding, in a taste much like that displayed by the Lord Mayor's coach. Of this illustrious personage it is recorded in the Guide-Book, that he "was some time Governor of Berwick, Lord Chamberlain to Queen Elizabeth, Privy Councillor, and Knight of the Garter; but not being preferred as he expected, he laid the disappointment so much to heart, that he languished for a long time on a sick bed, at which the Queen, being moved too late, created him an Earl, and ordered the patent and robes to be laid before him, but without effect. He died July 23, 1596, aged 72." And so this vain old man has been honoured with a mausoleum in Westminster Abbey, which, to crown all, is erected on the site of the Altar!

Succeeding times, down to the present, display a degeneracy still more odious. The heathen idols, the Muses and their harps, Neptune and his trident, and Time with his scythe, the urn, the inverted torch, the Pandean pipes, and whole nurseries of blubbering Cupids, are the embellishments of later monuments; of which the general character is divided between mock solemnity and affectation.

To admit of the erection of these monstrosities, the intercolumnar arches of the north transept have been entirely plastered up with cement, and the windows of the south aisle partially so. To enumerate these disfigurements and desecrations would require a large volume; but we must be allowed to notice one especially ridiculous; that of "Dame Elizabeth Carteret," in the north aisle, on the right. The lady (though

What we have to say respecting the former state of this noble but ill-used edifice, will lie in a few words. Imagine the accumulated rubbish, miscalled sculpture, of the three last centuries, removed,―the stucco taken out of the windows, and replaced with stained glass, —the high altar, and the altars of the several chapels, together with the canopies and screens, with their appropriate ornaments, the figures of sacred and ecclesiastical persons, restored, -the wood and stone work which obscures the view of the choir removed; and the nave and aisles thrown open to the public, who may thence witness the ceremonies, and join in the devotions of the churchmen officiating in their proper and peculiar place, and you will behold Westminster Abbey as it was. We will not say, imagine also the solemn procession of abbot and monk, priest and prelate, devout royalty and its gorgeous train the banner, the host, the crucifix, the swinging censers, the incense, the deep-toned organ, and the music of the choir, hymning according to the ancient ritual the Gloria in excelsis Deo;" because we might thereby afford ground for an inference which would perhaps shock the feelings of some of our readers and yet these things should be imagined, would we view Westminster Abbey as it appeared in its palmy days.

There is one great difference between Westminster Abbey, as it was and as it is. It was a temple of religion, it is a cemetery. Not that our ancient churches were not also used as places of burial; but the sepulchral memorials which were erected in them, were all in character with the design and object of the building. The recumbent posture, the clasped hands, the unostentatious tomb, carved in a style corresponding to the surrounding architecture,-aid instead of interfering with, the expression of the entire edifice; for these edifices have an expression; they breathe an unearthly, a mysterious, an awful spirit, even to a mind uninformed, critically, of their beauties. This, we are told by Mr. Pugin and others, is the result of de

of their construction all being typical of the several mysteries of the Christian faith; the spire, and the pointed arch in particular, being emblems of the Resurrection. Be this as it may, their effect is one peculiar to themselves; and a gothic cathedral has not been infelicitously termed " a petrified religion."

The deformities of which we complain, are so many emblems, not of religion, but of pomp, pride, and vain glory; and they but clumsily express these. But not a few of them are memorials of murder, -true idols of Moloch. Those who ascribe imageworship to our forefathers, and who approve of the iconoclastic proceedings of the reformers, might pause, we think, and ask themselves, whether, in a Christian temple, the figures of prophets and apostles, are not, at least, more in place, than those of demons? Whether saints are not more becoming than soldiers? Which is more deserving a monument, Dunk, Earl of Halifax, or St. Paul?

We read on some of the tablets, "Erected by permission of the Dean and Chapter." The permission, therefore, of these reverend gentlemen was, we suppose,

condition necessary to the desecrations which we have above commemorated. Now what must have been, not the taste merely, but the religion of all the deans and chapters of Westminster Abbey, from the Reformation downwards-except the present? Has Westminster Abbey been unfortunate in its clergy? or were they but a sample of the body generally? If so, the prevalent dissent and infidelity, so much complained of, may be accounted for without difficulty. A better order of things, we trust, is now arising, and we shall be surprised should any fresh barbarisms be perpetrated in the edifice which has formed the subject of the foregoing pages. Moreover, we hope that the existing liberal" powers that be," the guardians of Westminster Abbey, and who have bountifully lowered their charges for admission to the sacred show, will be graciously pleased to extend their bounty a little further, and to admit the nation into the nation's church without a demand upon the nation's pocket.

We have now to introduce a personage of no mean pretensions; albeit his face is none of the cleanest, and his habiliments are travel-stained and tattered.-He is the NEWS BOY.

Let us forth into the streets.-The clock of St. Paul's chimes six, and the mists of a winter's morning hang heavily in the air. Yonder is a boy with a fur cap drawn closely over his ears, and his neck swathed in a worsted comforter of many colours. A drab cloth cape envelopes his shoulders, and the chilliness of the morning makes him endeavour to curl his whole body under that scanty covering. He shuffles along as though the sweet sleep of the past night had not removed the weariness from his bones, and he still seeks to slumber as he walks. A shrill whistle reverberates through the street, and the NEWS BOY (for it is he) rouses himself at the well known note of recognition from some other

emissary of a "vender," bound, like himself, to Printing-House Square.

Hark! do you hear that hum of voices? Now it swells into the tumult of riot, and the sleepy boy, whom "late we noted," with one loud hallo, rushes forward to join yonder crowd of noisy brawlers.

"As the worn war-horse at the trumpet's sound

Erects his mane and neighs and paws the ground-" so does the News Boy, excited by the sound of the accustomed melée, divest his shoulders of the encumbrance of his cape, and prepare for his daily struggle for the "early quires."

He has succeeded in obtaining his first supply, and away he runs in the company of a dozen competitors to the next newspaper office. There he has again to elbow his way to the publisher's counter, and having obtained the object of his