the traces of their hammers on all its carved work, and it is sadly despoiled. Would that the same skill and taste which reared the Church at Highnam might be permitted to make this holy place worthy of an English cathedral! That the English people still suffer these mother-churches of the nation to remain as too many of them are, is one of their greatest national disgraces. When they are restored as they might be, and managed as they should be, then, and not till then, must they command the unmingled admiration and delight of every intelligent visitor. After a thorough inspection of the cathedral, in the broad light of day, I was kindly invited by Sir John to visit it again, as the day was about to close. We entered, by his private key, and were alone in the vast and awful interior. Going into the nave, he said to me, as I paused to observe the solemn perspective—“Whose bones, do you suppose, are now beneath your feet?” I stepped aside, as he added, “You are standing on the grave of Bishop Warburton.” So much wit and genius in the dust! Yet in what nobler sepulchre could earth to earth be delivered, to await the resurrection? Hard by, are the monuments of two of the world’s benefactors; that of Jenner, who poured water upon the flame of the noisome pestilence, and that of Raikes, who first “gathered the children” into Sunday Schools. There is another modern monument, deserving of mention, as one of that purely Anglican type, which tends to _divinify_ domestic love, and the holy relations of the wife and mother. A female figure, with a babe, appear in the radiant marble, invited by angels into Paradise, from the waves of the sea. It is from the pure chisel of Flaxman, and commemorates one who died in the perils of childbirth, while encompassed by the perils of the great deep. Less pleasing, yet even more impressive, was the quaint effigy, in old carved oak, of Robert, Duke of Normandy, surnamed Curthose. You touch it and it moves, and you involuntarily start. It is, of course, very light, and lies upon the tomb so loosely that it is easily disturbed; and then, it seems as if the old Norman were about to rise and confront you, as an audacious intruder upon his repose. But how shall I describe the effect of the marble effigy of poor King Edward the Second, as I saw it, in the solemn twilight, and in the unbroken silence of the deserted cathedral? There was that outstretched figure, and that sad outline of a face composed in death, and hands clasped in resignation; but its dread appearance was as if imploring God, against the cruel murderers who had done him such awful violence. I thought of Gray’s sketchy but descriptive lyric, and muttered to myself:— “Those shrieks of death through Berkeley’s roofs that ring; Shrieks of an agonizing king.”