without the paradoxical intervention of a Cromwell, while there is nothing left us, as the direct results of Puritanism, except a few Socinian congregations, and the “Dissenters’ Chapels’ Bill.” The massiveness of some portions of this cathedral, and the lightness and grace of others, are very impressive. Its length is very great, and the vista “long drawn out.” Amid its ancient monuments I spent a solemn hour of musing, while the light of the descending sun, through the clere-story and lantern, showered a soft and melancholy radiance over the whole interior, admirably harmonizing with the reflections it necessarily inspired. I found Peterborough another sleepy little city, and the cathedral beautifully situated, with the Bishop’s palace hard by. It is a severe, but grand exterior, and presides over the surrounding trees, and roofs, like a sort of divinity. It is quite free of encroachment from other buildings; but its close, or precinct, is guarded by a circuit of prebendal, and other ecclesiastical houses, with turreted and arched gateways, which seem to command a reverent approach to the sacred spot. I omit a technical description of the architecture, but must be allowed to give some account of the Sunday I spent there, and of one or two little things that deeply affected me. While the bells were thundering for Morning Service, I stood in the nave, wholly lost in contemplation of its plain, but massive majesty. A train of children entered, with their teachers, evidently a Sunday-school. I watched the little procession as it wound its way amid the columns, and turned to the left of the choir. Following them, I saw them enter the choir, by a small side-door, and as they stepped into it, every little foot fell on a slab of stone, in the centre of which was a little brass plate, not so large as one’s hand. When all had gone in, and were kneeling in their meek array, I drew near, and stooped down to see over whose dust they had been treading. I read a few words, but they thrilled me like electricity—“Queen Katherine, 1536!” Here, then, lies that proud daughter of Arragon, whose mournful history has left its mark upon nations, and upon Christendom! The scene in Shakspeare rose before me—Pope—Cardinals—Princes—Henry VIII. This stone covers all, and peasants’ babes trip over it as lightly as if the life that lies extinguished there, had been as simple as their own!