I had been invited by Dr. Wesley, Dean of the Chapel Royal of St. James’s, to attend service there on Sunday morning. It was the Second Sunday after Easter. The old clock above the palace gate-way pointed eight o’clock as I entered the colour-court, and saw the flag of the regiment on duty, drooping about its staff, inscribed with the names of famous victories. All the region round about seemed to be fast bound in slumber. It was the cool, quiet Sunday morning of smoky London, to which only the most casual glimmer of sunlight gave any warm announcement of the advancing day. How still it seemed! A solitary sentinel, in scarlet, stood, six feet high, at the gate. “Service begun yet?” said I; and he answered, mechanically, “yes, the Duke just gone in.” I passed on; knocked at the door of the chapel; mentioned the Dean’s name as my warrant, and was admitted. The beadle, in livery, showed me to a seat, and after my devotions, I was able to look around. It was a plain place of worship, and quite small; just large enough for the royal household, none of whom, however, were now present, the Court being at Buckingham Palace. The book in my seat was stamped with the royal initial of William Fourth, and marked for some great officer of the household. There was one seat between me and the pulpit, the seats running along the wall, like stalls, and not as ordinary pews. The altar at the end of the Church, beyond the pulpit, was the conspicuous object of course, and the window above it—which one might hardly take for an altar-window in the street-view—gave the chief light to the holy place. Was this the same chapel in which Evelyn so often anxiously marked the behaviour of Charles and the Duke of York, at the celebration of the Eucharist? The place has been much changed, but I indulged the idea of its essential sameness. On the altar were the usual candlesticks, and the glittering gold plate of great size and massiveness, in the midst of which was conspicuous the Offertory-basin, bearing the royal cypher of Queen Anne. There was no one in the chapel but the beadle and—one other person, in the seat next me, at my right. There, in a dim corner, directly under the pulpit—quite crouchingly and drawn together, eyes shut, and white head bowed down, Roman nose and iron features, and time-worn wrinkles, all tranquilized—sat in silence the hero of Waterloo. He was in the plainest morning dress of an English gentleman, frock-coat of blue, and light trowsers. I scarcely looked at him, and yet gained, in a moment, an impression of his entire person, which I shall never lose. Occasionally I could not resist the temptation of a glance at the great man, but who would venture to stare at the Duke of Wellington in such a place, and at such a time? The Dean of the chapel entered, with another clergyman, who was habited for the pulpit. A clerical personage, attended by two ladies, at the same time, came in as I had done, and,