for magistrates and high parochial functionaries, of divers degrees. Surely, no one should fail to see this Church when he visits the Tower. And now I turned towards that old historic pile, repeating, as it rose upon my sight, those striking lines of Gray’s— “Ye Towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed!” Its very foundations were laid in blood, if so be, indeed, as the old chronicler asserts, “its mortar was tempered with the blood of beasts;” and for long ages it has never slaked its thirst for the blood of human beings, till now, in the halcyon days of Victoria, it stands a lonely monument of those barbarian elements, out of which has risen the nobler fabric of British freedom. Nor should it be forgotten, that popular violence as well as princely tyranny, has glutted the spot with murder. Of the many worthies whom we must remember here, none were more grossly butchered than Laud and Strafford, the victims of a ravening fanaticism; unless we except those gentler sufferers, whose sex and spotless innocence leave their murderers without even the appearance of excuse. A cold chill fell upon me as I entered the fatal precincts, thinking how many had passed the same gates never to return. If there be a haunted spot in all the world, it should be this Tower; and, indeed, strange stories are on credible record, which might well assist the fancy in conceiving that the ghosts of its old tenants, of the fouler sort, do sometimes revisit the scene of their dark and dreadful deaths.