A favourite show with the guides is that of the lady “who died from a prick of a needle”--Lady Elizabeth Russell, in white alabaster. She is holding out her finger, indeed, but is really pointing to the death’s-head at her feet. The Duchess of Newcastle’s tomb will be looked at with interest by admirers of Elia, who will recall his praise of the “high fantastical lady.” We should note her ink-bottle and book, showing her literary taste, for she was the authoress of thirteen folio volumes. Her husband is beside her, who once made the remark that “a very wise woman is a very foolish thing.” The row of modern full-length statues of patriots, orators, and politicians in the north transept has an odd effect, and suggests a visit to the waxworks. Some are very inferior. By-and-by, when they are toned down, they will look better and less offensive. Modern coats, trousers, shoes, etc., are unsuitable for treatment in marble. There is a very striking cluster of the three brilliant Cannings. An excellent _coup de théâtre_, this placing the trio together--George, the statesman; Earl Canning, Governor of India; and the “great Eltehi,” Sir Stratford. The first is Chantrey’s work--though it has rather the air of an actor with his toga; and it is curious to contrast with this attempt at spiritualizing the realistic style of the other two by Foley. If we turn to some of the inferior ones close by, we shall feel at once the want of a cultivated artist. Lord Beaconsfield, for instance, by Raggi, lacks poetry and expression, and, indeed, proportion, for the head is surely too small for the trunk. The robes droop ponderously, and do not reveal or indicate the figure. Peel, by Gibson, meant to be highly oratorical, is of a rather conventional sort. Lord Palmerston, on the other side, in his Garter dress, looks a Merry-Andrew. There is an absurdly homely expression on his face. It is, indeed, a most extraordinary spectacle, and not to be matched in any country, this row of _marble men_; but it were to be wished that they had been allowed to assume the proper yellowish or tawny hue, instead of being diligently scrubbed at intervals. Note the downcast, doomed look in the eyes of Castlereagh--a forecast of his sad fate, death by his own hand, and a burial here amid the howls and execrations of a furious mob. So much for this wonderful temple and its extraordinary treasures and curios. CHAPTER V. THE ADELPHI AND THE STRAND.