and every measure taken to prevent robbery. We see here men counting out bills to a vast amount, shoveling gold like pebbles, and handling money as if it were a useless thing. We pass through some sixty departments, where all the various branches of banking are performed, from the stamping of the paper to the distribution of it to the people. In the vaults below the ground, bars of gold, and checks which have been drawn, one by government to the amount (I think) of one million of pounds, are shown us, and we pass from place to place with no little wonder at the magnitude of the operation. Vast as the whole is, the most perfect order prevails. Each one knows his own business, and attends to it; and like the clock which indicates the time on sixteen different dials in as many rooms, so ist all this vast human machinery moved by one man, who is at the head, and presides over all. We are told that the expense of carrying on this great banking operation is about two hundred and twenty thousand pounds annually. The whole is on a scale of grandeur and magnificence unequaled by any banking institution in the world.

We next wend our way to the British Museum, one of the finest buildings in London, as yet scarcely completed, situated in Bloomsbury. Here the visitor must spend many an hour, if he would see to any valuable purpose this wonderful collection. We pass from gallery to gallery, from hall to hall, from saloon to saloon, in our pleasing task. In one gallery we find the relics discovered by Layard at Nimroud, brought here at an immense expense; colossal heads; monuments on which unread inscriptions yet appear; idols of huge proportions and fanciful construction; chariots and horsemen. In other departments, we see splendid

collections of birds, from the tiny hummingbird to the bald eagle, from the goldfinch to the peacock; animals, from the mouse to the elephant, the walrus, and the mastadon; human skeletons embedded in limestone; Egyptian remains in vast variety; mummies, some as they were brought from the land of mythology; others partly unrolled, and others entirely exposed. Every age and clime have sent contributions to this great collection, and here, daily, antiquarians, artists, and scholars come to study out the mysterious lines which are written on every feature of the past. The library connected with the Museum is the largest in the world. It contains more than one million volumes, ten thousand maps, thirty thousand manuscripts, and a great variety of seals, parchments, and papers. A large part of it was given to the British nation by George IV., and is well selected, possessing great value, independent of the number of volumes. Here are the original manuscripts of Tasso, Pope's Iliad, the works of rare Ben Jonson; also letters written by Napoleon, Catharine de' Medici, Peter the Great, Nelson, Mary of the Scots, the various kings of France, Washington, Bacon, Locke, Newton, Dryden, Addison, Franklin, Voltaire, Erasmus, Luther, Knox, Calvin, Cranmer, Latimer, Melancthon, Wolsey, Leibnitz, and others. One feels, as he gazes upon the autographs of great men, who have moved the world, some by the sword, and some by the tongue, and some by the pen, that he is communing with the buried past. His mind is borne back to other days, and he sweeps with Napoleon over the field of blood; shouts with Cromwell, “God and religion," as he rushes to the charge; stands with Luther before the diet, and pleads nobly for the great rights of conscience; or sits down and gazes over the shoulder of

Calvin, as he composes the Institutes in his cheerless study in Geneva. It would require more than one day to describe what was seen in the British Musuem, and many days to utter the sentiments to which that exhibition gave rise. It is a noble institution, and nobly conducted. With the usual generosity of the English, the doors are open to the public; no fee or pass is de manded; and the richest and the poorest, the citizen and the stranger, can enjoy the liberality of a powerful nation.

There are various other museums and collections of curiosities in London, in examining which a stranger may occupy weeks and months, and at the end find his task incomplete. Public property and private fortunes have been expended in this way, and no one can fail to express his admiration of the scope and grandeur of this form of public instruction and recreation.

Turning back from the Museum, we enter St. Paul's Church, the largest and most magnificent in the kingdom. This noble structure was designed by Sir Christopher Wren, and was commenced by him in 1673, and completed in 1715. It is built in the form of a Greek cross, and is, exteriorly and interiorly, worthy of the great city of which it marks the center. Marble stat ues adorn the interior, and over the whole rises a spacious dome, surmounted by a ball and cross, to which the visitor ascends by a winding staircase. From the Golden Gallery, which is just below the ball, a fine view of London is obtained. I well remember the morning on which I gazed from that high elevation upon the sea of dwellings spread out below. The grandest conception of the city is obtained from this point. As far as the eye can reach, — north, south, east, and west, the country is covered with churches, houses, and manufactories—one wide wilderness, losing

itself in the misty distance. As you stand on the dome of St. Peter's, you see Rome gathered close around you a comfortable city, indeed, but not like this. Around you are the towers and tombs, the castles and palaces, while beyond, for miles, in the clear atmosphere, stretches the Roman Campagna, across which no rail car hurries, and on which hardly an object of interest or a sign of life can be seen. But from the dome of St. Paul's scarcely a green spot or an open space can be discovered. Even the streets look like little avenues, and nought but the red house tops, the gilded spires, and the smoking chimneys arise to the sight.

In the crypt under the church repose some of England's most illustrious men. Beneath the center of the dome is the tomb of Nelson, his last battle fought, and his body crumbling back to dust. Near by is all that remains of the mortal Lord Collingwood. At a distance are the resting-places of Christopher Wren, Ben jamin West, and other men of genius. Here they sleep, awaiting the sound of the last trumpet, which shall call them again to life.

I will not attempt to give a description of the Cathedral. Its dimensions will be seen by the bare announcement that it is five hundred and ten feet long within the walls; from the floor to the center of the dome, three hundred and forty feet; the circumference of the dome within is three hundred feet-well proportioned, well built, and forming one of the objects of interest which the stranger is most anxious to behold. Daily devotions are held here, in which the English service is read, sung, chanted, or performed in the most dull and stupid manner imaginable. The monotony of the service; the indolent, careless, irreligious, and often gross and sensual look of those who engage in it; the

inattention of the people; and the evident want of devotion in priest and worshippers, resemble any thing but the worship of God.

The churches of London are generally heavy, massive, uncomely structures, but will bear comparison with the churches of Boston and New York. Some few of them are associated in our minds with great events in history, and some few a stranger will visit for their architectural beauty or antique appearance. Beneath them all, or around them, the dead repose; and the walls are often disfigured by inscriptions to the memory of men long since departed and forgotten. In St. Mary Woolnorth lies the body of John Newton, a former rector. A tablet, bearing an inscription written by himself, reads as follows: "John Newton once an infidel and libertine, a servant of slaves in Africa-was, by the rich mercy of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, preserved, restored, pardoned, and appointed to preach the faith he once labored to destroy."

St. Mary-le-Bow, noted for its connection with events in past times, has one of the most beautiful steeples in London, and is a fine old edifice of Wren's designing. In All-Hallows Church Milton was christened, and in St. Giles's, Cripplegate, he was buried. In this latter church which is memorable for the marriage of Cromwell with Elizabeth Bouchier, who was, as Oliver says, "unto me a good helpmeet"-repose the ashes of Fox, the author of the Book of Martyrs, a work which has done much to open the eyes of Protestants to the enormities of the church of Rome. In St. Sepulcher's is an old bell which was formerly tolled at the time of the execution of criminals; and we are referred to a custom which some half century ago prevailed. The bell-ringer was accustomed to go at night to Newgate