ul power. There were several other pictures of
Holbein's in this room; one of Martin Luther.

We passed through a long corridor, whose sides were lined with pictures,
statues, busts, &c. Out of the multitude, three particularly interested
me; one was a noble but melancholy bust of the Black Prince, beautifully
chiselled in white marble; another was a plaster cast, said to have been
taken of the face of Oliver Cromwell immediately after death. The face
had a homely strength amounting almost to coarseness. The evidences of
its genuineness appear in glancing at it; every thing is authentic, even
to the wart on his lip; no one would have imagined such a one, but the
expression was noble and peaceful, bringing to mind the oft-quoted
words,--

"After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well."

At the end of the same corridor is a splendid picture of Charles I. on
horseback, by Vandyke, a most masterly performance, and appearing in its
position almost like a reality. Poor Charles had rather hard measure, it
always seemed to me. He simply did as all other princes had done before
him; that is to say, he lied steadily, invariably, and conscientiously,
in every instance where he thought he could gain any thing by it, just
as Charles V., and Francis IV., and Catharine de Medicis, and Henry
VIII., and Elizabeth, and James, and all good royal folks had always
done; and lo! _he_ must lose his head for it. His was altogether a more
gentlemanly and respectable performance than that of Henry, not wanting
in a sort of ideal magnificence, which his brutal predecessor, or even
his shambling old father never dreamed of. But so it is; it is not
always on those who are sinners above all men that the tower of Siloam
falls, but only on those who happen to be under it when its time comes.
So I intend to cherish a little partiality for gentlemanly, magnificent
Charles I.; and certainly one could get no more splendid idea of him
than by seeing him stately, silent, and melancholy on his white horse,
at the end of this long corridor. There he sits, facing the calm, stony,
sleeping face of Oliver, and neither question or reply passes between
them.

From this corridor we went into the chapel, whose Gothic windows, filled
with rich, old painted glass, cast a many-colored light over the
oak-carved walls and altar-piece. The ceiling is of fine, old oak,
wrought with the arms of the family. The window over the altar is the
gift of the Earl of Essex. This