lesex; a notion of utility combined with ornament, which we see
still exhibited in the Sampler in old-fashioned, middle-class houses;
that poor posthumous, base-born child of the tapestry, almost defunct
itself; and a veritable piece of antiquity.

Still more remarkable in this room was a quaint-faced clock, silver
gilt, given by Henry VIII. to Anne Boleyn; which perchance, after
marking the moments of her festive life, struck unfeelingly the hour of
her doom.

But the company are hurrying into a little ante-room, the ceiling of
which is studded with stars in mosaic; it is therefore called jocularly,
the 'Star Chamber;' and here stands a cast of the famous bust of Henry
VII., by Torregiano, intended for the tomb of that sad-faced,
long-visaged monarch, who always looks as if royalty had disagreed with
him.

Next we enter the Holbein Chamber. Horace hated bishops and archbishops,
and all the hierarchy; yet here again we behold another prelatical
chimneypiece--a frieze taken from the tomb of Archbishop Warham, at
Canterbury. And here, in addition to Holbein's picture of Mary Tudor,
Duchess of Suffolk, and of her third husband Adrian Stokes, are Vertue's
copies of Holbein, drawings of that great master's pictures in
Buckingham House: enough--let us hasten into the Long Gallery. Those who
remember Sir Samuel Merrick and his Gallery at Goodrich Court will have
traced in his curious, somewhat gew gaw collections of armour,
antiquities, faded portraits, and mock horses, much of the taste and
turn of mind that existed in Horace Walpole.

The gallery, which all who recollect the sale at Strawberry Hill must
remember with peculiar interest, sounded well on paper. It was 56 feet
long, 17 high, and 13 wide; yet was neither long enough, high enough,
nor wide enough to inspire the indefinable sentiment by which we
acknowledge vastness. We beheld it the scene of George Robins's
triumphs--crowded to excess. Here strolled Lord John Russell; there,
with heavy tread, walked Daniel O'Connell. Hallam, placid, kindly,
gentle--the prince of book-worms--moved quickly through the rooms,
pausing to raise a glance to the ceiling--copied from one of the side
aisles of Henry VII.'s Chapel--but the fretwork is gilt, and there is
_petitesse_ about the Gothic which disappoints all good judges.

But when Horace conducted his courtly guests into this his mind-vaunted
vaulted gallery, he had sometimes George Selwyn at his side; or
Gray--or, in his