On entering the vestibule of this renowned edifice, a singular spectacle presented itself.—The seats of the High Priests of the "Twelve" and of the "Seventy" were occupied by a grim visaged soldiery. Some lay sleeping on their "arms," and others lay rolled up in their blankets. On every hand lay scattered about in beautiful confusion, muskets, swords, cannon balls and terrible missiles of death. Verily, thought I, how are the holy places desecrated! I thought of old Oliver Cromwell, when he drove the horses of his army through the "cloisters" of the Worcester Cathedral, and appropriated the Baptismal found as a manger.

I am penning this scrawl to you in the upper seat of the Sanctuary. Over my head there is an inscription in large gold letters, "The Lord is our Sacrifice"—on my right lie three soldiers asleep, resting on their arms—my feet are resting on a pile of chain shot—and a keg of powder, just discovered, lies at my elbow.