MY DEAR WILLIAMS,

THERE was such a crowd of people of all ages and conditions about the gate, that, in spite of all our pomp of macers and pages, we had some difficulty in getting access to the interior of the edifice—and after we had got within its walls, we had still a new set of difficulties to encounter in the lobbies of its interior, before the aisle set apart for the purposes of the General Assembly received our train. Nay, even within the aisle itself, the squeeze of ministers and elders, bustling to their places, was another source of delay. At last, however, the Commissioner mounted his throne, which is a huge elbow chair, placed under a red canopy, at one side of the room, and we, who had come thither as part of his retinue, found ourselves accommodated on his right, where, according to custom, a certain number of benches had been left vacant for our reception. My foot, in the meantime, had received a sad squeeze on the most tender part of its convalescent surface, and some minutes elapsed after I was seated, before I found myself in a condition to survey the scene before me, with any thing like the usual Morrisian eye of collectedness and coolness.

The Assembly aisle is a square apartment, vaulted overhead like the rest of the Cathedral, but divided from its nave by a long dark lobby or two below, and above, by some galleries with glass folding-doors, through which a certain portion of the profanum vulgus may make shift to thrust their noses, and contemplate somewhat of the venerable scene. Opposite to this side, in the space between two tall shapeless windows, is situated the canopy as aforesaid, elevated considerably above the area of the place—from whence, “high on a throne of royal state,” the Commissioner looks down in theoretic calmness upon the more active part of the Convocation—his throne being surrounded with a due complement of awkward, chubby-cheeked pages, in long red coats, and serving-men, of different descriptions, in the colours of his own livery.