y the cunning
labor of the chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density,
suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the
wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb.

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the
Bath, richly carved of oak, tho with the grotesque decorations of Gothic
architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixt the helmets and
crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are
suspended their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and
contrasting the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray
fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the
sepulcher of its founder--his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on
a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen
railing....

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those of men
scattered far and wide about the world, some tossing upon distant seas;
some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the busy intrigues of
courts and cabinets; all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this
mansion of shadowy honors; the melancholy reward of a monument.

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching instance
of the equality of the grave; which brings down the oppressor to a level
with the opprest, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together.
In one is the sepulcher of the haughty Elizabeth; in the other is that of
her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but
some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled
with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulcher
continually echo with sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies buried. The
light struggles dimly through windows darkened by dust. The greater part
of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by
time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb,
round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national
emblem--the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest
myself at the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous
story of poor Mary....

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the ear, falling
with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it we