ains above, as if symbolical that religion triumphs
over all, and St. Anthony still holds out his right hand as if to protect
the sylvan and mute inhabitants of these groves that here once found
secure shelter from the cruel gun and still more cruel dog. But he is
tottering in his niche, and when the wind is high is seen to rock, as if
his reign were drawing to a close.

Of the noble octagon but two sides remain. Looking up, but at such an
amazing elevation that it makes one's neck ache, still are seen two
windows of the four nunneries that adorned its unique and unrivalled
circuit. And what is more wonderful than all, the noble organ screen,
designed by "Vathek" himself, has still survived; its gilded lattices,
though exposed for twenty years to the "pelting of the pitiless storm,"
yet glitter in the last rays of the setting sun. We entered the doorway
of the southern entrance hall, that door which once admitted thousands of
the curious when Fonthill was in its glory. This wing, though not yet in
ruins, not yet entirely dismantled, bears evident signs of decay.
Standing on the marble floor you look up through holes in the ceiling,
and discover the once beautifully fretted roof of St. Michael's Gallery.
We entered the brown parlour. This is a really noble room, 52 feet long,
with eight windows, painted at the top in the most glorious manner. This
room has survived the surrounding desolation, and gives you a slight idea
of the former glories of the place. Each window consists of four
gigantic pieces of plate-glass, and in the midst of red, purple, lilac,
and yellow ornaments are painted four elegant figures, designed by the
artist, Hamilton, of kings and knights, from whom Mr. Beckford was
descended. As there are eight windows there are thirty-two figures,
drawn most correctly. What reflections crowd the mind on beholding this
once gorgeous room! There stood the sideboard, once groaning beneath the
weight of solid gold salvers. In this very room dined frequently the
magnificent "Vathek" on solid gold, and there, where stood his table,
covered with every delicacy to tempt the palate, is now a pool of water,
for the roof is insecure, and the rain streams through in torrents. On
the right hand is the famous cedar boudoir, whose odoriferous perfume is
smelt even here. We entered the Fountain Court, but sought in vain the
stream that was once forced up, at vast expense, from the vale below and
trickled over its m