e born, that outrank
the soldiers, tried and sworn, that guard the crown from the unicorn,
that stand by the lackeys that wait on the pages that bow to the ladies
that 'tend on the queen that lives in the Castle of Windsor.

And so on. The train within the castle walls that follows the queen is
endless.

We passed through the great, grand, state apartments, refurnished at the
time of the marriage of the Prince of Wales, for the use of the Danish
family. We mounted to the battlements of the Round Tower by the hundred
steps, the grim cannon gazing down upon us from the top. Half a dozen
visitors were already there, gathered as closely as possible about the
angular guide, listening to his geography lesson, and looking off upon
the wonderful panorama of park, and wood, and winding river. Away to the
right rose the spire of Stoke Pogis Church, where the curfew still
"tolls the knell of parting day." To the left, in the great park below,
lay Frogmore, where sleeps Prince Albert the Good. Eton College, too,
peeped out from among the trees, its gardens touching the Thames, and in
the distance,--beyond the sleeping villages tucked in among the
trees,--the shadowy blue hills held up the sky.

St. George's Chapel is in the quadrangle below. It is the chapel of the
Knights of the Garter. And now, when you read of the chapels, or
churches, or cathedrals in the old world,--and they are all in a sense
alike,--pray don't imagine a New England meeting-house with a double row
of stiff pews and a choir in the gallery singing "Antioch"! The body of
the chapel was a great, bare space, with tablets and elaborate monuments
against the walls. Opening from this were alcoves,--also called
chapels,--each one containing the tombs and monuments of some family. As
many of the inscriptions are dated centuries back, you can imagine they
are often quaintly expressed. One old knight, who died in Catholic
times, desired an open Breviary to remain always in the niche before his
tomb, that passers might read to their comfort, and say for him an
orison. Of course this would never do in the days when the chapel fell
into Protestant hands. A Bible was substituted, chained into its place;
but the old inscription, cut deep in the stone, still remains, beginning
"Who leyde thys book here?" with a startling appropriateness of which
the author never dreamed. Over another of these chapels is rudely cut an
ox, an N, and a bow,--the owner having, in an antic manner