Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath， richly carved of oak， though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed 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 sepulchre 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.
There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence： this strange mixture of tombs and trophies； these emblems of living and aspiring ambition， close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires， and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them， my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valor and beauty of the land； glittering with the splendor of jeweled rank and military array； alive with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away； the silence of death had settled again upon the which had found their way into the chapel， and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure sign of solitariness and desertion.
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； same 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.