Beneath the chancel is what is called the Royal Vault, in which are the remains of Henry VI., died 1471; Edward IV., 1483; his queen, Margaret of Anjou, 1481; Henry VIII., 1547; Jane Seymour, his wife, 1537; Charles I., 1649; George III., 1820; his wife, Charlotte Sophia, 1817; George IV., 1830; his daughter, the Princess Charlotte; and later, the Duke of Kent, the Duke of York, William IV. and his queen, and other members of the royal family.
"Very royal dust this, and in great quantity," says an intense and high civilization; but, stript of its outward insignia, the royalty has gone, for no more is their dust respected by the great laws of nature, than is that of the beggar who sues for an humble pittance at the church door. The great destroyer makes all equal. Death is indeed a great leveller. The king in his marble sarcophagus is a beggar; and the beggar, uncoffined, it may be, in his common earth-grave, is a king. Harriet Martineau has well said:—
All men are equal in their birth,
Heirs of the earth and skies;
All men are equal when that earth
Fades from their dying eyes.
At the rear of St. George's is an ancient chapel, but of late refitted on the interior as a mausoleum, or place of burial, of the late Prince Albert, and in a style of magnificence rarely seen and never excelled. This was done at the expense and order of Queen Victoria. The finish around the room, for a quarter of its great height, is of very elaborate workmanship of marbles of various colors; and above this are beautiful Gothic windows of painted glass, the most brilliant and costly in the kingdom. The room may be 40 feet wide, 75 feet long, and 40 feet high; and at one end is the altar, and a most elegant cenotaph to the especial memory of the worthy Prince. Astonishingly magnificent is all.
We pass from the chapel to the great Central Tower. This is on a mound of earth, and may be fifty feet in diameter and as many feet high. From the top may be seen miles of the surrounding country, and all is indescribably grand. Off some miles, and quietly nestling, embowered in trees, is Newstead Abbey, where Byron received his rudimentary education; and in another direction, five miles away, are two objects of remarkable interest. One is the famous Eton School, one of the celebrated academical institutions of England. The other, to us Americans, if the statement is true, is a place yet more interesting,—the mansion-house, with its ample grounds, once occupied by William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania. Yet a mile beyond is another spot of great fame and renown, the burial-place of the poet Thomas Gray; and so in sight is the identical old church, to which he refers in his Elegy:—
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping Owl does to the Moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
A guide, stationed on the flattish roof of the great tower, is glib of tongue, telling of this and that thing to be seen. As he goes around with his company the entire circuit of the parapet, a part of the statement is that he has been stationed here now for eleven years. He likes Americans, he says, and can tell them the moment they appear in view. He thinks them very intelligent; but is amused, he adds, when he asks them where William Penn was buried, for not a man or a woman of them knows. We of course were a source of amusement to him, and were pleased to be the innocent cause of his mirth. Anything, consolingly we thought to ourselves, to break the monotony of his life; and so we were happy in the thought of the contribution we had made, and so unwittingly.
Down from this, and a walk about the premises, to here and there look over the walls, on the scenes outside and below. A guide came up, and, informing us that he was one of the appointed ones, we submitted; and so he became the fifth wheel to our coach. We were, however, taken in,—the first time and the last in our journey. When we went to the door of the castle proper we found he must remain outside, or we must pay for his admission. We thought we could find our way to the gate without him, and so we were rid of our encumbrance, though not without a tilt of large words in strong Saxon.