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is perpetual darkneſs, and night even at noon day.—
A beam or two finds its way through the grates; and reflects a feeble glimmer from the nails of the coffins. No vulgar dead are depoſited here. The moſt illuſtrious, and right honourable, have claimed this for their laſt retreat. And, indeed, they retain ſome what of a ſhadowy pre-eminence. They lie, ranged in mournful order, and in a ſort of ſilent pomp, under the arches of an ample ſepulchre, while meaner corpſes, without much ceremony, "go down to the ſtones of the pit."
Thoſe who received vaſt revenues, and called whole lordſhips, their own, are here reduced to half a dozen feet of earth, or confined in a few ſheets of lead. Rooms of ſtate, and ſumptuous furniture, are reſigned for no other ornament than the ſhroud, for no other apartment than the darkſome niche. Where is the ſtar that blazed upon the breaſt; or the coronet that glittered round the temples? The only remains of departed dignity are, the weather-beaten hatchment and the tattered eſcutcheon. I ſee no ſplended retinue ſurrounding this folitary dwelling. The lordly equipage hovers no longer about the lifeleſs maſter. He has no other attendant, than a duſty ſtatue; which, while the regardleſs world is as gay as ever, the ſculptor's hand has taught to weep.
