Enough of the setting--what of Princess Margaret's Church? Looking up at it, we are reminded, at once, of her Flemish sympathies. The high gables of this west front--of which the centre one is lightened by a rose and three triangular windows, symbols of eternity and the Trinity--recall the splendid architecture of Bruges and the Rhine country. Rich flamboyant carving is to be seen everywhere; yet the effect is more striking than successful. The façade is surrounded with elaborate embellishments, that, jostling with one another, break the harmony of line; the ornament is tortured, and conveys the impression that it is merely hung upon the Church; the figures in the tympanum below the flat-arched portal, are poor in execution; the tower is mean and insufficient. Yet we must not hasten to condemn. This fallen Gothic, though marred by the defects of its qualities, and, beyond question, fundamentally decrepit, has yet wintry graces all her own. Her death days were neither ignoble, nor frozen; rather they were instinct with a repentant animation, and warmed by a delicate flush, the hope and vision of coming spring. Yes, despite the wanton waste of ornament, despite intemperance and lack of restraint, there is pathos, there is beauty, even, in these splendid agonies of a matchless art. That proud princess of ancient lineage, lying stricken in her darkened chamber, where yet lingered the shadows of a passing night, bent timidly, fearfully, her dreamy, dying eyes upon the before and after, upon what had been and was yet to be; until, gathering strength for a last effort, the frail, fair, white hand, drawing apart the silken folds of the curtain, caught, through the glowing casement, a glimpse of a golden dawn brightening a yet lovelier world, and smiled to see the pure radiance of a happier, more human belief touching with the tender light of a new-born hope the sterner mysticism of her earlier discarded faith. The discarded faith was mediævalism; that new-born hope we call the Renaissance.