In the south transept there is a monument to Garrick, representing the actor standing in a fantastic attitude, having suddenly drawn aside a pair of curtains to reveal himself. This excited the derision of Elia, and yet it is effective enough, and expresses Garrick’s humour fairly. Notwithstanding all Mrs. Garrick’s doting affection for her spouse, it is said this had to be put up by other hands, and the donor declares that he appealed in vain to her for her approbation or aid. Close by is a very quaint and original monument to the learned Grævius, who is shown seated in an easy attitude on the side of his sarcophagus, looking at a book in a careless happy mood. There is a quaintness about this that causes a smile. Of sculptors so eminent as Flaxman and Chantrey there are few examples, and these not particularly remarkable. In the north transept is the ambitious monument to Lord Mansfield, who is presented seated aloft in a judicial chair, on a ponderous circular base, on whose various tiers are found Justice and the other unavoidable attendants. This has been admired, but the effect is grotesque, the Chief Justice, with a very homely air, appearing as if he was about to call on “Brother Buzfuz.” But we go round to the back, and find an exquisite female figure, in the best style of sculpture, with much grace of attitude, refinement of curves and softness and delicacy of the skin. Here we come upon those tremendous piles of masonry which Westmacott and Bacon introduced, enormous pyramidal screens on which flounder as it were huge marble figures, Neptunes and other gods and goddesses, while the suffering hero reposes in the middle nearly naked, with weeping nymphs bent over him. These vast efforts were no doubt owing to the great sums given by public grant; Bacon receiving for his “Lord Chatham” £6,000, Nollekens for the “Three Captains,” much more. Chantrey, the foremost of modern sculptors, is scarcely represented here at all. There is a pleasing figure of Horner, full of character in the face and eyes, with an almost pictorial expression. By what must have been some miscalculation the scale is too small, and as we turn from the huge Sir William Follett--a plain, roughly-finished work of Behnes’--it seems the likeness of a half-grown youth.