young hero, James Wolfe himself, could not have taken the city, for the sailors not only transported the soldiers to the foot of the cliffs, but protected their base and also cut off the supplies from the besieged town above. Just inside the first of these three little chapels, which technically belong to the north transept, a beautiful renaissance tomb attracts attention. Four kneeling warriors support a slab of black marble, upon which are the armour and accoutrements of the dead General, whose alabaster figure sleeps below. Sir Francis Vere was a member of a famous family, "the fighting Veres," and himself did good service for his queen and country in the Netherlands. The effigy without armour marks the fact that Vere died in his bed, not upon the field of battle. At the extreme end of St. Andrew's Chapel a large and somewhat heavy monument, after the pattern of a four-post bed with a canopy, commemorates "a brood of martial-spirited men," the Norrises, who, like Vere, spent their lives in the service of the Maiden Queen. All, father and sons, were famed in war or distinguished at the council board; four were killed {110} in battle, one died of a broken heart, and the youngest only survived his parents. While all the rest bow their heads in prayer, he alone looks cheerfully upwards. Behind this are the statues of Mrs. Siddons and her brother, John Kemble, to whom we alluded before in connection with the earlier actors and actresses, and other comparatively modern memorials of more or less interest. In the middle chapel, that dedicated to St. Michael, the theatrical monument to Lady Elizabeth Nightingale, a grotesque _tour de force_ of Roubiliac's, is sure to call forth some remarks, but we prefer to pass to a curious tablet on the wall beyond it, which commemorates a certain Mrs. Ann Kirton, with a large eye above it (presumably that of the widower), whence tears pour over the inscription. Hidden away, at the back of another monument on the opposite side, is a tablet in the worst style of the eighteenth century. Above a small sinking ship the large and material soul of a gallant seaman is seen ascending to heaven, and we remind our party of Cowper's well-known poem on the wreck of the _Royal George_ and Admiral Kempenfelt's untimely end. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men. {111} To the right as we pass back again is a mural memorial to Sir John Franklin, the discoverer of the North-West Passage. The loss of himself and of his brave crew amidst impenetrable walls of snow and ice is portrayed upon it; beneath is an oft-quoted epitaph by Tennyson--lines which stir the hearts of all who pause to read them.