he said in a bantering tone; "O fair ladies, how pleasing is this life of yours, if it would ever abide, or if in the end ye might pass to Heaven, with all this fine gear. But fie upon the Knave Death, who will come, whether we will or not; and then when he has laid on his arrest, the foul ugly worms will be busy with this flesh, be it ever so fair, and tender; and as for the silly soul, I fear it will be so feeble, that it will not be able to carry with it, gold garnishing, targetting, and precious stones."

Visions of the many thrilling scenes, enacted in this old Audience Chamber, come thronging upon the mind, as you stand within its now desolate precincts. Here Mary received the homage from many a noble Scottish heart, but oftener from hearts that, even in her presence, were hatching treason against her realm, and person. Arras, and cloth of gold, once covered these old walls—cabinets from Ind, and Venice, of filagree gold and silver, ornamented the interior of this chamber-lamps of silver were hanging from the pendant pinnacles of the fretted ceiling, emblazoned with the royal arms of Scotland, and the escutcheon of the Queen, impaling the royal lilies of France. It was over this old polished floor of oak, the ruthless murderers dragged the screaming Rizzio, to pour out his life-blood, from sixty-two gaping wounds, that had been opened by Scottish daggers.

From this Audience Chamber, you pass by a low door into the bed room of Mary. The ceiling, like that of the Audience Chamber, is divided into compartments of diamond form, adorned with the emblems and initials of Scottish sovereigns—while its walls are rustling with the fluttering of decaying tapestry. The historic and romantic incidents connected with this chamber, render it unques

tionably the most interesting apartment in the Palace; while its melancholy and faded aspect, are in perfect keeping with its tale of sorrow, and of crime. It is indeed a melancholy looking apartment now, with its wretched paintings o'er the mantle, its shreds of silken tapestry fluttering from the walls, and the high-backed and grotesquely looking carved chairs, alone attesting its former magnificence. Here stands the bed, where care so often visited her unquiet pillow-its once beautiful canopy in rags, its richly carved oaken posts mouldering, and worm-eaten ; while the embroidered coverlid that adorned it, is in shreds and tatters. Close by it, stands a large round basket of wicker-work, once used by the unfortunate Queen to hold the baby-linen of her son. Upon a stand near the window is her work-box, once no doubt very elegant, as it was a present from the young Dauphin of France before her marriage; but it bears now very few traces of its former magnificence. As you lift the lid and look into its tarnished French mirror, with the lustre almost gone, you think how often it must have reflected the sad sweet face of its fair owner. How often she must have gazed mournfully at this memento of early affection, recalling as it did, those halcyon hours of youth and happiness, gone never to return, and appearing all the stronger, by the contrast with the gloomy hours, which so often struck a chill to the heart, in the dark and sombre chambers of Holyrood.

From this bed-room, doors lead into two small turretlike chambers. That chamber on your left hand as you enter the bed-room, was used by Mary as a dressing-room and oratory. Her private altar was erected here, and they still show, the exquisitely carved candelabra that adorned

it. A few articles that once graced her toilet, may also be seen upon the table, together with the fragments of an old French mirror, its silvering gone, and frame decayed. Directly opposite the door of this oratory, is the memorable little turret chamber, where Mary was seated at supper, with Rizzio, the Countess of Argyle, and one or two other friends; when the poor Italian was torn screaming from her presence, and dispatched by sixty-two wounds, in one corner of that Audience Chamber, we have just left. The true story of that murder most foul, I believe to be as follows:

Mary was seated in this little turret chamber, that opened into her bed room, at one of those small parties, in the easy cheerfulness of which she took great pleasure. Beside her sat the Countess Argyle, her sister, and one or two others; while Rizzio occupied a seat at the other end of the small table. No noise is heard, no suspicion entertained. The Palace is quietly surrounded by several adherents of the conspirators under Morton. A private staircase, led from Darnley's apartment below, to Mary's bed room; and by this the young Prince ascends, seats himself at the side of the Queen, and with the easy familiarity of the husband, puts his arm around her waist. Shortly after, upon a given signal from Darnley, the curtain of the door, leading into the bed chamber is lifted, and in stalks the fierce Ruthven, in complete armor, his face ghastly alike with sickness and ferocity. Mary quickly disengages herself from the clasp of Darnley, confronts the miscreant, and with that courage for which she was so remarkable; and the early manifestation of which once induced her uncle of Guise to say to her; "had you lived in the days when women went into battle, you would have taught your troops how to die well"-she sternly demanded the

cause of the intrusion, and ordered him instantly to leave her apartment. But ere he could reply, the door opening into the bed room, was crowded with men bearing torches, and brandishing daggers. The next instant, Kerr of Falconside, and George Douglass, a kinsman of Morton's, rush in, dash down the table almost upon the Queen, then dart upon Rizzio, who in an instant shelters himself behind Mary, seizing upon her gown and screaming frantically, justice! justice! madame, save my life! For a moment, his appeal and entreaties keep them back: but Darnley seizing the Queen, tries to tear Rizzio's grasp from her gown, and Douglass snatching Darnley's dagger from its sheath, stabs the crouching Italian, over Mary's shoulder, and left the weapon sticking in his body. The rest of the conspirators, now at this first sight of blood, rush like furious hounds upon their prey, tear him from the grasp of the agonized Queen, and drag him shrieking and struggling on, through the bed and Audience Chamber, stabbing him as they went, until in one corner he fell, and died pierced with sixty-two wounds.

Nothing can show more strongly the ferocious manners of the times, than an incident which now occurred. Ruthven faint from weakness, and reeking from this scene of blood, staggered back again into the Queen's cabinet, where Mary still stood, overwhelmed with apprehension. Here he insolently threw himself upon a seat, called for a cup of wine, and being reproached for the cruelty of his conduct, by the outraged Queen, not only vindicated himself and his associates, but plunged a new dagger into the fluttering heart of his young and beautiful sovereign, by declaring that Darnley her husband, had advised the whole. Mary was then ignorant of the com

pletion of the murder: But suddenly one, of her ladies rushed into the room exclaiming, "poor Rizzio is slain.” "And is it so?" said the indignant Queen, fixing her flashing eyes upon Ruthven-"then farewell tears, it shall be dear blude to some of you. I will now study revenge." The other assassins escaped from a window on the North side of Darnley's apartments, leaping over the garden wall near a small lodge, which is still standing, and where but a few years since, a rusty dagger was found deeply corroded with blood, and bearing the stamp of the family crest of Douglass, one of the conspirators.

It would be hard now, in looking at the little turret chamber, where this dreadful scene was enacted, to imagine that it could ever have been the favorite retreat of royalty, although traces of its former splendor are still discernible in the fragments of silk-hangings still fluttering from its dreary walls. It is a gloomy looking spot now, and really seems as if blasted by the terrible tragedy once enacted within its precincts. A portrait of Rizzio hangs over the the door, a sweet melancholy face, with large lustrous Italian eyes: in gazing at it, one knows not how to reconcile its genuineness, with the contemporary tales of his frightful ugliness. One chronicler gives us this portrait of the Italian secretary-"He is quite ill-favored, having a deformed body, and a most ungracious visage." How far this portraiture was colored by personal hatred to the subject, we cannot say.. In one corner of this chamber, is a helmet and breast-plate very much rust-eaten and corroded, said to have been the very one worn by the fierce Ruthven, when the foul deed of Rizzio's murder was done. As you pass out again through the Audience Chamber, just by the head of the ricketty stairway, your attention is called to a