one sample, in which the beautiful features and grand phenomena are pointed out with perhaps greater effect than would be produced by a more studied description.

It seems to me, when reading this and other passages of a similar character, as if the poet in his proper person had suddenly arrested my attention, and pointed out beauties which my own understanding had failed to appreciate, and then-Nature being left to tell its own story-an impression is made which no words could supply. In allusions of this sort-our Bard's unadorned utterances, if I may so call them, utterances that are expressive of themselves, and unadorned, except with their own simplicity, loveliness, or grandeur-their greatest effect lies not in what they express, but in what they suggest. This suggestiveness I will endeavour to explain, and I can think of no better means of doing so than by drawing once more upon my juvenile artistic experiences.

I never advanced sufficiently far in the art of painting as to be capable of depicting on canvas a whole landscape; but I could pluck a leaf from a tree, a weed from the hedgerow, or a flower from the garden, and show in outline upon paper a fair resemblance of the original. Let anyone with skill sufficiently developed, take, we will say, in the Spring. time of the year, the wild honeysuckle, and draw an outline of it; add to it another outline of the familiar buttercup; then the primrose, the hawthorn-blossom, the drooping laburnum, or anything you can gather from the fields, and with a fair arrangement of your subjects you have a picture of Spring.

We find this perfected in our Shakspeare. In neat, telling outlines, he has sketched Nature in its grandeur or simplicity, his each observation, if not a picture, sufficient to suggest one of its realities, the whole-a garland of poesy. I will now read the passage from the Tempest, to which I allude, in which the fairies are addressed by Prospero. Every sentence, almost every word, is a subject for a painter. There is no soaring up into the seventh heaven, after the style of many of our modern poetasters-these are not lines for the ranting player who likes a part "to tear a cat in; " yet the grand in Nature is touched upon, as well as its simplest beauties:

:

Prospero.-Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew, by whose aid
(Weak masters though ye be) I have bedimm'd
The noontide sun, call'd forth the mutinous words,
And 'twixt the green sea and azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak
With his own bolt; the strong based promontory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck'd up
The pine and cedar; graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, ope'd, and let them forth,
By my so potent art. But this rough magic
I here abjure; and when I have required
Some heavenly music (which even now I do)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book.

The Tempest, Act V. Scene 1.

What can be more beautiful than the picture brought to our minds by the lines

And ye, that on the sands with printless foot

Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back?

The fairies of his imagination are but a foreground to the most exquisite beauty of the golden sea-beach, as soft as velvet to the tread; the white-crested wave, half a mile in length, sounding in musical, but threatening tones, its grand approach, till it bursts upon the beach with a loud crash; then rushes back with hissing, silvery laugh, and is swallowed in the sea.

The jutting promontory of rock carved by old ocean into a thousand fantastic forms; the wheeling, screaming seabirds on its crest; the sky one vast open of blue, an empty heaven-find out such a scene, and, seated in some grassy shady nook, you may enjoy one of the purest delights of which humanity is capable.

An equally beautiful picture-an exquisite little sketch in his native woodlands—is the following:

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk roses and with eglantine.

I have mentioned imaginative descriptions. These occur when the qualities, attributes, or services of fairies, and suchlike fanciful creatures are spoken of; but all have their foundation and derive their appropriateness from that Nature of which Shakspeare was so great a student.

I remember seeing, some years since, a very charming picture of a fairy scene in the Midsummer Night's Dream, in which the artist (Mr. Fitzgerald,) had turned all sorts of little flowers and other natural objects into elves. Shakspeare's own idea was caught by the painter to its very letter as well as spirit, as will be evidenced by the following lines from Romeo and Juliet :—

O, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate-stone
On the fore-finger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep :
Her waggon-spokes made of long-spinners' legs;
The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;
The traces, of the smallest spider's web;
The collars, of the moonshine's watery beams:
Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film:
Her waggoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid:
Her chariot is an empty hazel-nut,
Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub,
Time out of mind the fairies' coach-makers.

I have now briefly alluded to, and illustrated by quotation, the metaphors, similies, and descriptions which we find in such abundance in our great poet's works. They are Shakspeare's sketches, Shakspeare's drawings, Shakspeare's paintings; and something more—we have in them a school for the development of our own understanding; we have the scale of the poet's progressive passion, by which we may eventually appreciate our great master, if not become poets ourselves; we have the means whereby we may become more capable of enjoying the great gladness around us, render life happier, and ourselves better.

HE'S WELCOME HOME AGAIN! A Poem on the Tercentenary of William Shakspeare,

BY WILLIAM READER,

Author of The Ruins of Kenilworth, Lady Godiva of Coventry, The Gleaner, British Rifle and Sea Songs, &c.

DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION,

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE GLEANERS' LITERARY CLUB.

Sublime-ethereal-pure-divine—
Effulgent as the stars that shine-
Immortal in his every line,

Will. Shakspeare lives for aye!

He lives-and time shall ne'er efface
The footprints that we love to trace-
And his the lofty form and face

That never shall decay!
Confessed the Master of the Mind,
Around his brow we chaplets bind-
And amaranthes our love has twined,
To grace his blooming bay.

His e'er shall be the foremost place-
A monarch of the human race-
And his the majesty and grace

Of an imperial sway.

He lives he reigns in every heart
Where pure refined emotions start-
And round us still the sunbeams dart

Of his resplendent day!

His was the wondrous magic pen
That wrote upon the hearts of men-
Whose like we ne'er shall see again,
As he himself doth say.

And his the ever-tuneful tongue
That charms alike both old and young-
Which through the world like trumpet rung
To summon his array!

He lives-he lives! once more-once more—
We greet him as in days of

And welcome, too, is he

yore,

In English homes-at English hearths—

Of high and low degree.

In sunny fields and moonlight paths
His well-known form we see-
Or strolling by the flowery side
Of silver Avon's rippling tide,

Now in the sad-now mirthful mood

In which he oft fair Nature wooed :
Or lingering near his favourite tree,*
Spell-bound in fitful reverie,
Or gazing on the golden corn,
Or listening to the hunter's horn;

Or glancing at the lark that sings

At heaven's own gate, with outstretched wings.

Home he comes-once more-once more,
In the habit that he wore,
To the chamber of his birth,

To his cradle here on earth,

To his gentle mother's knee,

To his happy infancy,

To his father's pious rule,

To his "satchel" and his school,

To the meadows where he played,
To the woodland's chequered shade,

*The Mulberry tree, planted by Shakspeare's own hand at his house in Stratford (New Place), cut down by order of the Rev. Francis Gastrell (owner of the property) in 1756. The greater part of this celebrated tree was purchased by Thomas Sharp, of Stratford, who manufactured thereof a variety of curious mementoes: as sworn by him, on his deathbed, before Richard Allen, Mayor of Stratford, October 14, 1799.

"

To his hours of social glee,
To his "Rose of Shottery,'
To his study and his pen,
To the busy haunts of men,
To the "Globe"+ now all his own,
To the cottage and the throne:
To the church wherein he prayed,
Where his honoured bones are laid.
Three hundred years-three hundred years-
Of mingled good and ill,

Of gleaming sunlight, and of gloom-
Yet Shakspeare's matchless still!
High-soaring o'er the loftiest Bards,
Though heaven-inspired they be,
Chief of the "corps d'élite" of earth-
The Sons of Poesy.

Once more in "pride of place" he stands,
Behold him even here!

Once more we grasp his English hands,
Like those of comrade dear:

Once more we have him in our midst-
Ay, ever so is he,

Our honoured friend-our welcome guest-
Our household deity!

The great Magician who at will

Our hearts in thrall can hold,

The Alchymist whose wondrous skill
Can turn our dross to gold,

The Painter-more than Zeuxis famed-
With grace and beauty rife,

The Sculptor-like Praxiteles-
That e'en outdoes the life:

The Preacher-in whose graphic words
Are wisdom, wit, and truth-
The Nestor of our reverend age,
The Mentor of our youth:
The Poet-the Philosopher-
The mighty Wizard-Seer,
That in his glorious attributes
Hath never had compeer.

With him we ramble through the copse,
Or by the babbling brook,

Or don the jester's cap and bells
Beside our "ingle-nook :"
Or revel in the castle-hall,

Or mount the donjon-tower-
Or dream of love's elysium,
Within " my lady's bower."
Or with him sport with elfin-fays,
Amid the moonbeams bright;
Or shudder at the spectre raised
At "witching hour of night."
With him we may patrol the camp→
Or range the battle-field,

And view the warrior's dancing crest,

His flashing sword and shield-

And mark the war-horse proudly tramp
Amid the "plump of spears,'

And feel the very shock of war,

That now rings in our ears.

Or brave the "Tempest's" yeasty waves,
That with its howling blast

Doth rock the ship-boy as he clings
High on the giddy mast.

Or with him muse and moralize,
For "life is but a span,"

And never yet was nobler theme
Than William Shakspeare's
S-

"Man."

* Anne Hathaway, the wife of Shakspeare, was a native of Shottery, a small hamlet about a mile from Stratford-on-Avon. The house is still to be seen-in nearly its original conditionand is well worthy of a visit, as the veritable rural homestead of a substantial English yeoman of three hundred years ago.

† In 1589, Shakspeare was one of the proprietors of the Globe Theatre, Blackfriars, London; destroyed by fire in 1613.

There's not a phase of human life

Whate'er its aspect be,

But mirror'd as in crystal stream
On Shakspeare's page we see:
There's not a passion thrills the heart-

Or sways the stubborn mind,

But in his "Pictures of the Past,"
Apt illustration find :-

Of laughing joy, whose rosy hours
Are redolent with mirth;

Of care-worn, pale, and haggard grief,
With not a hope on earth;

Of happy, fond, confiding love,
In its ethereal state;
Of "green-eyed," cruel jealousy,
With its relentless hate;
Of busy, struggling industry,

Whose labour is its pride;
Of listless, heedless indolence,

That hopeful hearts deride;
Of meek and dove-eyed gentleness,
All free from earthly stain;

Of supercilious arrogance,

And haughty, cold disdain;

Of affable benevolence,

With heaven itself imbued;
Of grasping, lawless avarice,

That's with the world at feud;
Of lofty courage-true as steel-
That can no danger see;
Of quaking, timorous, craven fear,
That doth at shadows flee;

Of faith and hope-serene and pure—
And steadfast in their trust;
Of superstition's baleful blight,

That withereth to the dust;
Of charity, whose liberal hand

Diffuseth good by stealth;

Of classic learning's priceless store
Of literary wealth.

All-all that's noble, great, and wise,

Though mixed with earthly leaven,
Hath he refined and purified,
And tinged with hues of heaven.
April comes impearled with dew,
Primrose pale and violet blue,
Daffodils in green and gold,
Budding copse and blooming wold,
Blossoms on the laden trees,
Fragrance in the fitful breeze,
Songsters in the woodland bowers,
Sunny gleams and hasty showers.
April comes-like timid maid-
Half assured and half afraid,

Now with hopes and now with fears,
Now in smiles and now in tears,
Now coquetish, cross, and coy,
Now with rosy blushing joy,
Now with cold and frowning face,
Now with sweet bewitching grace :
Ever fair and ever young-
Such the maid that Shakspeare sung.
Such the day and such the dawn,
When our infant Bard was born;
Such the time and such the tide,
When our gifted Poet died.*
Oft as rolling years depart,
Do they speak unto the heart;
Oft as rolling years return,

Do they make the bosom burn,
Thrill the soul, and fill the eye
With the tears of ecstasy.

*Shakspeare was born April 23, 1564; died April 23, 1616.

How shall we do him honour, then?

Let Queen Victoria speak!*
A tribute "In Memoriam,"

Full royally we seek.
Old England hath decreed it—
And who shall say her nay?
A triumph to her Shakspeare
Upon his natal day!

A triumph! ay, a jubilee!
Such homage doth he claim,
Who peerless stands unchallenged
In the zenith of his fame!

A triumph! ay, such triumph
Round his dear old house at home,
As never yet had conqueror

In proud imperial Rome!

How shall we do him honour, then?
Let England's voice declare!
Patrician and plebeian hands

Are busy everywhere.

The pen-the pencil-and the press,
The lyre-the loom-the spade, †
With lofty and impassioned zeal
Have his ovation made:
Our manhood and our womanhood-
Our beauty and our strength-
The pride and glory of our realm
Throughout its breadth and length,
Have sung their pæans in his praise,
In chamber and in hall-
Have triumphed in his glorious Plays,
And crowned him prince of all.

Hail, Stratford! thou with heart elate,
Exulting in thine "high estate,"
Amidst the wise, and good, and great,

All honour hast thou won!
Fill-fill the cup, and pass it round,
From silver Avon's classic ground,
E'en to the earth's remotest bound,
Where sympathetic hearts are found-
"To thine immortal Son!"
Behold his bright illustrious name,
High blazoned on the rolls of Fame!
And his shall be the world's acclaim

Till time has ceased to run :
Till mind and language both decay-
Till earth itself shall pass away-
His wondrous words shall with us stay,
Excelled-eclipsed-by none!

Hail! Stratford, hail! what joy to thee
Is this his Tercentenary

In that fair town of thine!
Now, as of old, by land and sea
Do eager pilgrims crowd to thee,
With zeal almost divine,

To share thy Shakspeare's jubilee,
And worship at his shrine!
Hark! hark! the bells-the merry bells!
They're ringing out amain,

And joyful tell o'er hill and dell,

Will Shakspeare's come again!

Hark! hark! his voice-rejoice, rejoice!
He has not lived in vain;

For every tongue in England swells
The echoes of her merry bells,

He's welcome home again!

to the

* Queen Victoria presented "The Shakspeare Oak people of England: planted on Primrose Hill, April 23, 1864. The Shakspeare Tercentenary Poems, Essays, Songs, &c. The Shakspeare-Portrait Ribbon, woven in the looms of the city of Coventry, "in memoriam :"-the Poet's "book-mark." Pæan: a Hymn or Song of Victory, sung to Apollo.

SHAKSPEARE'S RICHARD THE THIRD.

BY W. H. OVERALL.

ONE of the greatest of the historical plays of our immortal Shakspeare is that of Richard the Third. One would imagine that it was, to use a modern phrase, quite a "sensation" drama in the great Bard's time. Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to prove that the character of Richard, as portrayed by Shakspeare was historically incorrect; and purposely so depicted for no other conceivable motive than stage effect. Shakspeare has made Richard a man crooked and deformed both in mind and body, a confused heap of darkest wickedness and bloody crime. He has made him towering and lofty; equally impetuous and commanding; haughty, violent, and subtle; bold and treacherous; confident in his strength as well as in his cunning; raised high by his birth, and higher by his talents and his crimes: a royal usurper, a princely hypocrite, a tyrant, and lastly a coldblooded murderer. But in order to properly understand the character of Richard, we must bear in mind the previous play of Henry the Sixth, Part III. Act V. Scene 6. A Room in the Tower

K. Hen.-Hadst thou been killed when first thou didst presume,
Thou hadst not lived to kill a son of mine.

And thus I prophecy,-that many a thousand
Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear;

And many an old man's sigh, and many a widow's,
And many an orphan's water-standing eye

(Men for their sons', wives for their husbands' fate,
And orphans for their parents' timeless death),
Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born.
The owl shrieked at thy birth; an evil sign:
The night-crow cried; aboding luckless time:
Dogs howled, and hideous tempests shook down trees :
The raven rooked her on the chimney's top,

And chattering pies in dismal discords sung.

Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born,
To signify thou cam'st to bite the world:
And if the rest be true which I have heard,

Thou cam'st

[Stabs him.

Glo'ster. I'll hear no more :-Die, prophet, in thy speech! For this, amongst the rest was I ordained.

[Dies.

K. Hen.-Ay, and for much more slaughter after this.
O God! forgive my sins, and pardon thee!
Glo'ster.-What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted.
See how my sword weeps for the poor King's death!
O may such purple tears be always shed
From those that wish the downfall of our house!-
If any spark of life be yet remaining, [Stabs him again.
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither;
I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear.—
Indeed 'tis true that Henry told me of.

Then since the heavens have shaped my body so,
Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer it.

I have no brother; I am like no brother:

And this word love, which greybeards call divine,
Be resident in men like one another,

And not in me; I am myself alone.

In the play of Richard III. we get a good insight of the mode of living in London of the princely merchants and citizens; also of several celebrated localities-the Tower, Baynard's Castle, the Guildhall, Crosby Hall and Place, the Whitefriars, &c.

The play opens with a Street in London.

In this scene Glo'ster congratulates the house of York upon the accession of Edward IV.

Scene 2.-Another Street. Enter the corpse of King Henry the Sixth in an open coffin, and Lady Anne, as

mourner.

In this scene the consummate villany of the Duke is most forcibly depicted. This, I shall show you, could only have been the work of the Poet's brain.

And then we have in Act III. Scene 4, the quarrel between the Duke and Hastings, Glo'ster and Buckingham, and the final scene of the murder of the two Princes.

This would seem to crown all his bloody deeds: but is this story true, or was it only the gossip of the day? This I shall endeavour to explain in the following sketch of Richard the Third, of history.

Richard Duke of Gloucester, afterwards King Richard III. was born in the princely castle of Fotheringay, in Northamptonshire, on 2nd of October 1452. He was the eleventh child of Richard Plantagenet Duke of York, and was sixth in descent from King Edward III. His mother was Cecily, daughter of Ralph Neville Earl of Westmoreland, by Joan Beaufort, daughter of John of Gaunt Duke of Lancaster: thus we can trace the lineage of this brave man back to a right noble stock. His mother was one of the most beautiful women of her time. She lived to hear of Richard's death at Bosworth Field.

It was the singular fortune of this illustrious lady to have lived in the reigns of five Sovereigns, and to have been the contemporary of six Queens of England and of five Princes of Wales.

For her sons she secured the best education of the times, devoting herself with unwearying care to the advancement of their welfare in every way.

You will thus see that Richard, when but a mere child, was a witness of the early struggles between York and Lancaster-which hurried his father to the grave, and eventually raised his brother Edward to the throne.

At the battle of Bloreheath, the Duke of York his father, and his brother the Earl of Rutland were slain. In the course of events we find that the Duchess, with the younger children, took refuge in the Low Countries, and we see Richard pursuing his studies under the first men of Utrecht. His brother the Earl of March, succeeded to his father's title of Duke of York, and with it to his father's claims to the throne; and although only in his twentieth year, he not only asserted his claims, but upheld them with the fearlessness and valour of a great General. At Mortimer's Cross he gave battle to and defeated the army of King Henry, and in two days after reached London and mounted the throne as Edward IV. The King no sooner found himself secure on his seat, than he sent for his younger brothers, and made George Duke of Clarence, and Richard, who was then only nine years of age, Duke of Gloucester. It would then seem from documents in the Exchequer Chamber, that they were put under the care and instruction of the great Warwick. It is said at the time he was considered the bravest lad of his age. After this date it would appear from history that Richard was a great favourite of his brother: this is clearly demonstrated by the almost incredible wealth and estates heaped upon him by the King. In 1462 he gave him the domains of John Lord Clifford, and in the same year the castle and fee-farm of the town of Gloucester, the castle and manors of Somerset: in all, about forty-six manors.

In 1465 he created him Knight of the Garter, and in 1496 caused him to be summoned to Parliament. In 1461 he made him High Admiral of England, besides several other offices; and lastly, in 1474 made him Lord Chamberlain. It must also be remembered, that more than one of these great appointments required that the person holding them should be gifted with singular ability, for on him devolved an authority which rendered him the most powerful subject in the realm. That a Monarch, therefore, so notoriously jealous, as Edward IV. who, moreover, had already been deceived by a favourite brother-the fickle and ungrateful Clarence-should have conferred on a third brother wealth so vast, and power so great, evinces not only how high was the opinion he had formed of Richard's talents, but also how great was the confidence he placed in his loyalty and integrity. Indeed, it is quite clear that Richard of Gloucester was to the last a faithful and loyal subject of Edward IV.

For instance, when the King became an exile, with him went Gloucester: when he returned, it is well known with what deference Edward treated the advice of his younger brother in council: and we find, at the battle of Barnet, Gloucester entrusted with the command of the right wing of the army, and opposed to the great Earl Warwick himself. In this battle Warwick was slain, and Gloucester and his army were successful on all sides. He is said, by the chroniclers of the time, to have been in the thickest of the fight. He fought most valiantly again at Tewkesbury: in this battle he led the van, and to his skill the victory was in a great measure owing. Thus, by his valour and generalship he secured his brother upon the throne; and, at eighteen years of age we find him respected at the council table, and admired for his chivalry in the field of battle. The first crime he is charged with, is the way in which he shared in the murder of the Prince of Wales, after this battle of this story we have many accounts, but the most to be trusted state that the Prince was slain during the pursuit: and the rest of the scene is a myth. Neither can I understand how this young and brave man could have become the coldblooded assassin represented.

We next come to the murder of King Henry VI. This deed Shakspeare has ascribed to Gloucester: (see Play of Henry VI.) In this respect several of the old chroniclers have confirmed him-but only by hearsay.

Now let us quietly examine the various circumstances of the case. The King and Gloucester arrived in London on a certain day, and went to the Tower, and there they received many deputations-the Mayor, Aldermen, and Citizens, &c. The Constable of the Tower was Earl Rivers, a man not likely to lend himself to such a crime. The old King was guarded by twelve persons: and then bear in mind that Gloucester was only eighteen years of age, and had a good name to lose, and nothing to gain. If we are to believe the story, we must imagine Gloucester in town only one day, and full of most important engagements, and yet stealing off to murder a poor old man who in the course of nature could not last very long. Then we have the story of his courting Lady Anne over the dead body of her father!

That such a scene of intemperate recrimination should have taken place between a royal youth of eighteen and a high-born lady is extremely unlikely. Now this could only have been in the brains of the writer, for at that time she would have been a prisoner in the Tower, and he marching with the King his brother against the Bastard Falconbridge.

Now look at the opposite picture: instead of the lady hating him in the violent way Shakspeare has depicted, when he discovered her in very humble circumstances, which she had assumed, she placed herself under his protection, and he took her to the sanctuary of St. Martin's-le-Grand, from whence she was transferred to her uncle the Archbishop of York. In the meantime Gloucester made successful suit for her hand, and they were married in 1472.

We next come to the assumption of the crown by Richard, and we are told the story of the council board, the withered arm, and the death of Hastings. This tale, at first blush, appears to carry on the face of it all the evidence of truth; but upon a proper investigation it melts into smoke. It is nothing more than the gossip of the day—and the witchcraft of the day-that Shakspeare has depicted so forcibly; and which, strange to say, has been received and recorded by the historian as a veritable occurrence.

:

We then have the brutal murder of the two Princes in the Tower and again, the loud and joyous shouts of the Londoners at the coronation of Richard, as if satisfied that he was entitled to the throne.

The facts are simply these. The people believed that, under Richard, a man just in his prime, and having the talents he had already shown both at the council and in the field, they would be better governed than under a minor the young King being only thirteen years old. It would then appear that the chief people wished for the throne to be occupied by Richard III. and the young King and his brother were sent to the Tower of London. Now comes the gravest charge of all. Did the King their uncle kill them, or have them killed, is the question? The evidence against the King is to some extent very strong. Sir Thomas More after stating that "James Tyrrell devised that they should be murdered in their beds, and no bloodshed," employing as in the play, Forrest and Dighton; then tells us they were buried "at the foot of the stairs, and covered over with stones." Some time after, it is affirmed by the same author, that Richard ordered them a more honourable interment, and a priest was appointed to that task, who had them reinterred with all honours, but dying shortly after did not disclose their graves. More was a contemporary, and one would, therefore, give some credit to his story, and more especially as in the reign of Charles II. two bodies were found, the bones in size corresponding to the ages of the two children, under the stairs in the chamber in the Tower, where they are said to have been murdered. They were removed to Henry the Seventh's Chapel, Westminster, and reinterred, with an inscription declaring that these were the bodies of Edward the Fifth and his brother. This is the foundation of all the stories relating to this historical event, and one that has been much controverted. Now the evidence against More is, that he was a partisan and living under the sway of the house of Lancaster, and it was his desire to serve his master Henry VII., which put it into his head to believe the current stories of the people. This is evident from his description of Richard, for in this he has followed the stories of the day. He says, "he was little of stature, ill-featured of limbs, crook-backed, his left shoulder being much higher than his right.”

Now when we have positive evidence, which will convince any reasonable mind, that he was a man of fine features, robust, of high martial bearing, most courageous, and also courted by the nobility, can anything prove more decidedly