ng; the armory, with its stacked arms for thirty thousand men. "We
may have occasion to use them," said the guide, facetiously, making some
reference to the speech of Mr. Sumner, just then acting the part of a
stick to stir up the British lion. The Yankee chuckled complacently, and
we, too, refused to quake. There was a room filled with instruments of
torture, diabolical inventions, recalling the days of the Inquisition.
The Yankee expressed a desire to "see how some o' them things worked."
Opening from this was an unlighted apartment, with walls of stone, a
dungeon indeed, in which we were made to believe that Sir Walter Raleigh
spent twelve years of his life. No shadow of doubt would have fallen
upon our unquestioning minds, had we been told that he amused himself
during this time by standing upon his head. "Walk in, walk in," said the
smiling guide, as we peered into its darkness. We obeyed. "Now," said
he, "that you may appreciate his situation, I will step out and close
the door." The little old woman screamed; the Yankee made one stride to
the opening; the guide laughed. It was only a professional joke; there
was no door. We saw the bare prison-room, with its rough fireplace, the
slits between the stones of the wall to admit light and air, and the
initials of Lady Jane Grey, with a host more of forgotten names, upon
the walls. Just outside, within the quadrangle, where the grass grew
green beneath the summer rain, she was beheaded,--poor little
innocent,--who had no desire to be a queen! In another tower close by,
guarded by iron bars, were the royal jewels and the crown, for which all
this blood was shed--pretty baubles of gold and precious stones, but
hardly worth so many lives.

You remember the story of the princes smothered in the Tower by command
of their cruel uncle? There was the narrow passage in the wall where the
murderers came at night; the worn step by which they entered the great,
bare room where the little victims slept; the winding stairs down which
the bodies were thrown. Beneath the great stone at the foot they were
secretly buried. Then the stairway was walled up, lest the stones should
cry out; and no one knew the story of the burial until long, long
afterwards--only a few years since--when the walled-up stairway was
discovered, the stones at the foot displaced, and a heap of dust, of
little crumbling bones, revealed it. A rosy-faced, motherly woman, the
wife of a soldier quartered in the barrac