THE TOWER.
To visit the Tower is to draw aside the curtain that separates the past
from the present. It is to go back a thousand years, and commune with
those who have long ages been dust, and of whom only a memory remains.
Once in the Tower, one seems to be with them, to see them, and to feel
their influence as though they were living, moving beings, and not
historical ghosts.
The vast structure, now in the heart of the great city, though once on
its borders, is as much out of place in this day and age of the world,
as a soldier would be in any of the suits of armor within its walls. It
is war in the midst of peace, it is a fortress surrounded by traffic, it
is lawless force against law, it is simply an incongruity, and only
valuable and interesting as showing what was, in comparison with what
is.
It was built originally as a stronghold, to keep the fiery and oft-times
rebellious citizens of London in check, and was afterward occupied
alternately, or at the same time, as a prison or palace. Many a terrible
drama has been enacted within the ancient walls, many a broken heart has
wasted away within the solid stone in its gloomy dungeons, and many a
noble head has parted company with its body, under its cold shadow, and
there is any quantity of "human interest," as the dramatists say,
connected with it. There is a strong flavor of murder all through it,
there is cruelty written upon every stone, and treachery and death on
every inch of the cold, paved floors.
If a king desired to put quietly out of the way a dangerous rival, or if
he lusted after a woman, or wanted anything that was especially unlawful
and damnable, he could not have been better fixed for the business than
with this fortress, provided he had a sufficient number of servitors to
do his bidding faithfully. And that sort of material was very plenty, in
those days, for kings who had the means of rewarding them. The devil
himself could not have fitted up a better arrangement if he had given
his whole mind to the matter, and his ability in this direction is
unquestioned.
There are dungeons where an unfortunate's cries could never be heard;
there are cells so strong that escape was simply impossible, even
without the watchful care of the soldiery with which it was filled, and
in short over each of its gates might well be written, "Who enters here
leaves hope behind." It is a wonderful but an intensely disagreeable
place.
These old places are not the most cheerful in the world, but still I
like them. A ride behind a tandem team through the green lanes of
Hampstead, with the beautiful hedges on either hand, and the quaint old
houses with their steep red-tiled roofs, and their low rooms and curious
little windows that look more like eyes than windows, the broad fields,
grass green, (grass is greener in England than America,) with the
beautiful sleek cattle feeding peacefully, is a more pleasant thing, for
it is a singular as well as delightful mixture of to-day and yesterday.
The fields and cattle are of to-day, the houses are of a long ago
yesterday, but there is added what the Tower has not, the sun, which is
of yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, shining down, and lighting up the
quiet glories that surround you. This is not depressing. The houses fit
the atmosphere--in good sooth I cannot imagine such houses in any other
atmosphere, and certainly the atmosphere would not be complete without
the houses. Everything adapts itself to everything else. A pale face
would be as much out of place in an American rum shop as a strawberry
patch in an alkaline desert. Rum requires something lurid--the quiet,
soft, hazy English atmosphere exactly fits the soft brown and the
subdued red that almost narrowly escapes being a brown of the houses.
[Sidenote: THE CHEERFULNESS OF THE TOWER.]
But in the Tower you have nothing that is soft, nothing that is
pleasant, nothing one would like to have about him.
The Tower is a good thing for a world to see, so that it can know what
to avoid.
Two teachers of elocution were in great rivalry. One gave an exhibition
with his pupils.
"Where are your classes to-day?" asked a friend of the other one.
"Gone to Mr. Blank's exhibition."
"Do you permit your pupils to attend your rival's exhibition?"
"Certainly. I want them to learn what to avoid."
No light ever penetrates its gloomy walls. There are but two colors--the
blackened wood painted by time, and the cold gray of the stones. All the
color indicates cruelty--the very stones typify the character of the men
who put them together, and their successors who used them. It is the
cruelest appearing place on the face of the earth, now that the French
Bastile is gone, and I doubt if a Frenchman could possibly construct a
place so grimly severe, so unutterably merciless as the Tower. He would
have had some fancy about it--it would have been lighted up somehow.
The Tower is so severe that a picture of a beheading, or of a torture,
would be cheerful by contrast and improve it.
I would suggest now, that to enliven the old place a bit, and save a man
from giving way too much to the depression that governs the spot, that a
fresco be painted representing the burning of John Rogers at the stake,
or the disemboweling of the Waldenses, or some cheerful historical
picture of that kind. Should the artist select pictures from Fox's Book
of Martyrs, that one where the soldiers are crowding people off a
precipice so that they fall upon iron spikes about four feet long, would
impart a cheerful tone to the surroundings in the Tower and make one
feel more kindly toward his race.
As it is, he who enters and stays awhile becomes a convert to the
doctrine of Total Depravity. He gets blood-thirsty himself, and feels
like snatching up some one of the million weapons that are stored there
and killing somebody. The articles preserved with so much care are all
suggestive of blood. It is a Moloch of a place; but one must see it, all
the same.
The most cheerful place in the great structure is the jewel room, or
tower, as it is called. It isn't very much of a room, but there is a
great deal in it which is of interest. Here are kept the regalia
appertaining to the throne. In glass cases very carefully guarded are
all the crowns of the royal family, and the scepters and things which
they display on state occasions, and a rare lot they are.
[Illustration: THE JEWEL TOWER.]
[Sidenote: THE ROYAL JEWELS.]
The prevailing impression among those not used to royalty is that the
King and Queen and the rest of their "royal nibses," as an American
would irreverently say, go about dressed in velvet robes, covered with
jewels, with crowns upon their heads; that when the Queen goes to bed at
night she removes the crown, or a dozen maids of honor do it for her,
and that she resumes it the first thing in the morning, before she comes
down to breakfast. A moment's reflection will show any one the
impossibility of anything of the kind. A crown would be no protection
for the head, and velvet robes would be exceedingly warm in summer, and
not warm enough in winter; and besides were the Queen to wear a crown
with some millions of dollars' worth of precious stones in it, some
enterprising footpad would have it in no time, and then what would she
do?
For these reasons, which ought to be satisfactory to any reflective
mind, the crowns and articles of like nature are kept in the tower, and
are only worn on state occasions, when the public want a free show.
At all other times the Queen dresses like any other lady, with a regular
dress, and bustles, and all that sort of thing, and a bonnet, and she
dresses frightfully plain, so all the milliners and modistes say, too
plain for their trade; for Victoria, to a certain extent, sets the
fashion, which the court follows.
But in these cases you shall see the Queen's crown, a cap of purple
velvet enclosed in hoops of silver, surmounted by a ball and cross, and
glittering with actual diamonds. In the center is an immense sapphire,
and in front is a famous heart-shaped ruby, said to have been worn by
the Black Prince. I don't know the value of this article, or where he
stole it, but if Victoria gets hard-up and wants to raise money, I
presume the Jews in Petticoat Lane would advance a million or two on it,
and take their chances. Queens have done this before now, and all the
crown jewels in Europe have been in the hands of the Israelites at
different times; but I rather think Victoria will worry through. She has
an income of many thousands of pounds a year, and is very economical. If
I remember aright, she sent the starving Irish a thousand pounds, which
was about her income for an hour. And then an admiring Parliament, to
make it good to her, voted her thirty thousand pounds sterling, which
the people accepted without a murmur. She finds profit in liberality.
Then there is St. Edward's Crown, the Prince of Wales's, the ancient
Queen's Crown, the Queen's Diadem, that of Charles the Second, and a
dozen or two others, with scepters and rods, and all sorts of things
which are carried before, or behind, or on one side or the other, of
Kings and Queens, on occasions of great solemnity, when the people are
to be impressed with a sense of the importance of these individuals to
the world at large. The famous Koihnoor, stolen from an East India
Prince, some years since, is there--in glass, which is a swindle. We
wanted, and expected, when we paid our sixpence, to see the genuine
article, not a base imitation. It is as it is at side-shows at a circus,
you are allured inside by a picture of a vast giraffe, nipping boughs
from trees, and when you have paid and are in, you are shown a stuffed
giraffe, who can no more eat boughs from tall trees than he could preach
a funeral sermon. Possibly we should have demanded our money back, but
we didn't.
[Illustration: SIR MAGNUS' MEN.]
[Sidenote: THE HORSE ARMORY.]
From the jewel room you pass on to an infinity of towers, all through
long halls, how long I can't say, filled with all sorts of armor and
weapons. Horses are set up and figures placed upon them, dressed in the
identical armor worn by the old kings and nobles, who, in their day,
rode about the country clad in iron fish scales, with a half ton of
iron, more or less, on their heads, engaged in the (to them) delightful
occupation of burning each other's castles and killing the occupants.
They did not require a "cause," or anything of the sort. If Sir Hugh
Bloody-bones wanted the wife or daughter of Sir Magnus Blunderbore, he
simply donned his iron, picked up his lance, called together the
inferior cut-throats who followed and lived upon him, and went for it.
Sir Magnus, if not surprised and murdered in cold blood, and he was
generally not, for those old ruffians slept upon their arms, harried the
country for supplies, shut the clumsy gates of his castle, and stood the
siege. If the castle was carried, all within were put to death, except
such of Sir Magnus' cut-throats who were willing to join Sir Hugh, the
women were carried off, and so on. The survivors were willing, always,
to join the victor. The successful Knight would say, "Now look here, you
fellows, Sir Magnus is dead. I slew him, and you can't get provisions
from him any more, while with me there will always be plenty of prog. I
shall keep you busy, for there are other castles to storm, and I am not
very particular with my men."
And they would all "take service," as they called it, with the
successful robber, and go right on as usual. They would take anything.
It was a cheerful life these ancient murderers lived, though the people
who supported them didn't find it so pleasant.
The Horse Armory, so called because the figures in it are mostly
equestrian, is one hundred and fifty feet in length by thirty-four in
width. There sits a Knight of the time of Henry VI., in complete armor,
lance and all, just as he appeared when he started out to kill somebody
and steal his effects. The armor, understand, is not a _fac-simile_, it
is the genuine thing, actually worn by the marauder of that time. Then
come Knights of the time of Edward III. and Edward IV., both on their
horses and armored from top to bottom. How any man could carry such a
load of iron and sit upon a horse, and how any horse could carry such a
mass of iron, with his own, for the horses were armored also, passes my
comprehension. Imagine a man in July, with the thermometer at
ninety-five in the shade, with a steel pot on his head, covering his
face entirely, with little holes to admit air, with a breast-plate of
boiler-iron, and a similar one on his back, with his arms and hands
guarded with iron, and his legs and feet likewise, with swords and
battle-axes, and daggers hung to him, and a lance fourteen feet in
length, to handle, doing battle. Yet they wore all this, and in
Palestine, and in every other hot country in the world.
[Illustration: HORSE ARMORY.]
Woe to the Knight who was unhorsed with all this pot-metal on him. He
couldn't rise under the load, and the other one could prod him to death
at his leisure, and enjoy himself at it as long as he pleased.
[Sidenote: BLUFF KING HARRY.]
Next to this is the figure of that wonderful old Mormon, Henry VIII. The
armor on this figure is the most curious and valuable in the collection.
It was presented to him on the occasion of his marriage to Catherine,
his No.--,--I forget what her number was--and he wore it at many a
tournament. This King, it will be remembered, had a way of getting rid
of wives that was far superior to Indiana divorce courts. Whenever he
saw a woman that he thought he wanted, and he had an eye for women, he
merely accused his wife of being unfaithful to him, and had a court
which always brought her in guilty, and her head was chopped off without
ceremony, and he married his new flame, only to accuse her and bring her
before the court and chop her head off in her turn. He finished eight in
this way. It was the Pope's opposition to one of these little
arrangements that brought about the divorce of England from the Church
of Rome, and was the beginning of the Protestant movement. But for
Henry's terrible liking for women and his peremptory and decisive way of
divorcing wives, I probably to-day should have been a Catholic! What
great events spring from trifling causes.
[Illustration: ST. JOHN'S CHAPEL.]
All the way down the long hall are equestrian figures, all armed in the
identical armor worn by the men whose names they bear, and between the
figures are the arms of the various periods of English history since men
took to killing each other as a trade. In this and adjoining halls are
grouped very artistically the arms of every country of the globe, and of
all ages and times. There are guns of every possible kind, most of them
of very rare workmanship, for the mechanics of those old days put more
work upon arms than upon anything else, and swords and daggers, and
battle-axes, and various devices for knocking out brains.
[Illustration: ST. THOMAS'S TOWER.]
[Sidenote: THE BLOODY STRUCTURE.]
By the way, the revolver is popularly supposed to be an American
invention, but it is not. There are a score of revolvers here that were
made almost as soon as gunpowder was invented and came into use. The
very one from which Colonel Colt got the idea of a repeating arm is
here, and it is identical in construction with that which now graces the
thighs of so many Americans, and which has done so much for the glory of
our happy country. They were not very much used, however, as, owing to
the imperfect means of firing the loads, all the barrels were liable to
go off at once, invariably killing the shooter without materially
damaging the shootee. The invention of the percussion cap made the
revolver practicable, and Colonel Colt's widow is living in great
luxury upon an idea taken by her husband from the Tower of London, the
work of some humble mechanic hundreds of years ago. I doubt not that if
she could find the heirs of that mechanic she would pension them. But
they were doubtless all killed in the wars of the day, and so it
probably would not be worth her while to try to seek them out.
[Illustration: GENERAL VIEW OF THE TOWER.]
To enumerate everything that is curious in the way of arms and armor in
this hall would be to make a catalogue. It takes more than a day to
merely see (not study) this collection, and then one has his mind
overloaded.
The different buildings that make up what is known collectively as the
Tower, have all histories, and all bloody ones. There is nothing but
blood connected with it. In the White Tower, Sir Walter Raleigh was
confined, and near his den is that once occupied by Rudstone, Culpepper,
and Sir Thomas Wyat, who were all beheaded on Tower Hill. The Council
Room was used by the Kings when they wanted to give some sort of show of
law for a murder, and in this the Council sat when Richard III. ordered
Lord Hastings to instant execution.
The Bloody Tower (that would be the proper name for all of them) was
where Richard III. was supposed to have murdered the two children of
Edward IV., his brother, on which event Shakespeare founded his play of
that name. Some English historians have endeavored to show that Richard
was no such a man as Shakespeare represents. Instead of being a hump
backed, distorted villain, such as we see upon the stage, they insist
that he was the handsomest man of his time; that he did not even try to
murder the Princes, and, moreover, that he was one of the most humane,
politic Kings England ever had, and during his short reign of nine
months, instituted material reforms, and did more to promote the welfare
of England than any King who had preceded or followed him. Also, they
deny the story of his drowning his brother Clarence in a butt of Malmsey
wine, and likewise his murder of King Henry.
[Illustration: THE BLOODY TOWER.]
[Sidenote: THE MUCH-ABUSED KING RICHARD.]
Probably these historians are right. Since it has been shown that
General Jackson did not fight his men behind a breastwork of cotton
bales, a delusion that grew up with me, and since it has been
demonstrated that there is no maelstrom on the coast of Norway, that
takes down ships and whales into its terrible vortex, as shown in the
ancient geographies of thirty years ago, I have lost faith in
everything. When I want romance I read history, and when I hunger for
history I read novels. But whether he was a good man or a bad,
[Illustration: THE PRESUMED DROWNING OF CLARENCE IN A BUTT OF WINE.]
Shakespeare has fixed his flint for all time. The essayist may essay,
and facts may be piled up mountain high in his favor, but Richard will
always appear to us as Shakespeare painted him, a hump-backed,
withered-legged man with a villainous face, killing Princes, stabbing
Kings and drowning brothers in wine. Still, I don't suppose Richard
cares now what is said of him. If he killed the Princes, they, dying
young and before they could be Kings, and consequently comparatively
pure, he will never meet them. If he did not, and is with them, they
have had ample time to arrange their little differences. The opinion of
the world makes little difference to Richard, whereever he is.
Nevertheless, as I wish to stand well with the world hereafter, I shall
try not to get the ill-will of the poets whose works are likely to live.
Richard's reputation should be a warning.
[Illustration: THE BYWARD TOWER.
(From the East.)]
[Sidenote: A CHAPTER OF MURDERS.]
The bloody record continues. Devereux Tower is where the brilliant Essex
was confined till he was "privately beheaded." The Byward Tower is where
Duke Clarence is said to have been drowned in the wine, which was a
great waste of wine, though it was a delicate compliment to the Duke,
who was fond of it. It was probably distributed among the soldiers who
did the job. In the Brick Tower Lady Jane Grey was immured, and in the
Martin Tower Anne Boleyn, one of Henry VIII.'s wives, was confined, till
she was beheaded, as well as "several unhappy gentlemen" who were
foolish enough to stand up for her, who also had their heads chopped
off. The word "unhappy" is not misused in their case. In the Salt Tower
is shown an inscription made by a gentleman who was accused of using
enchantments "to the hurt of Sir W. St. Lowe and my ladye," who also
found himself short a head one fine morning. It was a comfortable time
to live when "Sir W. St. Lowe," a court favorite, could accuse a man he
owed money to of being a wizard, and then ordering him beheaded. It was
easier to pay debts in those days than going through bankruptcy is now.
[Illustration: THE BEAUCHAMP TOWER.]
There were so many murders committed in the Beauchamp Tower that in the
guide books it is counted worthy of a chapter by itself, not only
because of the number, but because of the peculiarly atrocious quality
of them. The other murderers were mere apprentices at the business
compared with those who had the Beauchamp tower in charge. They were
artists, and knew all about it. They gave their whole mind to it.
Marmaduke Neville with fifty others who believed in Mary, Queen of
Scots, were confined in this tower, and they were all beheaded in one
day. Likewise Mr. William Tyrrell, who had some differences with the
government; then the Earl Arundel was beheaded from this interesting old
slaughter house for aspiring to the hand of Mary Queen of Scots. It
appears that a man couldn't safely make love in those days. But as he
was tried for his religion--not for love--he was not beheaded, but was
mercifully permitted to "languish in prison" till he died. It is
probable that his jailors did not feed him on porter-house steaks.
The Earl of Warwick and the three brothers Dudley were here. The Duke,
the eldest of the three, was beheaded, and the others mercifully starved
to death. A gentleman named Gyfford was put to the rack in the Tower,
and finally consenting to answer the questions put to him--your rack was
a rare persuader--was probably dismissed. But doubtless the headsman got
him. Dr. Stohr, who refused to deny his religion--he was a Catholic--was
imprisoned here, and was released only to suffer a cruel death at
Tyburn. Being a Catholic, and murdered by Protestants, we may draw from
his history the useful lesson that persecution was not, strictly
speaking, confined to the Catholic church, as is popularly supposed. The
Protestants, when in power, knew the uses of the rack, and thumbscrew,
and stake, just as well as the Catholics, and they were just as handy
with them.
[Illustration: THE OVERWORKED HEADSMAN--FIFTY IN ONE DAY.]
[Sidenote: INTERESTING RELICS.]
The Brothers Poole wanted Mary to be the Queen, and they went the long
road from here.
But the list is too long for these pages.
[Illustration: THE PERSUASIVE RACK.]
That you may be perfectly sure of the accuracy of these things, the
identical headsman's block is carefully preserved, with the ax he used
and the mask he wore when engaged in his delightful duty. The ax is
shaped very like a butcher's cleaver, and the mask is about the most
fiendish face that a devilish ingenuity could devise. Ugly and devilish
as it is, it was probably an improvement on the face it concealed. You
are shown the thumbscrew and rack. The thumbscrew would extort a
confession from a dead man; and the rack--well, that is something
inconceivably devilish. You are laid in a box; ropes on windlasses are
tied to your ankles and wrists; then the windlasses are turned, inch by
inch, till your joints are dislocated. After enduring the rack and
answering questions the way they desired,--for a man in that apparatus
would say anything for a moment's respite--you are hurried to the block
for fear you may recant as soon as you get out of it. Then what was said
in the rack was put upon record as a testimony on which to rack and
behead other people. Those were the "good old days of merrie England."
[Illustration: THE BYWARD TOWER.
[From the West.]]
[Sidenote: MORE MURDER.]
During the reign of Edward III. six hundred Jews were imprisoned in the
dungeons of the tower for "adulterating the coin of the realm." The
trouble with these Jews was they had too much of the coin of the realm,
and Edward too little. The chronicler goes on to say that so strong was
the prejudice of the King against these people that he banished the race
from England, but, with the thrift that distinguished the Kings of that
day, he compelled them to leave behind them their immense wealth, which
he gobbled, and their libraries, which, as he couldn't read he had no
use for, went to the monasteries. I suppose he sold them by the pound to
the monks who could read. King Edward has a counterpart in the English
landlord of to-day. He allows no foreigner to take any money out of the
kingdom. It is curious how national traits show in people through ages.
England has no more Barons to take things by the strong hand, but she
has hotel-keepers. Their processes are different, but the result is the
same. They have no racks now, but they have beds--the thumb-screw is
gone forever, but bills are yet made out.
In those days it was not enough to be a heretic or disturber to gain
admission to this portal to the tomb; it was only necessary to be
suspected, and when a man in favor wanted to get his enemy out of the
way, it was very easy to suspect. Talent, usefulness to the
State--nothing was proof against it. Cromwell, one of the most brilliant
men of his day, Secretary to the still greater Wolsey, on a most
frivolous charge, was seized and beheaded. He was becoming too powerful
to suit the favorites. Women suffered the same as men, and exalted
station went for nothing. Sir Walter Raleigh was beheaded please the
Spaniards, one of whose Princesses the King desired to marry.
[Illustration: THE MIDDLE TOWER
(From the East.)]
A large part of the vast building is now used as a great National
armory. Stored within its walls are ninety thousand rifles of the latest
and most approved patterns, all in perfect order, even to the oiling,
and ready for use at a moment's notice. England is always ready for war.
It would be a quick nation that could catch her napping. These murderous
weapons looked cheerfully by comparison with the barbarous tools the
old English used. After looking at the battle-axes, and flails, and
lances, it would seem to be a comfort to be merely shot to death with a
Martini Henry rifle. One could feel some sort of comfort in going out
_via_ a decent rifle ball.
[Illustration: THE BEEF EATER.]
[Sidenote: THE ANCIENT BEEF EATERS.]
The guards of the Tower are the famous "Beef Eaters," and are all
habited in the uniform of the Yeomen of the Guard of the time of Henry
VII., who instituted the corps. The present yeomen are all old soldiers,
who have distinguished themselves, and a very pleasant time they have of
it. They don't have to drag women to the block by the hair of their
heads any more, but spend most of their time standing around listlessly
and eating ham sandwiches, which is certainly better than their ancient
employment. There is nothing cruel in an English ham sandwich but its
indigestibility, and that only concerns the eater. It is a matter
entirely between him and his stomach, and does not concern me at all.
[Illustration: THE FLINT TOWER.]
The ancient kings did not have as good a time as one would think, for
every now and then a baron would raise a rebellion, or a knight would
shoot a vicious arrow at him, or the House of Commons would rise, and
protest with arms in their hands against his abuses. But their
followers, these fellows whose armors are before me this minute, they
did have a good time. Their masters found it to their own interest to
feed them well, and their little acts of oppression on their own account
were winked at. And so they lived a jolly life, their bodies pampered
with food, their noses in a constant blush for the liquor they consumed,
and with the pick of the daughters of the peasantry, who were helpless
against them. It was no small thing to be a stout man-at-arms in those
days, and in the service of a powerful Lord. Fighting was really and
literally meat and drink to them, and they actually liked it.
[Illustration: THE TRAITOR'S GATE.]
Suspected men of unusual importance were always conveyed to the Tower by
water, in barges gorgeous to a degree. Hence there is a water gate
called "Traitor's Gate," which is worth seeing, when one considers how
many great men have passed through it to their death. For a commitment
to the Tower was equivalent to death. If a man was accused of treason,
or witchcraft, or anything else, and the party against him was strong
enough to send him to the Tower, that ended it. Or if a King desired to
get rid of anybody, man or woman, it was easy enough to have a charge
brought, a commitment to the Tower followed, and the dispatch was easy
enough. The Tower was a slaughter pen where those obnoxious to a King or
his favorites could be butchered without uncomfortable publicity, and,
if necessary with some color of law. As if the favorite should say:
"Your majesty, what shall we do with Sir Thomas Buster? Behead him?"
[Sidenote: THE CASE OF SIR THOMAS BUSTER.]
"Oh, bother, what's the use of going to that worry. A knife under his
fifth rib will do as well."
And accordingly the next morning, just before his breakfast was served,
a low-browed ruffian would go to his cell, and Sir Thomas would get the
knife under his ribs, and a hole would be dug, and that was the last of
him. They generally stabbed them at seven in the morning, to save the
expenses of the last breakfast. He might as well go into the hereafter
on an empty stomach, and it was that much saved to the King's treasury.
They had a good notion of economy in some directions. Or a hasty trial
might be had, and the illustrious prisoner might be led to the block and
have his head chopped off. Anyhow it amounted to the same thing, Sir
Thomas was bound to die in one way or another.
[Illustration: WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH SIR THOMAS BUSTER?]
I have a profound respect for the murdered of the Tower, but not a
particle for their sacred butchers, the Kings and Queens of that day. To
have been murdered in the Tower, no matter by what means or in what way,
was a certificate of good character that should have lasted till to-day.
By chance, they might occasionally kill a bad man, but as a rule the
victims were men who incurred the displeasure of the powers that were by
opposing infamy; by making some sort of a stand, no matter how weak, for
something good. I should liked to have had time to get flowers to drop
on the spots where they were supposed to be interred, and I would have
done it to some extent, only no one knows where these spots are. A
flower dropped anywhere within the Tower would fall on some one's grave,
but you might possibly decorate the wrong man. I didn't do it, and I
don't suppose the illustrious deceased would care much about it anyhow.
If I cared anything about what posterity should say about me after I had
gone hence, I shouldn't want anything better than to have been butchered
in the Tower. That is a better patent of nobility than any that King or
Kaiser can confer. Whoso died there, died in a good cause, no matter
what it was. The victim must have been good, for the kingly butcher was
always bad.
[Illustration: THE EASIEST WAY.]