riage and records the
grief of the heart-broken husband. Elizabeth's trusted Minister, the
great Lord Burleigh, is here depicted in his robes of state, kneeling
above the recumbent effigies of his wife, a lady noted for her learning
and for her active benevolence, and of their unhappy daughter, Anne,
Countess of Oxford. At his mother's feet is the figure of Robert Cecil,
the first Lord Salisbury of that name, who succeeded his father as
confidential adviser to their sovereign. Neither father nor son is
buried here. Lord Burleigh lies at Stamford, his country place, and on
the day of the funeral a stately service was held in the Abbey, a mark of
respect repeated recently (August 1903) {68} when his descendant, the
late Lord Salisbury, was laid to rest at Hatfield.

Returning into the ambulatory we should look at this side of the royal
tombs before passing round the corner into the chapel itself. From here
the nearest is that of Richard II., which is raised too high above us to
see well. The lower part was formerly in a very bad state of repair, and
through the holes in the wooden chest which contained the royal remains
the bones of Richard and his wife Anne could be clearly seen. Indeed,
the schoolboys used to amuse themselves by flipping marbles into the
sepulchre. The jawbone of the King is said to have been picked out by
one bold youth; smaller bones and such-like curiosities were the easy
prey of the less venturesome. Edward the Third's, on the other hand,
which comes next, has never been thus tampered with, although a few
shields have been carried off. But we can still see the six gilt brass
images of his children on this side, those on the other have been stolen
long ago; these are headed by Richard's father, the warlike Black Prince,
whose tomb some of us know at Canterbury Cathedral. Queen Philippa's
monument, the third in order, has been stripped bare of all the "sweetly
carved niches" and little alabaster {69} figures, not to speak of the
gilt angels and other beautiful decorations, which once adorned it. The
same sad tale of spoliation and vanished splendour must be repeated when
we reach the top of the wooden steps which lead up into St. Edward's
Chapel. The battered oak effigy of Henry V. need not detain us now, we
speak of that great monarch later. Standing before the shrine itself the
oft-told tale of our Saxon founder must not be omitted--the fascinating
legend of his strange visions, one of