"I mean it is sad to think that so many peple have been killed
within these gloomy walls. My frens, let us drop a tear!"

"No," I said, "you must excuse me. Others may drop one if they
feel like it; but as for me, I decline. The early managers of
this institootion were a bad lot, and their crimes were trooly
orful; but I can't sob for those who died four or five hundred
years ago. If they was my own relations I couldn't. It's absurd
to shed sobs over things which occurd during the rain of Henry
the Three. Let us be cheerful," I continnerd "Look at the festiv
Warders, in their red flannil jackets. They are cheerful, and
why should it not be thusly with us?"

A Warder now took us in charge, and showed us the Trater's Gate,
the armers, and things. The Trater's Gate is wide enuff to admit
about twenty trater's abrest, I should jedge; but beyond this, I
couldn't see that it was superior to gates in gen'ral.

Traters, I will here remark, are a onfortnit class of peple. If
they wasn't, they wouldn't be traters. They conspire to bust up
a country--they fail, and they're traters. They bust her, and
they become statesmen and heroes.

Take the case of Gloster, afterwards Old Dick the Three, who may
be seen at the Tower, on horseback, in a heavy tin overcoat--take
Mr. Gloster's case. Mr. G. was a conspirater of the basist dye,
and if he'd failed, he would have been hung on a sour apple tree.
But Mr. G. succeeded, and became great. He was slewd by Col.
Richmond, but he lives in histry, and his equestrian figger may