Then there is the Richard the King-maker, who figures on such a large scale in English history and romance. Then there is that most remarkable young man. Henry de Beauchamp, son of the earl in brass, who was married at about twelve and began to reign in his father's stead at fourteen, created premier Earl of England at nineteen, made Duke of Warwick, crowned King of the Isle of Wight. Governor of all the Channel Islands, and succumbed and died under the Pelion-upon-Ossa of these ponderous dignities at twenty-two years of age. Then there is the stalwart carl that founded the choir, and lies there with his countess in graceful images of well-enamelled plaster. Seemingly he was the bravest of them all. He was one of the chief commanders under the Black Prince at Cressy; fought terribly at Poietiers, and afterwards in the Crusades, and was regarded a cœur de lion by friends and foes. Now I should like to know how many well-read men in a hundred could stand among those monuments, and say off-hand which of these celebrated chieftains was the "Great Earl of Warwick," of whom the world has heard so much.
But here against the north wall of the chapel is the monument of one of the family about whom there is no mist or mistake as to his individuality. Here is one whose memory has a more enduring monument than any other man that ever wore
