ment, and subjecting the firmest mind to the influence of imaginary terrors. There appears to be a peculiar connexion between remorse, as I have just described it, and the crime of murder. I have read of an unhappy man who had destroyed his mother, and never afterwards could look on a clock, at the hour when he had committed the crime, without fancying that he saw her face in the dial, reproachfully gazing upon him. Another criminal, a servant who had killed his master, confessed on his trial, that, when he was removing the body, in order to dispose of it privately, all the surrounding buildings seemed to burst into flames as he passed them. The remorse of Richard disturbed his imagination in a manner still more dreadful, because its terrible inflictions were perpetual: they were also attended by the conviction that he had loaded himself with guilt in vain. He destroyed his innocent nephews, in order, as he imagined, to establish his power more firmly; but the crime, by alienating the affections of his people, increased, instead of lessening, the dangers he had anticipated. Amidst all the pomp by which he was surrounded, the voice of conscience would be heard. He reigned in greater splendour and authority than any king of England had done for a hundred years. He celebrated the fol

lowing Christmas with profuse magnificence, and the unreflecting populace thought that he was happy. But Richard could not forget what he had done. Though involved in the moral darkness of popery, he felt the power of that secret witness which the Almighty has placed in every heart. Condemned by his own conscience, he read condemnation in the countenances of many; he suspected it amidst the flattery of others; he heard it with keen severity in the reproaches of his enemies. The rest of his short life (for he reigned only two years afterwards) was spent in outward trouble and secret anguish. His spies brought him censorious remarks from those whom he dared not punish. He found that his name was becoming a proverb of disgrace, and foresaw that his memory would be branded with infamy, Deep and bitter must have been the mortification this produced, to one so fond of popularity. But he had feelings still less supportable. After the commission of that dreadful crime, he never knew the blessing of a quiet mind—he never thought himself safe. When he went abroad, though he wore armour under his clothes, his eyes wandered restlessly about, in search of some concealed enemy. His hand was continually on his dagger, his countenance and manner

C

evincing the fierce determination of one ever prepared to return an expected assault. The season of nature's repose brought no refreshing sleep to him, when, exhausted with long watching and painful thoughts, he rather slumbered than slept. Troubled with fearful dreams, he sometimes suddenly started up, leapt out of his bed, and ran about the chamber*. But all this misery produced no benefit. It was the agony of remorse, not the purifying sorrow of repentance, which is distinguished from all other kinds of sorrow, by producing a change of conduct. Now Richard's continual and ostentatious display, even to the last hour of his life, of that regal splendour in which his imagination so much delighted, sufficiently proves that he never repented of the crimes by which it had been obtained. He appears, indeed, to have felt most acutely the loss of public estimation; and so far from attempting, in defiance of human censure, to vindicate what he had done, he is said to have addressed his army, on the morning of the fatal battle of Bosworth, to this effect: "Although, in the adoption or obtaining of the garland, I was seduced and provoked by sinister counsel, to commit a detestable act; yet, I trust. I have, by strait penance and salt

1

2

* Turner, p. 514, &c.

tears, purged the offence. This abominable crime I require you, of friendship, as clearly to forget, as I daily do remember to lament the

What did he mean by "strait penance and salt tears?" I thought he had been intent on displaying his magnificence, not performing penance.

MRS. B.

He had also been endeavouring to quiet his troubled conscience, by those methods which were put in the place of true repentance during that great corruption of religion which preceded the Reformation. For instance, he founded at York a college for one hundred priests, who were paid to sing masses for him, in the delusive expectation, that, by this means, he should obtain the Divine mercy. His first act of injustice was arresting lord Rivers. This took place at Northampton, and in that town also Richard paid a priest to sing for him. He did the same in other places; and pilgrimages to the shrine of St. James of Galicia in Spain, being then thought very efficacious, he sent persons thither, to fulfil certain vows in his name+.

• Turner, p. 557.

+ Ib. p. 559, &c.

HARRY.

That is the most absurd way of seeking for pardon that ever I heard of. Why, mamma, a man might as well hope to be nourished, by employing other people to eat his dinner for him! Even if he had performed these masses and pilgrimages for himself, it seems incredible that a person of common sense should place any dependence upon them.

MRS. B.

It would be incredible, if the history of religion in those unhappy times did not furnish us with an explanation of the fact. Do you not recollect, that when we read of Edward the First desiring the prayers of his people for the soul of Eleonora, I told you that masses performed for the dead were believed to have the power of shortening and mitigating the sufferings of the departed spirit in purgatory*. A doctrine so acceptable to the vicious inclinations of the rich and powerful, continued to be fondly cherished; and Richard, like most of his contemporaries, would probably have deemed it heresy more unpardonable than his own crimes, to have questioned the efficacy of those means of expiating guilt, which were sanctioned by the church of Rome. It was considered so

* English Stories, Second Series, p. 54.