time, living beside the River Avon in a cave in a rock, which is still called Guys Cliffe, and where he died.  Huge bones were found and kept in the castle, including one rib bone, which measured nine inches in girth at its smallest part and was six and a half feet long; but this was probably a bone belonging to one of the great wild beasts slain by the redoubtable Guy.  We were sorry we could not explore the castle, but we wanted particularly to visit the magnificent Beauchamp Chapel in St. Mary’s Church at Warwick.  We found this one of those places almost impossible to describe, and could endorse the opinion of others, that it was “an architectural gem of the first water and one of the finest pieces of architectural work in the kingdom.”  It occupied twenty-one years in building, and contains the tomb of Richard Beauchamp, under whose will the chapel was begun in 1443; Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, the haughty favourite of Queen Elizabeth, was also entombed here.  We had too much to do to-day to stay very long in any place we visited, but we were interested in the remains of a ducking-stool in the crypt of the church, although it was far from being complete, the only perfect one of which we knew being that in the Priory Church of Leominster, which reposed in a disused aisle of the church, the property of the Corporation of that town.  It was described as “an engine of universal punishment for common scolds, and for butchers, bakers, brewers, apothecaries, and all who give short measure, or vended adulterated articles of food,” and was last used in 1809, when a scolding wife named Jenny Pipes was ducked in a deep place in one of the small rivers which flowed through that town.  The following lines, printed on a large card, appeared hanging from one of the pillars in the aisle near the stool: 

[Illustration:  TOMBS IN THE BEAUCHAMP CHAPEL.]

[Illustration:  THE DUCKING-STOOL, WARWICK.]

  There stands, my friend, in yonder pool,
  An engine called a Ducking Stool;
  By legal power commanded down,
  The joy, and terror of the town. 
  If jarring females kindle strife,
  Give language foul, or lug the coif: 
  If noisy dames should once begin
  To drive the house with horrid din,
  Away! you cry, you’ll grace the stool
  We’ll teach you how your tongue to rule. 
  Down in the deep the stool descends,
  But here, at first, we miss our ends,
  She mounts again, and rages more
  Than ever vixen did before. 
  If so, my friend, pray let her take
  A second turn into the lake;
  And rather than your patience lose
  Thrice and again, repeat the dose,
  No brawling wives, no furious wenches
  No fire so hot, but water quenches.

[Illustration:  THE DUCKING-STOOL, LEOMINSTER]