* * * * *



LIBERTY.

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume; And we are weeds without it. All constraint, Except what wisdom lays on evil men, Is evil: hurts the faculties, impedes Their progress in the road of science: blinds The eyesight of Discovery; and begets, In those that suffer it, a sordid mind Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit To be the tenant of man's noble form. Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art, With all thy loss of empire, and though squeez'd By public exigence, till annual food Fails for the craving hunger of the state, Thee I account still happy, and the chief Among the nations, seeing thou art free, My native nook of earth! Thy clime is rude, Replete with vapours, and disposes much All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine: Thine unadult'rate manners are less soft And plausible than social life requires, And thou hast need of discipline and art, To give thee what politer France receives From nature's bounty—that humane address And sweetness, without which no pleasure is In converse, either starv'd by cold reserve, Or flush'd with fierce dispute, a senseless brawl— Yet being free, I love thee; for the sake Of that one feature can be well content, Disgrac'd as thou hast been, poor as thou art, To seek no sublunary rest beside. But, once enslav'd, farewell! I could endure Chains nowhere patiently; and chains at home, Where I am free by birthright, not at all. Then what were left of roughness in the grain Of British natures, wanting its excuse That it belongs to freemen, would disgust And shock me. I should then with double pain Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime; And, if I must bewail the blessing lost, For which our Hampdens and our Sydneys bled, I would at least bewail it under skies Milder, among a people less austere; In scenes, which, having never known me free, Would not reproach me with the loss I felt. Do I forebode impossible events, And tremble at vain dreams? Heaven grant I may! But the age of virtuous politics is past, And we are deep in that of cold pretence. Patriots are grown too shrewd to be sincere, And we too wise to trust them. He that takes Deep in his soft credulity the stamp Design'd by loud declaimers on the part Of liberty, themselves the slaves of lust, Incurs derision for his easy faith, And lack of knowledge, and with cause enough: For when was public virtue to be found, Where private was not? Can he love the whole, Who loves no part? He be a nation's friend, Who is in truth the friend of no man there? Can he be strenuous in his country's cause, Who slights the charities, for whose dear sake That country, if at all, must be beloved?

Cowper.



[Notes: Hampden—Sydney. (See previous note on them)

He that takes deep in his soft credulity, &c., i.e., he that credulously takes in the impression which demagogues, who claim to speak on behalf of liberty, intend that he should take.

Delude. A violent torrent, displacing earth in its course.

Strid. A yawning chasm between rocks.

The Battle of Culloden (1746) closed the Jacobite rebellion of 1745 by the defeat of the Highlanders, and with it the last hopes of the Stuart cause. The Duke of Cumberland was the leader of the Hanoverian army.]



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MY WINTER GARDEN.

No one is less inclined to depreciate that magnificent winter-garden at the Crystal Palace: yet let me, if I choose, prefer my own; I argue that, in the first place, it is far larger. You may drive, I hear, through the grand one at Chatsworth for a quarter of a mile. You may ride through mine for fifteen miles on end. I prefer, too, to any glass roof which Sir Joseph Paxton ever planned, that dome above my head some three miles high, of soft dappled grey and yellow cloud, through the vast lattice-work whereof the blue sky peeps, and sheds down tender gleams on yellow bogs, and softly rounded heather knolls, and pale chalk ranges gleaming far away. But, above all, I glory in my evergreens. What winter-garden can compare for them with mine? True, I have but four kinds—Scotch fir, holly, furze, and the heath; and by way of relief to them, only brows of brown fern, sheets of yellow bog-grass, and here and there a leafless birch, whose purple tresses are even more lovely to my eye than those fragrant green ones which she puts on in spring. Well: in painting as in music, what effects are more grand than those produced by the scientific combination, in endless new variety, of a few simple elements? Enough for me is the one purple birch; the bright hollies round its stem sparkling with scarlet beads; the furze-patch, rich with its lacework of interwoven light and shade, tipped here and there with a golden bud; the deep soft heather carpet, which invites you to lie down and dream for hours; and behind all, the wall of red fir-stems, and the dark fir-roof with its jagged edges a mile long, against the soft grey sky.

An ugly, straight-edged, monotonous fir-plantation? Well, I like it, outside and inside. I need no saw-edge of mountain peaks to stir up my imagination with the sense of the sublime, while I can watch the saw-edge of those fir peaks against the red sunset. They are my Alps; little ones, it may be: but after all, as I asked before, what is size? A phantom of our brain; an optical delusion. Grandeur, if you will consider wisely, consists in form, and not in size: and to the eye of the philosopher, the curve drawn on a paper two inches long, is just as magnificent, just as symbolic of divine mysteries and melodies, as when embodied in the span of some cathedral roof. Have you eyes to see? Then lie down on the grass, and look near enough to see something more of what is to be seen; and you will find tropic jungles in every square foot of turf; mountain cliffs and debacles at the mouth of every rabbit burrow: dark strids, tremendous cataracts, "deep glooms and sudden glories," in every foot-broad rill which wanders through the turf. All is there for you to see, if you will but rid yourself of "that idol of space;" and Nature, as everyone will tell you who has seen dissected an insect under the microscope, is as grand and graceful in her smallest as in her hugest forms.

The March breeze is chilly: but I can be always warm if I like in my winter-garden. I turn my horse's head to the red wall of fir-stems, and leap over the furze-grown bank into my cathedral, wherein if there be no saints, there are likewise no priestcraft and no idols; but endless vistas of smooth red green-veined shafts holding up the warm dark roof, lessening away into endless gloom, paved with rich brown fir-needle—a carpet at which Nature has been at work for forty years. Red shafts, green roof, and here and there a pane of blue sky—neither Owen Jones nor Willement can improve upon that ecclesiastical ornamentation,—while for incense I have the fresh healthy turpentine fragrance, far sweeter to my nostrils than the stifling narcotic odour which fills a Roman Catholic cathedral. There is not a breath of air within: but the breeze sighs over the roof above in a soft whisper. I shut my eyes and listen. Surely that is the murmur of the summer sea upon the summer sands in Devon far away. I hear the innumerable wavelets spend themselves gently upon the shore, and die away to rise again. And with the innumerable wave-sighs come innumerable memories, and faces which I shall never see again upon this earth. I will not tell even you of that, old friend. It has two notes, two keys rather, that Eolian-harp of fir-needles above my head; according as the wind is east or west, the needles dry or wet. This easterly key of to-day is shriller, more cheerful, warmer in sound, though the day itself be colder: but grander still, as well as softer, is the sad soughing key in which the south-west wind roars on, rain-laden, over the forest, and calls me forth—being a minute philosopher—to catch trout in the nearest chalk-stream.

The breeze is gone a while; and I am in perfect silence—a silence which may be heard. Not a sound; and not a moving object; absolutely none. The absence of animal life is solemn, startling. That ring-dove, who was cooing half a mile away, has hushed his moan; that flock of long-tailed titmice, which were twinging and pecking about the fir-cones a few minutes since, are gone: and now there is not even a gnat to quiver in the slant sun-rays. Did a spider run over these dead leaves, I almost fancy I could hear his footfall. The creaking of the saddle, the soft step of the mare upon the fir-needles, jar my ears. I seem alone in a dead world. A dead world: and yet so full of life, if I had eyes to see! Above my head every fir-needle is breathing—breathing for ever; currents unnumbered circulate in every bough, quickened by some undiscovered miracle; around me every fir-stem is distilling strange juices, which no laboratory of man can make; and where my dull eye sees only death, the eye of God sees boundless life and motion, health and use.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.



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ASPECTS OF NORTHERN AND SOUTHERN COUNTRIES.

The charts of the world which have been drawn up by modern science have thrown into a narrow space the expression of a vast amount of knowledge, but I have never yet seen any pictorial enough to enable the spectator to imagine the kind of contrast in physical character which exists between northern and southern countries. We know the differences in detail, but we have not that broad glance or grasp which would enable us to feel them in their fulness. We know that gentians grow on the Alps, and olives on the Apennines; but we do not enough conceive for ourselves that variegated mosaic of the world's surface which a bird sees in its migration, that difference between the district of the gentian and of the olive which the stork and the swallow see far off, as they lean upon the sirocco wind. Let us, for a moment, try to raise ourselves even above the level of their flight, and imagine the Mediterranean lying beneath us like an irregular lake, and all its ancient promontories sleeping in the sun; here and there an angry spot of thunder, a grey stain of storm, moving upon the burning field; and here and there a fixed wreath of white volcano smoke, surrounded by its circle of ashes; but for the most part a great peacefulness of light, Syria and Greece, Italy and Spain, laid like pieces of a golden pavement into the sea-blue, chased, as we stoop nearer to them, with bossy beaten work of mountain chains, and glowing softly with terraced gardens, and flowers heavy with frankincense, mixed among masses of laurel and orange, and plumy palm, that abate with their grey-green shadows the burning of the marble rocks, and of the ledges of the porphyry sloping under lucent sand. Then let us pass farther towards the north, until we see the orient colours change gradually into a vast belt of rainy green, where the pastures of Switzerland, and poplar valleys of France, and dark forests of the Danube and Carpathians stretch from the mouths of the Loire to those of the Volga, seen through clefts in grey swirls of rain-cloud and flaky veils of the mist of the brooks, spreading low along the pasture lands; and then, farther north still, to see the earth heave into mighty masses of leaden rock and heathy moor, bordering with a broad waste of gloomy purple that belt of field and wood, and splintering into irregular and grisly islands amidst the northern seas beaten by storm, and chilled by ice-drift, and tormented by furious pulses of contending tide, until the roots of the last forests fail from among the hill ravines, and the hunger of the north wind bites their peaks into barrenness; and, at last, the wall of ice, durable like iron, sets, death-like, its white teeth against us out of the polar twilight. And, having once traversed in thought this gradation of the zoned iris of the earth in all its material vastness, let us go down nearer to it, and watch the parallel change in the belt of animal life: the multitudes of swift and brilliant creatures that glance in the air and sea, or tread the sands of the southern zone; striped zebras and spotted leopards, glistening serpents, and birds arrayed in purple and scarlet. Let us contrast their delicacy and brilliancy of colour, and swiftness of motion, with the frost-cramped strength, and shaggy covering, and dusky plumage of the northern tribes; contrast the Arabian horse with the Shetland, the tiger and leopard with the wolf and bear, the antelope with the elk, the bird of Paradise with the osprey; and then, submissively acknowledging the great laws by which the earth and all that it bears are ruled throughout their being, let us not condemn, but rejoice in the expression by man of his own rest in the statues of the lands that gave him birth. Let us watch him with reverence as he sets side by side the burning gems, and smooths with soft sculpture the jasper pillars that are to reflect a ceaseless sunshine, and rise into a cloudless sky; but not with less reverence let us stand by him, when, with rough strength and hurried stroke, he smites an uncouth animation out of the rocks which he has torn from among the moss of the moor-land, and heaves into the darkened air the pile of iron buttress and rugged wall, instinct with work of an imagination as wild and wayward as the northern sea; creations of ungainly shape and rigid limb, but full of wolfish life; fierce as the winds that beat, and changeful as the clouds that shade them.

JOHN RUSKIN.



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THE TROSACHS.

The western waves of ebbing day Rolled o'er the glen their level way; Each purple peak, each flinty spire, Was bathed in floods of living fire. But not a setting beam could glow Within the dark ravines below, Where twined the path, in shadow hid, Bound many a rocky pyramid, Shooting abruptly from the dell Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; Bound many an insulated mass, The native bulwarks of the pass, Huge as the tower which builders vain Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. The rocky summits, split and rent, Formed turret, dome, or battlement. Or seemed fantastically set With cupola or minaret, Wild crests as pagod ever decked, Or mosque of eastern architect. Nor were these earth-born castles bare, Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, All twinkling with the dew-drop's sheen, The briar-rose fell in streamers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, Waved in the west wind's summer sighs.

Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower; Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain, The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath, Grey birch and aspen wept beneath; Aloft the ash and warrior oak Cast anchor in the rifted rock; And higher yet the pine tree hung His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high, His boughs athwart the narrowed sky Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, Where glistening streamers waved and danced, The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might seem The scenery of a fairy dream. Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep A narrow inlet still and deep, Affording scarce such breadth of brim, As served the wild duck's brood to swim; Lost for a space, through thickets veering, But broader when again appearing, Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face Could on the dark blue mirror trace; And farther as the hunter stray'd, Still broader sweep its channels made. The shaggy mounds no longer stood, Emerging from entangled wood, But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, Like castle girdled with its moat; Yet broader floods extending still, Divide them from their parent hill, Till each, retiring, claims to be An islet in an inland sea.

And now, to issue from the glen, No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, Unless he climb, with footing nice, A far projecting precipice. The broom's tough roots his ladder made, The hazel saplings lent their aid; And thus an airy point he won. Where, gleaming with the setting sun, One burnish'd sheet of living gold, Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled; In all her length far winding lay, With promontory, creek, and bay, And islands that, empurpled bright, Floated amid the livelier light; And mountains, that like giants stand, To sentinel enchanted land. High on the south, huge Benvenue Down to the lake in masses threw Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly hurled, The fragments of an earlier world; A wildering forest feathered o'er His ruined sides and summit hoar. While on the north, through middle air, Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare.

SCOTT.



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LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

Seer. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight; They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watchfire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning; no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albyn, to death and captivity led! O weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death- telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Seer. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn: Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan— Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But we to his kindred, and we to his cause, When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array——

Seer.——Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal. 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring, With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight; Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!— 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near,— The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier; His death bell is tolling! Oh, mercy! dispel Yon sight that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims; Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale——

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albyn a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

CAMPBELL.



[Note: Life flutters convulsed &c. Describes the barbarous death which awaited the traitor according to the statute book of England, as it then stood. This was the penalty dealt to the rebels of 1745.]



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COLUMBUS IN SIGHT OF LAND.

For three days they stood in this direction, and the further they went the more frequent and encouraging were the signs of land. Flights of small birds of various colours, some of them such as sing in the fields, came flying about the ships, and then continued towards the south-west, and others were heard also flying by in the night. Tunny fish played about the smooth sea, and a heron, a pelican, and a duck, were seen, all bound in the same direction. The herbage which floated by was fresh and green, as if recently from land, and the air, Columbus observes, was sweet and fragrant as April breezes in Seville.

All these, however, were regarded by the crews as so many delusions beguiling them on to destruction; and when, on the evening of the third day, they beheld the sun go down upon a shoreless horizon, they broke forth into turbulent clamour. They exclaimed against this obstinacy in tempting fate by continuing on into a boundless sea. They insisted upon turning home, and abandoning the voyage as hopeless. Columbus endeavoured to pacify them by gentle words and promises of large rewards; but finding that they only increased in clamour, he assumed a decided tone. He told them it was useless to murmur; the expedition had been sent by the sovereigns to seek the Indies, and, happen what might, he was determined to persevere, until, by the blessing of God, he should accomplish the enterprise.

Columbus was now at open defiance with his crew, and his situation became desperate. Fortunately the manifestations of the vicinity of land were such on the following day as no longer to admit a doubt. Beside a quantity of fresh weeds, such as grow in rivers, they saw a green fish of a kind which keeps about rocks; then a branch of thorn with berries on it, and recently separated from the tree, floated by them; then they picked up a reed, a small board, and, above all, a staff artificially carved. All gloom and mutiny now gave way to sanguine expectation; and throughout the day each one was eagerly on the watch, in hopes of being the first to discover the long-sought-for land.

In the evening, when, according to invariable custom on board of the admiral's ship, the mariners had sung the vesper hymn to the Virgin, he made an impressive address to his crew. He pointed out the goodness of God in thus conducting them by soft and favouring breezes across a tranquil ocean, cheering their hopes continually with fresh signs, increasing as their fears augmented, and thus leading and guiding them to a promised land. He now reminded them of the orders he had given on leaving the Canaries, that, after sailing westward seven hundred leagues, they should not make sail after midnight. Present appearances authorized such a precaution. He thought it probable they would make land that very night; he ordered, therefore, a vigilant look-out to be kept from the forecastle, promising to whomsoever should make the discovery a doublet of velvet, in addition to the pension to be given by the sovereigns.

The breeze had been fresh all day, with more sea than usual, and they had made great progress. At sunset they had stood again to the west, and were ploughing the waves at a rapid rate, the Pinta keeping the lead from her superior sailing. The greatest animation prevailed throughout the ships; not an eye was closed that night. As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station on the top of the castle or cabin on the high poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the dusky horizon, and maintaining an intense and unremitting watch. About ten o'clock he thought he beheld a light glimmering at a great distance. Fearing his eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro Gutierrez, gentleman of the king's bedchamber, and inquired whether he saw such a light: the latter replied in the affirmative. Doubtful whether it might not be some delusion of the fancy, Columbus called Rodrigo Sanchez of Segovia, and made the same inquiry. By the time the latter had ascended the round-house, the light had disappeared. They saw it once or twice afterwards in sudden and passing gleams, as if it were a torch in the bark of a fisherman, rising and sinking with the waves, or in the hand of some person on shore, borne up and down as he walked from house to house. So transient and uncertain were these gleams, that few attached any importance to them; Columbus, however, considered them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that the land was inhabited.

They continued their course until two in the morning, when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of land. It was first descried by a mariner named Rodrigo de Triana; but the reward was afterwards adjudged to the admiral, for having previously perceived the light. The land was now clearly seen about two leagues distant, whereupon they took in sail, and laid to, waiting impatiently for the dawn.

The thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little space of time must have been tumultuous and intense. At length, in spite of every difficulty and danger, he had accomplished his object. The great mystery of the ocean was revealed; his theory, which had been the scoff of sages, was triumphantly established; he had secured to himself a glory durable as the world itself.

It is difficult to conceive the feelings of such a man, at such a moment, or the conjectures which must have thronged upon his mind, as to the land before him, covered with darkness. That it was fruitful was evident from the vegetables which floated from its shores. He thought, too, that he perceived the fragrance of aromatic groves. The moving light he had beheld proved it the residence of man. But what were its inhabitants? Were they like those of the other parts of the globe, or were they some strange and monstrous race, such as the imagination was prone in those times to give to all remote and unknown regions? Had he come upon some wild island far in the Indian Sea, or was this the famed Cipango itself, the object of his golden fancies? A thousand speculations of the kind must have swarmed upon him, as, with his anxious crews, he waited for the night to pass away; wondering whether the morning light would reveal a savage wilderness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering fanes, and gilded cities, and all the splendour of oriental civilization.

It was on Friday morning, the 12th of October, that Columbus first beheld the New World. As the day dawned he saw before him a level island, several leagues in extent, and covered with trees like a continual orchard. Though apparently uncultivated, it was populous, for the inhabitants were seen issuing from all parts of the woods and running to the shore. They were perfectly naked, and, as they stood gazing at the ships, appeared by their attitudes and gestures to be lost in astonishment. Columbus made signal for the ships to cast anchor, and the boats to be manned and armed. He entered his own boat, richly attired in scarlet, and holding the royal standard; whilst Martin Alonzo Pinzon, and Vincent Yanez his brother, put off in company in their boats, each with a banner of the enterprize emblazoned with a green cross, having on either side the letters F. and Y., the initials of the Castilian monarchs Fernando and Ysabel, surmounted by crowns.

As he approached the shore, Columbus, who was disposed for all kinds of agreeable impressions, was delighted with the purity and suavity of the atmosphere, the crystal transparency of the sea, and the extraordinary beauty of the vegetation. He beheld, also, fruits of an unknown kind upon the trees which overhung the shores. On landing he threw himself on his knees, kissed the earth, and returned thanks to God with tears of joy. His example was followed by the rest, whose hearts indeed overflowed with the same feelings of gratitude, Columbus then rising, drew his sword, displayed the royal standard, and assembling round him the two captains, with Rodrigo de Escobedo, notary of the armament, Rodrigo Sanchez, and the rest who had landed, he took solemn possession in the name of the Castilian sovereigns, giving the island the name of San Salvador. Having complied with the requisite forms and ceremonies, he called upon all present to take the oath of obedience to him, as admiral and viceroy, representing the persons of the sovereigns.

The feelings of the crew now burst forth in the most extravagant transports. They had recently considered themselves devoted men, hurrying forward to destruction; they now looked upon themselves as favourites of fortune, and gave themselves up to the most unbounded joy. They thronged around the admiral with overflowing zeal, some embracing him, others kissing his hands. Those who had been most mutinous and turbulent during the voyage, were now most devoted and enthusiastic. Some begged favours of him, as if he had already wealth and honours in his gift. Many abject spirits, who had outraged him by their insolence, now crouched at his feet, begging pardon for all the trouble they had caused him, and promising the blindest obedience for the future.

WASHINGTON IRVING.



[Notes: Columbus. Christopher Columbus of Genoa (born 1430, died 1506), the discoverer of America. His first expedition was made in 1492.

"The reward was afterwards adjudged to the admiral." This has often been alleged, and apparently with considerable reason, as a stain upon the name of Columbus.]



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COLUMBUS SHIPWRECKED.

On the morning of the 24th of December, Columbus set sail from Port St. Thomas before sunrise, and steered to the eastward, with an intention of anchoring at the harbour of the cacique Guacanagari. The wind was from the land, but so light as scarcely to fill the sails, and the ships made but little progress. At eleven o'clock at night, being Christmas eve, they were within a league or a league and a half of the residence of the cacique; and Columbus, who had hitherto kept watch, finding the sea calm and smooth, and the ship almost motionless, retired to rest, not having slept the preceding night. He was, in general, extremely wakeful on his coasting voyages, passing whole nights upon deck in all weathers; never trusting to the watchfulness of others where there was any difficulty or danger to be provided against. In the present instance he felt perfectly secure; not merely on account of profound calm, but because the boats on the preceding day, in their visit to the cacique, had reconnoitred the coast, and had reported that there were neither rocks nor shoals in their course.

No sooner had he retired, than the steersman gave the helm in charge to one of the ship-boys, and went to sleep. This was in direct violation of an invariable order of the admiral, that the helm should never be intrusted to the boys. The rest of the mariners who had the watch took like advantage of the absence of Columbus, and in a little while the whole crew was buried in sleep. In the meantime the treacherous currents, which run swiftly along this coast, carried the vessel quietly, but with force, upon a sand-bank. The heedless boy had not noticed the breakers, although they made a roaring that might have been heard a league. No sooner, however, did he feel the rudder strike, and hear the tumult of the rushing sea, than he began to cry for aid. Columbus, whose careful thoughts never permitted him to sleep profoundly, was the first on deck. The master of the ship, whose duty it was to have been on watch, next made his appearance, followed by others of the crew, half awake. The admiral ordered them to take the boat and carry out an anchor astern, to warp the vessel off. The master and the sailors sprang into the boat; but, confused as men are apt to be when suddenly awakened by an alarm, instead of obeying the commands of Columbus, they rowed off to the other caravel, about half a league to windward.

In the meantime the master had reached the caravel, and made known the perilous state in which he had left the vessel. He was reproached with his pusillanimous desertion; the commander of the caravel manned his boat and hastened to the relief of the admiral, followed by the recreant master, covered with shame and confusion.

It was too late to save the ship, the current having set her more upon the bank. The admiral, seeing that his boat had deserted him, that the ship had swung across the stream, and that the water was continually gaining upon her, ordered the mast to be cut away, in the hope of lightening her sufficiently to float her off. Every effort was in vain. The keel was firmly bedded in the sand; the shock had opened several seams; while the swell of the breakers, striking her broadside, left her each moment more and more aground, until she fell over on one side. Fortunately the weather continued calm, otherwise the ship must have gone to pieces, and the whole crew might have perished amidst the currents and breakers.

The admiral and her men took refuge on board the caravel. Diego de Arana, chief judge of the armament, and Pedro Gutierrez, the king's butler, were immediately sent on shore as envoys to the cacique Guaeanagari, to inform him of the intended visit of the admiral, and of his disastrous shipwreck. In the meantime, as a light wind had sprung up from shore, and the admiral was ignorant of his situation, and of the rocks and banks that might be lurking around him, he lay to until daylight.

The habitation of the cacique was about a league and a half from the wreck. When he heard of the misfortune of his guest, he manifested the utmost affliction, and even shed tears. He immediately sent all his people, with all the canoes, large and small, that could be mustered; and so active were they in their assistance, that in a little while the vessel was unloaded. The cacique himself, and his brothers and relatives, rendered all the aid in their power, both on sea and land; keeping vigilant guard that everything should be conducted with order, and the property secured from injury or theft. From time to time, he sent some one of his family, or some principal person of his attendants, to console and cheer the admiral, assuring him that everything he possessed should be at his disposal.

Never, in a civilized country, were the vaunted rites of hospitality more scrupulously observed, than by this uncultivated savage. All the effects landed from the ships were deposited near his dwelling; and an armed guard surrounded them all night, until houses could be prepared in which to store them. There seemed, however, even among the common people, no disposition to take advantage of the misfortune of the stranger. Although they beheld what must in their eyes have been inestimable treasures, cast, as it were, upon their shores, and open to depredation, yet there was not the least attempt to pilfer, nor, in transporting the effects from the ships, had they appropriated the most trifling article. On the contrary, a general sympathy was visible in their countenances and actions; and to have witnessed their concern, one would have supposed the misfortune to have happened to themselves.

"So loving, so tractable, so peaceable are these people," says Columbus in his journal, "that I swear to your Majesties, there is not in the world a better nation, nor a better land. They love their neighbours as themselves; and their discourse is ever sweet and gentle, and accompanied with a smile; and though it is true that they are naked, yet their manners are decorous and praiseworthy."

WASHINGTON IRVING.



[Note: Cacique. The chief of an Indian tribe. The word was adopted by the Spaniards from the language of the natives of San Domingo.



* * * * *



ROBBED IN THE DESERT.

I departed from Kooma, accompanied by two shepherds, who were going towards Sibidooloo. The road was very steep and rocky, and as my horse had hurt his feet much, he travelled slowly and with great difficulty; for in many places the ascent was so sharp, and the declivities so great, that if he had made one false step, he must inevitably have been dashed to pieces. The herds being anxious to proceed, gave themselves little trouble about me or my horse, and kept walking on at a considerable distance. It was about eleven o'clock, as I stopped to drink a little water at a rivulet (my companions being near a quarter of a mile before me), that I heard some people calling to each other, and presently a loud screaming, as from a person in great distress. I immediately conjectured that a lion had taken one of the shepherds, and mounted my horse to have a better view of what had happened. The noise, however, ceased; and I rode slowly towards the place from whence I thought it proceeded, calling out, but without receiving any answer. In a little time, however, I perceived one of the shepherds lying among the long grass near the road; and, though I could see no blood upon him, concluded he was dead. But when I came close to him, he whispered to me to stop, telling me that a party of armed men had seized upon his companion, and shot two arrows at himself as he was making his escape. I stopped to consider what course to take, and looking round, saw at a little distance a man sitting upon the stump of a tree; I distinguished also the heads of six or seven more; sitting among the grass, with muskets in their hands. I had now no hopes of escaping, and therefore determined to ride forward towards them. As I approached them, I was in hopes they were elephant hunters, and by way of opening the conversation, inquired if they had shot anything; but, without returning an answer, one of them ordered me to dismount; and then, as if recollecting himself, waved with his hand for me to proceed. I accordingly rode past, and had with some difficulty crossed a deep rivulet, when I heard somebody holloa; and looking back, saw those I took for elephant hunters now running after me, and calling out to me to turn back. I stopped until they were all come up, when they informed me that the King of the Foulahs had sent them on purpose to bring me, my horse, and everything that belonged to me, to Fooladoo, and that therefore I must turn back, and go along with them. Without hesitating a moment, I turned round and followed them, and we travelled together near a quarter of a mile without exchanging a word. When coming to a dark place of the wood, one of them said, in the Mandingo language, "This place will do," and immediately snatched my hat from my head. Though I was by no means free of apprehension, yet I resolved to show as few signs of fear as possible; and therefore told them, unless my hat was returned to me, I should go no farther. But before I had time to receive an answer, another drew his knife, and seizing upon a metal button which remained upon my waistcoat, cut it off, and put it in his pocket. Their intention was now obvious, and I thought that the more easily they were permitted to rob me of everything, the less I had to fear. I therefore allowed them to search my pockets without resistance, and examine every part of my apparel, which they did with scrupulous exactness. But observing that I had one waistcoat under another, they insisted that I should cast them both off; and at last, to make sure work, stripped me quite naked. Even my half-boots (though the sole of one of them was tied to my foot with a broken bridle-rein) were narrowly inspected. Whilst they were examining the plunder, I begged them with great earnestness to return my pocket compass; but when I pointed it out to them, as it was lying on the ground, one of the banditti thinking I was about to take it up, cocked his musket, and swore that he would lay me dead on the spot if I presumed to lay my hand on it. After this some of them went away with my horse, and the remainder stood considering whether they should leave me quite naked, or allow me something to shelter me from the sun. Humanity at last prevailed; they returned me the worst of the two shirts and a pair of trowsers; and, as they went away, one of them threw back my hat, in the crown of which I kept my memorandums; and this was probably the reason they did not wish to keep it. After they were gone, I sat for some time looking around me with amazement and terror; whichever way I turned, nothing appeared but danger and difficulty. I saw myself in the midst of a vast wilderness in the depth of the rainy season, naked and alone, surrounded by savage animals, and men still more savage. I was five hundred miles from the nearest European settlement. All these circumstances crowded at once to my recollection; and I confess that my spirits began to fail me. I considered my fate as certain, and that I had no alternative but to lie down and perish. At this moment, painful as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small moss irresistibly caught my eye. I mention this to show from what trifling circumstances the mind will sometimes derive consolation; for though the whole plant was not larger than the tip of one of my fingers, I could not contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, and capsule without admiration. Can that Being (thought I), who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and sufferings of creatures formed after his own image?—surely not! Reflections like these would not allow me to despair; I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue, travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand; and I was not disappointed. In a short time I came to a small village, at the entrance of which I overtook the two shepherds who had come with me from Rooma. They were much surprised to see me, for they said they never doubted that the Foulahs, when they had robbed, had murdered me. Departing from this village, we travelled over several rocky ridges, and at sunset arrived at Sibidooloo, the frontier town of the kingdom of Manding.

MUNGO PARK.



[Note: Mungo Park. Born in Selkirkshire in 1771; set out on his first African exploration in 1795. His object was to explore the Niger; and this he had done to a great extent when he was murdered (as is supposed) by the natives in 1805.]



* * * * *



REST FROM BATTLE.

Now deep in ocean sunk the lamp of light, And drew behind the cloudy veil of night; The conquering Trojans mourn his beams decayed; The Greeks rejoicing bless the friendly shade. The victors keep the field: and Hector calls A martial council near the navy walls: These to Scamander's bank apart he led, Where thinly scattered lay the heaps of dead. The assembled chiefs, descending on the ground, Attend his order, and their prince surround. A massy spear he bore of mighty strength, Of full ten cubits was the lance's length; The point was brass, refulgent to behold, Fixed to the wood with circling rings of gold: The noble Hector on his lance reclined, And bending forward, thus revealed his mind: "Ye valiant Trojans, with attention hear! Ye Dardan bands, and generous aids, give ear! This day, we hoped, would wrap in conquering flame Greece with her ships, and crown our toils with fame. But darkness now, to save the cowards, falls, And guards them trembling in their wooden walls. Obey the night, and use her peaceful hours, Our steeds to forage, and refresh our powers. Straight from the town be sheep and oxen sought, And strengthening bread and generous wine be brought. Wide o'er the field, high blazing to the sky, Let numerous fires the absent sun supply, The flaming piles with plenteous fuel raise, Till the bright morn her purple beam displays; Lest, in the silence and the shades of night, Greece on her sable ships attempt her flight. Not unmolested let the wretches gain Their lofty decks, or safely cleave the main: Some hostile wound let every dart bestow, Some lasting token of the Phrygian foe: Wounds, that long hence may ask their spouses' care, And warn their children from a Trojan war. Now, through the circuit of our Ilion wall, Let sacred heralds sound the solemn call; To bid the sires with hoary honours crowned, And beardless youths, our battlements surround. Firm be the guard, while distant lie our powers, And let the matrons hang with lights the towers: Lest, under covert of the midnight shade, The insidious foe the naked town invade. Suffice, to-night, these orders to obey; A nobler charge shall rouse the dawning day. The gods, I trust, shall give to Hector's hand, From these detested foes to free the land, Who ploughed, with fates averse, the watery way; For Trojan vultures a predestined prey. Our common safety must be now the care; But soon as morning paints the fields of air, Sheathed in bright arms let every troop engage, And the fired fleet behold the battle rage. Then, then shall Hector and Tydides prove, Whose fates are heaviest in the scale of Jove. To-morrow's light (O haste the glorious morn!) Shall see his bloody spoils in triumph borne, With this keen javelin shall his breast be gored, And prostrate heroes bleed around their lord. Certain as this, oh! might my days endure, From age inglorious, and black death secure; So might my life and glory know no bound, Like Pallas worshipped, like the sun renowned! As the next dawn, the last they shall enjoy, Shall crush the Greeks, and end the woes of Troy."

The leader spoke. From all his host around Shouts of applause along the shores resound. Each from the yoke the smoking steeds untied, And fixed their headstalls to his chariot-side. Fat sheep and oxen from the town are led, With generous wine, and all-sustaining bread. Full hecatombs lay burning on the shore; The winds to heaven the curling vapours bore; Ungrateful offering to the immortal powers! Whose wrath hung heavy o'er the Trojan towers; Nor Priam nor his sons obtained their grace; Proud Troy they hated, and her guilty race. The troops exulting sat in order round, And beaming fires illumined all the ground. As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night! O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole; O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head. Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies: The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays: The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires. A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field. Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send, Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn, And ardent warriors wait the rising morn.

POPE.



[Notes:Rest from battle. This is part of Pope's translation of the Iliad of Homer (Book 8, l. 605).

Stamander. One of the rivers in the neighbourhood of Troy.

Dardan bands. Trojan lands. Dardanus was the mythical ancestor of the Trojans.

Generous aids = allies.

Tydides—Diomede.

From age inglorious and black death secure = safe from inglorious age and from black death.

Hecatombs. Sacrifices of 100 oxen.

Ungrateful offering = unpleasing offering.

Xanthus. The other river in the neighbourhood of Troy.

Umbered = thrown into shadow, and glimmering in the darkness.]



* * * * *



ARISTIDES.

Aristides at first was loved and respected for his surname of the Just, and afterwards envied as much; the latter, chiefly by the management of Themistocles, who gave it out among the people that Aristides had abolished the courts of judicature, by drawing the arbitration of all causes to himself, and so was insensibly gaining sovereign power, though without guards and the other ensigns of it. The people, elevated with the late victory at Marathon, thought themselves capable of everything, and the highest respect little enough for them. Uneasy, therefore, at finding any one citizen rose to such extraordinary honour and distinction, they assembled at Athens from all the towns in Attica, and banished Aristides by the Ostracism; disguising their envy of his character under the specious pretence of guarding against tyranny.

For the Ostracism was not a punishment for crimes and misdemeanours, but was very decently called an humbling and lessening of some excessive influence and power. In reality it was a mild gratification of envy; for by this means, whoever was offended at the growing greatness of another, discharged his spleen, not in anything cruel or inhuman, but only in voting a ten years' banishment. But when it once began to fall upon mean and profligate persons, it was for ever after entirely laid aside; Hyperbolus being the last that was exiled by it.

The reason of its turning upon such a wretch was this. Alcibiades and Nicias, who were persons of the greatest interest in Athens, had each his party; but perceiving that the people were going to proceed to the Ostracism, and that one of them was likely to suffer by it, they consulted together, and joining interests, caused it to fall upon Hyperbolus. Hereupon the people, full of indignation at finding this kind of punishment dishonoured and turned into ridicule, abolished it entirely.

The Ostracism (to give a summary account of it) was conducted in the following manner. Every citizen took a piece of a broken pot, or a shell, on which he wrote the name of the person he wanted to have banished, and carried it to a part of the market-place that was enclosed with wooden rails. The magistrates then counted the number of the shells; and if it amounted not to six thousand, the Ostracism stood for nothing: if it did, they sorted the shells, and the person whose name was found on the greatest number, was declared an exile for ten years, but with permission to enjoy his estate.

At the time that Aristides was banished, when the people were inscribing the names on the shells, it is reported that an illiterate burgher came to Aristides, whom he took for some ordinary person, and, giving him his shell, desired him to write Aristides upon it. The good man, surprised at the adventure, asked him "Whether Aristides had ever injured him?" "No," said he, "nor do I even know him; but it vexes me to hear him everywhere called the Just." Aristides made no answer, but took the shell, and having written his own name upon it, returned it to the man. When he quitted Athens, he lifted up his hands towards heaven, and, agreeably to his character, made a prayer, very different from that of Achilles; namely, "That the people of Athens might never see the day which should force them to remember Aristides."

Plutarch's Lives.



[Notes: Aristides. A prominent citizen of Athens (about the year 490 B.C.) opposed to the more advanced policy of Themistocles, who wished to make the city rely entirely upon her naval power. He was ostracised in 489, but afterwards restored.

Marathon. The victory gained over the Persian invaders, 490 B.C.]



* * * * *



THE VENERABLE BEDE.

Baeda—the venerable Bede as later times styled him—was born about ten years after the Synod of Whitby, beneath the shade of a great abbey which Benedict Biscop was rearing by the mouth of the Wear. His youth was trained and his long tranquil life was wholly spent in an offshoot of Benedict's house which was founded by his scholar Ceolfrid. Baeda never stirred from Jarrow. "I spent my whole life in the same monastery," he says, "and while attentive to the rule of my order and the service of the Church, my constant pleasure lay in learning, or teaching, or writing." The words sketch for us a scholar's life, the more touching in its simplicity that it is the life of the first great English scholar. The quiet grandeur of a life consecrated to knowledge, the tranquil pleasure that lies in learning and teaching and writing, dawned for Englishmen in the story of Baeda. While still young, he became teacher, and six hundred monks, besides strangers that flocked thither for instruction, formed his school of Jarrow. It is hard to imagine how, among the toils of the schoolmaster and the duties of the monk, Baeda could have found time for the composition of the numerous works that made his name famous in the West. But materials for study had accumulated in Northumbria through the journeys of Wilfrith and Benedict Biscop, and Archbishop Eegberht was forming the first English library at York. The tradition of the older Irish teachers still lingered to direct the young scholar into that path of scriptural interpretation to which he chiefly owed his fame. Greek, a rare accomplishment in the West, came to him from the school which the Greek Archbishop Theodore founded beneath the walls of Canterbury. His skill in the ecclesiastical chaunt was derived from a Roman cantor whom Pope Vilalian sent in the train of Benedict Biscop. Little by little the young scholar thus made himself master of the whole range of the science of his time; he became, as Burke rightly styled him, "the father of English learning." The tradition of the older classic culture was first revived for England in his quotations of Plato and Aristotle, of Seneca and Cicero, of Lucretius and Ovid. Virgil cast over him the same spell that he cast over Dante; verses from the. Aeneid break his narratives of martyrdoms, and the disciple ventures on the track of the great master in a little eclogue descriptive of the approach of spring. His work was done with small aid from others. "I am my own secretary," he writes; "I make my own notes. I am my own librarian." But forty-five works remained after his death to attest his prodigious industry. In his own eyes and those of his contemporaries, the most important among these were the commentaries and homilies upon various books of the Bible which he had drawn from the writings of the Fathers. But he was far from confining himself to theology. In treatises compiled as text-books for his scholars, Baeda threw together all that the world had then accumulated in astronomy and meteorology, in physics and music, in philosophy, grammar, rhetoric, arithmetic, medicine. But the encyclopaedic character of his researches left him in heart a simple Englishman. He loved his own English tongue, he was skilled in English song, his last work was a translation into English of the gospel of St. John, and almost the last words that broke from his lips were some English rhymes upon death.

But the noblest proof of his love of England lies in the work which immortalizes his name. In his 'Ecclesiastical History of the English Nation,' Baeda was at once the founder of medieval history and the first English historian. All that we really know of the century and a half that follows the landing of Augustine, we know from him. Wherever his own personal observation extended, the story is told with admirable detail and force. He is hardly less full or accurate in the portions which he owed to his Kentish friends, Alewine and Nothelm. What he owed to no informant was his own exquisite faculty of story-telling, and yet no story of his own telling is so touching as the story of his death. Two weeks before the Easter of 735 the old man was seized with an extreme weakness and loss of breath. He still preserved, however, his usual pleasantness and gay good-humour, and in spite of prolonged sleeplessness continued his lectures to the pupils about him. Verses of his own English tongue broke from time to time from the master's lip—rude rhymes that told how before the "need-fare," Death's stern "must-go," none can enough bethink him what is to be his doom for good or ill. The tears of Baeda's scholars mingled with his song. "We never read without weeping," writes one of then. So the days rolled on to Ascension-tide, and still master and pupils toiled at their work, for Baeda longed to bring to an end his version of St. John's Gospel into the English tongue, and his extracts from Bishop Isidore. "I don't want my boys to read a lie," he answered those who would have had him rest, "or to work to no purpose, after I am gone." A few days before Ascension-tide his sickness grew upon him, but he spent the whole day in teaching, only saying cheerfully to his scholars, "Learn with what speed you may; I know not how long I may last." The dawn broke on another sleepless night, and again the old man called his scholars round him and bade them write. "There is still a chapter wanting," said the scribe, as the morning drew on, "and it is hard for thee to question thyself any longer." "It is easily done," said Baeda; "take thy pen and write quickly." Amid tears and farewells the day wore on to eventide. "There is yet one sentence unwritten, dear master," said the boy. "Write it quickly," bade the dying man. "It is finished now," said the little scribe at last. "You speak truth," said the master; "all is finished now." Placed upon the pavement, his head supported in his scholar's arms, his face turned to the spot where he was wont to pray, Baeda chaunted the solemn "Glory to God." As his voice reached the close of his song, he passed quietly away.

J. R. GREEN.



[Note: Baeda. The father of literature and learning in England (656-735 A.D.).]



* * * * *



THE DEATH OF ANSELM.

Anselm's life was drawing to its close. The re-enactment and confirmation by the authority of the great Whitsuntide Assembly of the canons of the Synod of London against clerical marriage, and a dispute with two of the Northern bishops—his old friend Ralph Flambard, and the archbishop-elect of York, who, apparently reckoning on Anselm's age and bad health, was scheming to evade the odious obligation of acknowledging the paramount claims of the see of Canterbury—were all that marked the last year of his life. A little more than a year before his own death, he had to bury his old and faithful friend—a friend first in the cloister of Bee, and then in the troubled days of his English primacy—the great builder, Gundulf, Bishop of Rochester. Anselm's last days shall be told in the words of one who had the best right to record the end of him whom he had loved so simply and so loyally—his attendant Eadmer.

"During these events (of the last two years of his life) he wrote a treatise 'Concerning the Agreement of Foreknowledge, Predestination, and the Grace of God, with Free Will,' in which contrary to his wont, he found difficulty in composition; for after his illness at Bury St. Edmund's, as long as he was spared to this life, he was weaker than before; so that, when he was moving from place to place, he was from that time carried in a litter, instead of riding on horseback. He was tried, also, by frequent and sharp sicknesses, so that we scarce dared promise him life. He, however, never left off his old way of living, but was always engaged in godly meditations, or holy exhortations, or other good work.

"In the third year after King Henry had recalled him from his second banishment, every kind of food by which nature is sustained became loathsome to him. He used to eat, however, putting force on himself, knowing that he could not live without food; and in this way he somehow or another dragged on life through half a year, gradually failing day by day in body, though in vigour of mind he was still the same as he used to be. So being strong in spirit, though but very feeble in the flesh, he could not go to his oratory on foot; but from his strong desire to attend the consecration of the Lord's body, which he venerated with a special feeling of devotion, he caused himself to be carried thither every day in a chair. We who attended on him tried to prevail on him to desist, because it fatigued him so much; but we succeeded, and that with difficulty, only four days before he died.

"From that time he took to his bed? and, with gasping breath, continued to exhort all who had the privilege of drawing near him to live to God, each in his own order. Palm Sunday had dawned, and we, as usual, were sitting round him; one of us said to him, 'Lord father, we are given to understand that you are going to leave the world for your Lord's Easter court.' He answered, 'If His will be so, I shall gladly obey His will. But if He willed rather that I should yet remain amongst you, at least till I have solved a question which I am turning in my mind, about the origin of the soul, I should receive it thankfully, for I know not whether any one will finish it after I am gone. Indeed, I hope, that if I could take food, I might yet get well. For I feel no pain anywhere; only, from weakness of my stomach, which cannot take food, I am failing altogether.'

"On the following Tuesday, towards evening, he was no longer able to speak intelligibly. Ralph, Bishop of Rochester, asked him to bestow his absolution and blessing on us who were present, and on his other children, and also on the king and queen with their children, and the people of the land who had kept themselves under God in his obedience. He raised his right hand, as if he was suffering nothing, and made the sign of the Holy Cross; and then dropped his head and sank down. The congregation of the brethren were already chanting matins in the great church, when one of those who watched about our father the book of the Gospels and read before him the history of the Passion, which was to be read that day at the mass. But when he came to our Lord's words, 'Ye are they which have continued with me in my temptations, and I appoint unto you a kingdom, as my Father hath appointed unto me, that ye may eat and drink at my table,' he began to draw his breath more slowly. We saw that he was just going, so he was removed from his bed, and laid upon sackcloth and ashes. And thus, the whole family of his children being collected round him, he gave up his last breath into the hands of his Creator, and slept in peace."

DEAN CHURCH.



[Note:Anselm. An Italian by birth (1033-1109), was Abbot of Bee, in Normandy, and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, in both succeeding his countryman Lanfranc. He was famous as a scholastic philosopher; and, as a Churchman, he struggled long for the liberties of the Church with William II. and Henry I.]



* * * * *



THE MURDER OF BECKET.

The vespers had already begun, and the monks were singing the service in the choir, when two boys rushed up the nave, announcing, more by their terrified gestures than by their words, that the soldiers were bursting into the palace and monastery. Instantly the service was thrown into the utmost confusion; part remained at prayer, part fled into the numerous hiding-places the vast fabric affords; and part went down the steps of the choir into the transept to meet the little band at the door. "Come in, come in!" exclaimed one of them; "Come in, and let us die together." The Archbishop continued to stand outside, and said, "Go and finish the service. So long as you keep in the entrance, I shall not come in." They fell back a few paces, and he stepped within the door, but, finding the whole place thronged with people, he paused on the threshold, and asked, "What is it that these people fear?" One general answer broke forth, "The armed men in the cloister." As he turned and said, "I shall go out to them," he heard the clash of arms behind. The knights had just forced their way into the cloister, and were now (as would appear from their being thus seen through the open door) advancing along its southern side. They were in mail, which covered their faces up to their eyes, and carried their swords drawn. Three had hatchets. Fitzurse, with the axe he had taken from the carpenters, was foremost, shouting as he came, "Here, here, king's men!" Immediately behind him followed Robert Fitzranulph, with three other knights, and a motley group—some their own followers, some from the town—with weapons, though not in armour, brought up the rear. At this sight, so unwonted in the peaceful cloisters of Canterbury, not probably beheld since the time when the monastery had been sacked by the Danes, the monks within, regardless of all remonstrances, shut the door of the cathedral, and proceeded to barricade it with iron bars. A loud knocking was heard from the terrified band without, who having vainly endeavoured to prevent the entrance of the knights into the cloister, now rushed before them to take refuge in the church. Becket, who had stepped some paces into the cathedral, but was resisting the solicitations of those immediately about him to move up into the choir for safety, darted back, calling aloud as he went, "Away, you cowards! By virtue of your obedience I command you not to shut the door—the church must not be turned into a castle." With his own hands he thrust them away from the door, opened it himself, and catching hold of the excluded monks, dragged them into the building, exclaiming, "Come in, come in—faster, faster!"

* * * * *

The knights, who had been checked for a moment by the sight of the closed door, on seeing it unexpectedly thrown open, rushed into the church. It was, we must remember, about five o'clock in a winter evening; the shades of night were gathering, and were deepened into a still darker gloom within the high and massive walls of the vast cathedral, which was only illuminated here and there by the solitary lamps burning before the altars. The twilight, lengthening from the shortest day a fortnight before, was but just sufficient to reveal the outline of objects.

* * * * *

In the dim twilight they could just discern a group of figures mounting the steps of the eastern staircase. One of the knights called out to them, "Stay." Another, "Where is Thomas Becket, traitor to the King?" No answer was returned. None could have been expected by any one who remembered the indignant silence with which Becket had swept by when the same words had been applied by Randulf of Broc at Northampton. Fitzurse rushed forward, and, stumbling against one of the monks on the lower step, still not able to distinguish clearly in the darkness, exclaimed, "Where is the Archbishop?" Instantly the answer came: "Reginald, here I am, no traitor, but the archbishop and priest of God; what do you wish?" and from the fourth step, which he had reached in his ascent, with a slight motion of his head—noticed apparently as his peculiar manner in moments of excitement—Becket descended to the transept. Attired, we are told, in his white rochet, with a cloak and hood thrown over his shoulders, he thus suddenly confronted his assailants. Fitzurse sprang back two or three paces, and Becket passing by him took up his station between the central pillar and the massive wall which still forms the south-west corner of what was then the chapel of St. Benedict. Here they gathered round him, with the cry, "Absolve the bishops whom you have excommunicated." "I cannot do other than I have done," he replied, and turning to Fitzurse, he added, "Reginald, you have received many favours at my hands; why do you come into my church armed?" Fitzurse planted the axe against his breast, and returned for answer, "You shall die—I will tear out your heart." Another, perhaps in kindness, struck him between the shoulders with the flat of his sword, exclaiming, "Fly; you are a dead man." "I am ready to die," replied the primate, "for God and the Church; but I warn you, I curse you in the name of God Almighty, if you do not let my men escape."

The well-known horror which in that age was felt at an act of sacrilege, together with the sight of the crowds who were rushing in from the town through the nave, turned their efforts for the next few moments to carrying him out of the church. Fitzurse threw down the axe, and tried to drag him out by the collar of his long cloak, calling, "Come with us—you are our prisoner." "I will not fly, you detestable fellow," was Becket's reply, roused to his usual vehemence, and wrenching the cloak out of Fitzurse's grasp. The three knights struggled violently to put him on Tracy's shoulders. Becket set his back against the pillar, and resisted with all his might, whilst Grim, vehemently remonstrating, threw his arms around him to aid his efforts. In the scuffle, Becket fastened upon Tracy, shook him by his coat of mail, and exerting his great strength, flung him down on the pavement. It was hopeless to carry on the attempt to remove him. And in the final struggle which now began, Fitzurse, as before, took the lead. He approached with his drawn sword, and waving it over his head, cried, "Strike, strike!" but merely dashed off his cap. Tracy sprang forward and struck a more decided blow.

* * * * *

The blood from the first blow was trickling down his face in a thin streak; he wiped it with his arm, and when he saw the stain, he said, "Into thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit." At the third blow, he sank on his knees—his arms falling, but his hands still joined as if in prayer. With his face turned towards the altar of St. Benedict, he murmured in a low voice, "For the name of Jesus, and the defence of the Church, I am willing to die." Without moving hand or foot, he fell fiat on his face as he spoke, and with such dignity that his mantle, which extended from head to foot, was not disarranged. In this posture he received a tremendous blow, aimed with such violence that the scalp or crown of the head was severed from the skull, and the sword snapped in two on the marble pavement. Hugh of Horsea planted his foot on the neck of the corpse, thrust his sword into the ghastly wound, and scattered the brains over the pavement. "Let us go—let us go," he said, in conclusion, "the traitor is dead; he will rise no more."

DEAN STANLEY.



[Note: Thomas Becket (1119-1170). Chancellor and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury under Henry II.; maintained a heroic, though perhaps ambitious and undesirable struggle with that king for the independence of the clergy; and ended his life by assassination at the hands of certain of Henry's servants.]



* * * * *



THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH

The triumph of her lieutenant, Mountjoy, flung its lustre over the last days of Elizabeth, but no outer triumph could break the gloom which gathered round the dying queen. Lonely as she had always been, her loneliness deepened as she drew towards the grave. The statesmen and warriors of her earlier days had dropped one by one from her council board; and their successors were watching her last moments, and intriguing for favour in the coming reign. The old splendour of her court waned and disappeared. Only officials remained about her, "the other of the council and nobility estrange themselves by all occasions." As she passed along in her progresses, the people, whose applause she courted, remained cold and silent. The temper of the age, in fact, was changing and isolating her as it changed. Her own England, the England which had grown up around her, serious, moral, prosaic, shrank coldly from this child of earth, and the renascence, brilliant, fanciful, unscrupulous, irreligious. She had enjoyed life as the men of her day enjoyed it, and now that they were gone she clung to it with a fierce tenacity. She hunted, she danced, she jested with her young favourites, she coquetted, and scolded, and frolicked at sixty-seven as she had done at thirty. "The queen," wrote a courtier, a few months before her death, "was never so gallant these many years, nor so set upon jollity." She persisted, in spite of opposition, in her gorgeous progresses from country-house to country-house. She clung to business as of old, and rated in her usual fashion, "one who minded not to giving up some matter of account." But death crept on. Her face became haggard, and her frame shrank almost to a skeleton. At last, her taste for finery disappeared, and she refused to change her dresses for a week together. A strange melancholy settled down on her: "she held in her hand," says one who saw her in her last days, "a golden cup, which she often put to her lips: but in truth her heart seemed too full to need more filling." Gradually her mind gave way. She lost her memory, the violence of her temper became unbearable, her very courage seemed to forsake her. She called for a sword to lie constantly beside her, and thrust it from time to time through the arras, as if she heard murderers stirring there. Food and rest became alike distasteful. She sate day and night propped up with pillows on a stool, her finger on her lip, her eyes fixed on the floor, without a word. If she once broke the silence, it was with a flash of her old queenliness. Cecil asserted that she "must" go to bed, and the word roused her like a trumpet. "Must!" she exclaimed; "is must a word to be addressed to princes? Little man, little man! thy father, if he had been alive, durst not have used that word." Then, as her anger spent itself, she sank into her old dejection. "Thou art so presumptuous," she said, "because thou knowest I shall die." She rallied once more when the ministers beside her bed named Lord Beauchamp, the heir to the Suffolk claim, as a possible successor. "I will have no rogue's son," she cried hoarsely, "in my seat." But she gave no sign, save a motion of the head, at the mention of the King of Scots. She was in fact fast becoming insensible; and early the next morning the life of Elizabeth, a life so great, so strange and lonely in its greatness, passed quietly away.

J.R. GREEN.



[Notes: Mountjoy. The Queen's lieutenant in Ireland, who had had considerable success in dealing with the Irish rebels.

This chill of ... the renascence. In her irreligion, as well as in her brilliancy and fancy, Elizabeth might fitly be called the child or product of the Pagan renascence or new birth, as the return to the freedom of classic literature, so powerful in the England of her day, was called.

Thy father = the great Lord Burghley, who guided the counsels of the Queen throughout all the earlier part of her reign.

The Suffolk claim, i.e., the claim derived from Mary, the sister of Henry VIII., who married Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. James, who succeeded Elizabeth, was descended from the elder sister, Margaret, married to James IV. of Scotland.]



* * * * *



THE SAXON AND THE GAEL.

So toilsome was the road to trace, The guide, abating of his pace, Led slowly through the pass's jaws, And ask'd Fitz-James by what strange cause He sought these wilds? traversed by few, Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. "Brave Gael, my pass, in danger tried, Hangs in my belt, and by my side; Yet sooth to tell," the Saxon said, "I dreamed not now to claim its aid. When here but three days since, I came, Bewildered in pursuit of game, All seemed as peaceful and as still As the mist slumbering on yon hill: Thy dangerous chief was then afar, Nor soon expected back from war." "But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, Bewildered in the mountain game, Whence the bold boast by which you show Vich-Alpine's vowed and mortal foe?" "Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, Save as an outlaw'd desperate man, The chief of a rebellious clan, Who in the Regent's court and sight, With ruffian dagger stabbed a knight; Yet this alone might from his part Sever each true and loyal heart." Wrathful at such arraignment foul, Dark lowered the clansman's sable scowl. A space he paused, then sternly said,— "And heard'st thou why he drew his blade? Heards't thou that shameful word and blow Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe? What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood On Highland-heath, or Holy-Rood? He rights such wrong where it is given, If it were in the court of heaven." "Still was it outrage:—yet, 'tis true, Not then claimed sovereignty his due; While Albany, with feeble hand, Held borrowed truncheon of command, The young King mew'd in Stirling tower, Was stranger to respect and power. But then, thy Chieftain's robber life! Winning mean prey by causeless strife, Wrenching from ruined lowland swain His herds and harvest reared in vain, Methinks a soul like thine should scorn The spoils from such foul foray borne." The Gael beheld him grim the while, And answered with disdainful smile,— "Saxon, from yonder mountain high, I marked thee send delighted eye Far to the south and east, where lay Extended in succession gay, Deep waving fields and pastures green, With gentle slopes and groves between:— These fertile plains, that softened vale, Were once the birthright of the Gael; The stranger came with iron hand, And from our fathers reft the land. Where dwell we now? See, rudely swell Crag over crag, fell over fell. Ask we this savage hill we tread, For fattened steer or household bread; Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, And well the mountain might reply,— "To you, as to your sires of yore, Belong the target and claymore! I give you shelter in my breast, Your own good blades must win the rest." Pent in this fortress of the North, Think'st thou we will not sally forth, To spoil the spoiler as we may, And from the robber rend the prey? Aye, by my soul!—While on yon plain The Saxon rears one shock of grain; While of ten thousand herds, there strays But one along yon river's maze,— The Gael, of plain and river heir, Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share. Where live the mountain Chiefs who hold That plundering Lowland field and fold Is aught but retribution true? Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu." Answered Fitz-James—"And, if I sought, Think'st thou no other could be brought? What deem ye of my path waylaid, My life given o'er to ambuscade?" "As of a meed to rashness due: Hadst thou sent warning fair and true,— I seek my hound, or falcon strayed. I seek, good faith, a Highland maid.— Free hadst thou been to come and go; But secret path marks secret foe. Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, Hadst thou unheard, been doomed to die, Save to fulfil an augury." "Well, let it pass; nor will I now Fresh cause of enmity avow, To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. Enough, I am by promise tied To match me with this man of pride: Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen In peace: but when I come again, I come with banner, brand, and bow, As leader seeks his mortal foe. For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, As I, until before me stand This rebel Chieftain and his band." "Have, then, thy wish!"—he whistled shrill, And he was answered from the hill: Wild as the scream of the curlew, From crag to crag the signal flew. Instant, through copse and heath, arose Bonnets and spears, and bended bows. On right, on left, above, below, Sprung up at once the lurking foe; From shingles grey their lances start, The bracken bush sends forth the dart. The rushes and the willow wand Are bristling into axe and brand, And every tuft of broom gives life To plaided warrior armed for strife. That whistle garrison'd the glen At once with full five hundred men, As if the yawning hill to heaven A subterraneous host had given. Watching their leader's beck and will, All silent there they stood and still. Like the loose crags whose threatening mass Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, As if an infant's touch could urge Their headlong passage down the verge, With step and weapon forward flung. Upon the mountain-side they hung. The mountaineer cast glance of pride Along Benledi's living side, Then fixed his eye and sable brow Full on Fitz-James—"How says't thou now? These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true, And, Saxon,—I am Roderick Dhu!" Fitz-James was brave:—Though to his heart The life-blood thrilled with sudden start, He mann'd himself with dauntless air, Returned the Chief his haughty stare, His back against a rock he bore, And firmly placed his foot before:— "Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I." Sir Roderick marked—and in his eyes Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel. Short space he stood—then waved his hand; Down sunk the disappearing band: Each warrior vanished where he stood, In broom or bracken, heath or wood: Sunk brand and spear, and bended bow, In osiers pale and copses low; It seemed as if their mother Earth Had swallowed up her warlike birth. The wind's last breath had tossed in air Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair,— The next but swept a lone hill-side, Where heath and fern were waving wide; The sun's last glance was glinted back, From spear and glaive, from targe and jack,— The next, all unreflected, shone On bracken green and cold grey stone. Fitz-James looked round—yet scarce believed The witness that his sight received; Such apparition well might seem Delusion of a dreadful dream. Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, And to his look the Chief replied, "Fear nought—nay, that I need not say— But—doubt not aught from mine array. Thou art my guest:—I pledged my word As far as Coilantogle ford: Nor would I call a clansman's brand, For aid against one valiant hand, Though on our strife lay every vale Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. So move we on;—I only meant To show the reed on which you leant, Deeming this path you might pursue Without a pass from Roderick Dhu."

* * * * *

The Chief in silence strode before, And reached that torrent's sounding shore, Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, From Vennachar in silver breaks Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless mines, On Bochastle the mouldering lines. Where "Rome, the Empress of the world. Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd. And here his course the Chieftain staid; Threw down his target and his plaid, And to the Lowland warrior said:— "Bold Saxon! to his promise just, Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. This murderous Chief, this ruthless man. This head of a rebellious clan, Hath led thee safe, through watch and ward, Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. Now, man to man, and steel to steel, A Chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel, See, here, all vantageless, I stand, Armed like thyself, with single brand: For this is Coilantogle ford, And thou must keep thee with thy sword." The Saxon paused:—"I ne'er delayed, When foeman bade me draw my blade; Nay more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death: Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, And my deep debt for life preserved, A better meed have well deserved:— Can nought but blood our feud atone? Are there no means?"—"No, stranger, none! And hear,—to fire thy flagging zeal,— The Saxon cause rests on thy steel; For thus spoke Fate by prophet bred Between the living and the dead: "Who spills the foremost foeman's life, His party conquers in the strife."— "Then by my word," the Saxon said, "The riddle is already read. Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff,— There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. Thus Fate has solved her prophecy, Then yield to Fate, and not to me. To James, at Stirling, let us go, When, if thou wilt be still his foe, Or if the King shall not agree To grant thee grace and favour free, I plight mine honour, oath, and word, That, to thy native strengths restored, With each advantage shalt thou stand, That aids thee now to guard thy land."— Dark lightning flashed from Roderick's eye— "Soars thy presumption then so high, Because a wretched kern ye slew, Homage to name to Roderick Dhu? He yields not, he, to man nor Fate! Thou add'st but fuel to my hate:— My clansman's blood demands revenge.— Not yet prepared?—By Heaven, I change My thought, and hold thy valour light As that of some vain carpet-knight, Who ill-deserved my courteous care, And whose best boast is but to wear A braid of his fair lady's hair."— "I thank thee, Roderick, for the word! It nerves my heart, it steels my sword; For I have sworn this braid to stain In the best blood that warms thy vein. Now, truce, farewell; and ruth, begone! Yet think not that by thee alone, Proud Chief! can courtesy be shown: Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, Start at my whistle, clansmen stern, Of this small horn one feeble blast Would fearful odds against thee cast. But fear not—doubt not—which thou wilt— We try this quarrel hilt to hilt."— Then each at once his faulchion drew, Each on the ground his scabbard threw, Each looked to sun, and stream, and plain, As what they ne'er might see again: Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed. Ill-fared it then with Roderick Dhu, That on the field his targe he threw, Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide Had death so often dashed aside: For, trained abroad his arms to wield, Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. He practised every pass and ward, To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard; While less expert, though stronger far, The Gael maintained unequal war. Three times in closing strife they stood, And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood: No stinted draught, no scanty tide, The gushing flood the tartans dyed. Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, And showered his blows like wintry rain; And, as firm rock or castle-roof, Against the winter shower is proof, The foe invulnerable still Foiled his wild rage by steady skill; Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, And, backward borne upon the lea, Brought the proud Chieftain to his knee. "Now, yield thee, or, by Him who made The world, thy heart's blood dyes my blade!"— "Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy! Let recreant yield, who fears to die."— Like adder darting from his coil, Like wolf that dashes through the toil, Like mountain-cat who guards her young, Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung, Received, but reck'd not of a wound, And locked his arms his foeman round.— Now gallant Saxon, hold thine own! No maiden's hand is round thee thrown! That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, Through bars of brass and triple steel!— They tug, they strain!—down, down they go, The Gael above, Fitz-James below. The Chieftain's gripe his throat compress'd, His knee was planted on his breast; His clotted locks he backward threw, Across his brow his hand he drew, From blood and mist to clear his sight, Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright! —But hate and fury ill supplied The stream of life's exhausted tide, And all too late the advantage came, To turn the odds of deadly game; For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, Keeled soul and sense, reeled brain and eye, Down came the blow! but in the heath The erring blade found bloodless sheath. The struggling foe may now unclasp The fainting Chief's relaxing grasp; Unbounded from the dreadful close, But breathless all, Fitz-James arose.

SCOTT.



[Notes: Fitz-James is James V. in disguise.

Holy Rood, or Holy Cross, where was the royal palace of the Scottish kings.

Albany. The Duke of Albany, who was regent of Scotland during part of the minority of James V.

Where Rome, the Empress, &c. And where remnants of Roman encampments are still to be traced.]



* * * * *



THE BATTLE OF NASEBY.

BY five o'clock in the morning, the whole army, in order of battle, began to descry the enemy from the rising grounds about a mile from Naseby, and moved towards them. They were drawn up on a little ascent in a large common fallow-field, in one line, extending from one side of the field to the other, the field something more than a mile over; our army in the same order, in one line, with the reserves.

The king led the main battle of foot, Prince Rupert the right wing of the horse, and Sir Marmaduke Langdale the left. Of the enemy Fairfax and Skippon led the body, Cromwell and Roseter the right, and Ireton the left. The numbers of both armies so equal, as not to differ five hundred men, save that the king had most horse by about one thousand, and Fairfax most foot by about five hundred. The number was in each army about eighteen thousand men.

The armies coming close up, the wings engaged first. The prince with his right wing charged with his wonted fury, and drove all the parliament's wing of horse, one division excepted, clear out of the field. Ireton, who commanded this wing, give him his due, rallied often, and fought like a lion; but our wing bore down all before them, and pursued them with a terrible execution.

Ireton, seeing one division of his horse left, repaired to them, and keeping his ground, fell foul of a brigade of our foot, who coming up to the head of the line, he like a madman charges them with his horse. But they with their pikes tore them to pieces; so that this division was entirely ruined. Ireton himself, thrust through the thigh with a pike, wounded in the face with a halberd, was unhorsed and taken prisoner.

Cromwell, who commanded the parliament's right wing, charged Sir Marmaduke Langdale with extraordinary fury; but he, an old tried soldier, stood firm, and received the charge with equal gallantry, exchanging all their shot, carabines, and pistols, and then fell on sword in hand, Roseter and Whaley had the better on the point of the wing, and routed two divisions of horse, pushed them behind the reserves, where they rallied, and charged again, but were at last defeated; the rest of the horse, now charged in the flank, retreated fighting, and were pushed behind the reserves of foot.

While this was doing, the foot engaged with equal fierceness, and for two hours there was a terrible fire. The king's foot, backed with gallant officers, and full of rage at the rout of their horse, bore down the enemy's brigade led by Skippon. The old man wounded, bleeding, retreats to their reserves. All the foot, except the general's brigade, were thus driven into the reserves, where their officers rallied them, and brought them on to a fresh charge; and here the horse having driven our horse above a quarter of a mile from the foot, face about, and fall in on the rear of the foot.

Had our right wing done thus, the day had been secured; but Prince Rupert, according to his custom, following the flying enemy, never concerned himself with the safety of those behind; and yet he returned sooner than he had done in like cases too. At our return we found all in confusion, our foot broken, all but one brigade, which, though charged in the front, flank, and rear, could not be broken, till Sir Thomas Fairfax himself came up to the charge with fresh men, and then they were rather cut in pieces than beaten; for they stood with their pikes charged every way to the last extremity.

In this condition, at the distance of a quarter of a mile, we saw the king rallying his horse, and preparing to renew the fight; and our wing of horse coming up to him, gave him opportunity to draw up a large body of horse; so large, that all the enemy's horse facing us, stood still and looked on, but did not think fit to charge us, till their foot, who had entirely broken our main battle, were put into order again, and brought up to us.

The officers about the king advised his majesty rather to draw off; for, since our foot were lost, it would be too much odds to expose the horse to the fury of their whole army, and would be but sacrificing his best troops, without any hopes of success.

The king, though with great regret at the loss of his foot, yet seeing there was no other hope, took this advice, and retreated in good order to Harborough, and from thence to Leicester.

This was the occasion of the enemy having so great a number of prisoners; for the horse being thus gone off, the foot had no means to make their retreat, and were obliged to yield themselves. Commissary-General Ireton being taken by a captain of foot, makes the captain his prisoner, to save his life, and gives him his liberty for his courtesy before.

Cromwell and Roseter, with all the enemy's horse, followed us as far as Leicester, and killed all that they could lay hold on straggling from the body, but durst not attempt to charge us in a body. The king expecting the enemy would come to Leicester, removes to Ashby-de-la-Zouch, where we had some time to recollect ourselves.

This was the most fatal action of the whole war; not so much for the loss of our cannon, ammunition, and baggage, of which the enemy boasted so much, but as it was impossible for the king ever to retrieve it. The foot, the best that he was ever master of, could never be supplied; his army in the west was exposed to certain ruin; the north overrun with the Scots; in short, the case grew desperate, and the king was once upon the point of bidding us all disband, and shift for ourselves.

We lost in this fight not above two thousand slain, and the parliament near as many, but the prisoners were a great number; the whole body of foot being, as I have said, dispersed, there were four thousand five hundred prisoners, besides four hundred officers, two thousand horses, twelve pieces of cannon, forty barrels of powder; all the king's baggage, coaches, most of his servants, and his secretary; with his cabinet of letters, of which the parliament made great improvement, and, basely enough, caused his private letters between his majesty and the queen, her majesty's letters to the king, and a great deal of such stuff, to be printed.

DEFOE.



[Note: The battle of Naseby, fought on June 14th, 1645. The king's forces were routed, and his cannon and baggage fell into the enemy's hands. Not only was the loss heavy, but it was made more serious by his correspondence falling into the hands of the parliamentary leaders, which exposed his dealings with the Irish Roman Catholics. The most remarkable point about this description is the air of reality which Defoe gives to his account of an event which took place nearly twenty years before his birth.]