"He is well, dear lady. It is not of him I came to speak. I am just from Wakefield, and I come to warn you to watch well over your sons, for the friends of York have sworn, one and all, to take revenge for the death of young Rutland; and I fear me the threat points towards Lord Clifford's children. You must not trust them out of the castle, where for the present they are safe; but if Edward of York should be made king, and he is more likely to succeed than his father was, I am afraid there will be no safety for them even here. I assumed this disguise because if it became known amongst your enemies that one of your father's people had come from Wakefield here, they would suspect it was to put you on your guard."

"Now heaven help me!" said the lady, "how am I to ward off this misfortune? I must depend on you, my good and faithful Rolf, to keep watch, and let me know should any immediate danger threaten us; and, in the meanwhile, I will concert some plan for removing my children in case of need."

"This I will do, lady, and as much more as may lie within my power. In this minstrel's guise I can visit the camp of the Yorkists from time to time, and bring you intelligence of what is passing there. They will not know that I am one of your house, and I shall pass free."

Lady Margaret was truly grateful to the trusty Rolf, who departed from the castle that same day; but she confided to none, except the good old seneschal, what had been the purport of their conference. Day after day she waited with ill-concealed dread for further tidings, and at length a messenger came from her lord, from whom she learned that more battles had been fought, that the king was released from prison, but that the young Duke of York had been proclaimed king in London, by the title of Edward the Fourth. Soon afterwards another messenger arrived with news that King Henry and the queen were again in Yorkshire collecting more forces, and that King Edward (for there were now two kings) was advancing northward with a large army to oppose them. The poor women and children from the neighbouring villages now came flocking for refuge to Brougham Castle, which was put into a state of defence, for it was quite certain there would soon be a great battle, and, if King Edward should gain the day, there was but little doubt that the castle would be besieged.

Lord Clifford was now with the king and queen in the city of York. Their army amounted to sixty thousand men; and King Edward was coming with about fifty thousand, so that the conflict was certain to be a very great and terrible one. It took place at Towton, on Palm Sunday, just four months after the battle of Wakefield, and amongst the many thousands slain on that dreadful day was Lord Clifford, who was then scarcely twenty-six years of age. It is needless to dwell on the grief occasioned by these fatal tidings; it was sad to hear and sad to see. The unhappy lady had now to think of providing for the safety of her fatherless children, for although Rolf had promised to bring her word if he saw they were in danger, there was no certainty of his being able to do so, as it was possible he might have been killed himself, for she had not heard of him. At last he came, but it was again in his adopted character of a minstrel, and he would have had some difficulty in gaining admittance, had it not been for the old seneschal, who guessed his errand, and saw that he was allowed to enter, saying that, dismal as the times were, it could be no harm to listen to a minstrel's lay.

With much caution he conducted him secretly to Lady Clifford's private apartments, for he thought there might be some hazard in letting it become known who he was or why he came, as among the many who were now within the castle walls, who could say that all were true.

From Rolf's account it appeared that, after the defeat at Towton, the queen had placed her husband, who was half imbecile, in a monastery at Edinburgh, and fled with her son, Prince Edward, to France; while the new king, Edward the Fourth, had taken full possession of the throne, and was publicly acknowledged as sovereign of England. He had declared his intention of seizing the estates of all those nobles who had fought against him; and it was reported that he had said he would revenge the murder of his brother, young Rutland, on Clifford's heir. Henry's life was therefore now in danger, and Rolf had come to assist in saving him.

"Have you devised any plan, lady," said the faithful servant, "in case of this extremity?"

"Yes, my good Rolf, I have thought of it day and night, ever since that fatal battle. I must part from my boy. I must trust him to you. Do you think you can convey him, without suspicion, to his nurse Maud, at Skipton? I can depend on her to be careful of my child, and on her husband also; but they must not remain there, they must remove to Londesborough, and you must go yourself to my father, who is now there, and tell him from me to provide them with a dwelling, but not to notice the boy as his grandson, for Henry must pass for Maud's own child. Think you, Rolf, that you can accomplish all this?"

"I will try, my lady; but we must speak of it to Lord Henry, that he may understand his life depends on its not being known that he is Lord Clifford's son."

"My Henry is wise beyond his years," replied the lady, "and I fear me not that he will submit to this necessity without a murmur."

"No doubt, no doubt, dear lady; and you had better prepare him at once, for we know not how soon the blow may come."

"My Henry," said Lady Margaret, "you are going to Skipton, to your good nurse Maud, who will take you to Londesborough, where you must live with her and her husband till there is peace again in the land, which we will both earnestly pray for. And you must remember, my child, that you are to pass for Maud's own son, and that you are to call her mother, and her husband, Robin, the shepherd, father. I have already explained to you what would be the terrible consequences should you ever forget this."

"I will not forget, mother; but shall I never see you there? I love Maud very much, but not as I love you, my own dear mother!"

And the noble boy threw himself into his mother's arms, laid his head upon her bosom, and burst into tears. She kissed him tenderly, and endeavoured to speak cheerfully.

"My darling boy, this separation is only for the present, and I hope I shall be able to see you sometimes, for I intend, after awhile, to live at Londesborough, which is mine, and may some day be yours; but not yet, not till our enemies believe that you and your brother are far away beyond the seas; and even then, when I come to visit you, Henry, no one must know it except ourselves and nurse; for if it came to be known that I felt any interest about the shepherd's boy, the people might suspect who you are, and that is what we have to guard against."

"And Richard, mother—is he to go away too?"

"Yes, Henry, I must part with you both—but your little sister I may keep with me; it is not her life they seek. And now, my beloved child, you understand what it is you have to do—keep up a brave heart and endeavour not to repine at your lot, but be thankful you have not fallen into the hands of those who would show you no mercy. But above all, my son, put your trust in God, and pray to him that happier days may come, when we can be together again without fear or concealment."

The next day after this conversation, Lady Clifford left Brougham Castle, with her three children, her maid Cicely, old Hubert, and a few trusty attendants on whose fidelity she could rely, but not even to them did she reveal her son's destination, which was only known to her faithful seneschal. The lady, with her maid and the children, travelled in a litter, a sort of light van shut in with curtains, which, at that period, when coaches were unknown, was often used by invalids and those who did not want to travel on horseback. The litter for one person was sometimes slung on poles and carried by men, but a large one, containing more than one traveller, was usually mounted on wheels and drawn by horses. It had been arranged that Rolf should meet Lady Clifford's party in a forest, between Brougham Castle and York, and that he should bring with him a peasant boy's coarse woollen dress, to disguise Henry for his flight; and oh, how sad were the hearts of the mother and son when they came in sight of the tall trees of that forest where they were to part for they knew not how long! The path was wide enough to admit of the vehicle, and they had not gone far when Rolf met them. He was not in his minstrel's dress, so that the people did not know him. He came to the side of the litter, and spoke in a low tone to the lady, who called one of her attendants, and said to him—

"This good man brings me word that it will not be safe for us to go to York, therefore I shall alter my course and proceed at once to the sea-coast, and take ship for the Netherlands. He also thinks that it would be better we should not all travel together, therefore I shall send on my eldest son with him and Hubert. He has a conveyance waiting close by in the forest, and when I have seen them off, I will return here. You can, meanwhile, rest and refresh yourselves, for we have a long day's journey yet before us."

The men, who were glad of this respite, dismounted, and began to unpack the provisions with which they were plentifully provided, whilst the sorrowful lady, leading her son by the hand, accompanied by Hubert, followed Rolf, who led them to a spot quite hidden from the view of the rest of the party, where a small cart, such as was used by the villagers in their rural occupations, was really in waiting.

This was indeed a trying moment. The young lord was now to be transformed into the peasant boy—his long bright curls were cut off, his face and hands were stained with a brown liquid to make him look sunburnt, as if he was used to work in the fields, and his rich velvet apparel was changed for coarse homespun woollen cloth. But he cared not what they put him on—his only thought was that he was going away from his beloved mother, perhaps never to see her more. He clasped his arms round her neck and clung to her sobbing, as if his heart would break, and the tears were streaming down her cheeks too, as she fell on her knees and murmured a prayer that heaven would watch over and protect her fatherless boy.

"My lady—my dear lady," said old Hubert; "you must not stay here longer—the sooner this parting is over the better it will be for you both. Come, my Lord Henry, it is time we were moving."

So saying he gently disengaged the boy from his mother's encircling arms and lifted him into the cart, making a private signal to Rolf to drive away as fast as he could. He then respectfully entreated his unhappy lady to return to her party, and she, scarcely conscious of what she was doing, suffered him to lead her back, and as soon as he had seen her safely placed in the litter with Cicely and the two children, he mounted his horse and galloped off as if to join Rolf and his young charge, but in reality to take quite another route, for Henry was to pass, during this journey, for a poor boy whom Rolf was taking home to his native village, and it would not have done for him to be attended by Lady Clifford's seneschal.

It was well he had been sent away, for just about this time King Edward caused an act of attainder to be passed against all the noblemen who had fought for the cause of Henry the Seventh, that is, they were deprived of their titles, and their estates were declared forfeited to the crown; he also issued a command that the children of the attainted nobles should be sent to London to be disposed of, as he, the king, should think fit; and this was probably done for the very purpose of getting Clifford's children into his power; for no sooner had Lady Clifford taken up her abode with her father, the aged Lord de Vesci, than she was summoned to London, and closely questioned as to what had become of her boys. She said she had sent them out of the country, but as she had heard nothing of them since, she did not know whether they were alive or dead, and so the retreat of the high-born shepherd boy remained unknown. But all the castles and broad lands that were his by right of inheritance were given to the enemies of his family. The Barony of Westmoreland, with Brougham Castle, was bestowed by Edward on his brother Richard Duke of York, afterwards Richard the Third; and the great manor of Shipton was conferred on Sir William Stanley, who, at a later period, went over to the Lancasterian party himself, and you may read in Shakespeare's play of "Richard the Third," that it was he who, after the battle of Bosworth, where Richard was killed, picked up the crown and placed it on the victor's head, saying, "Long live Henry the Seventh!" We shall presently see what this event had to do with our hero, Henry de Clifford.

II.

Londesborough was a beautiful place in the county of York, about sixteen miles from York city. Lord de Vesci had other and larger estates, but as his dignity of baron was limited to male heirs, his daughter could only inherit two of his possessions, and Londesborough was one of them, consequently young Henry de Clifford was its next heir in right of his mother. He knew this, yet so well had his mind been trained by that excellent parent, that he was content to live in a shepherd's cot outside its gates with Robin and Maud, whom he soon became accustomed to call father and mother. As they had come from Skipton, and brought with them two little children of their own, the people of the hamlet where they were now settled, did not know but that Henry was their eldest son, and the little ones were so young that they were easily taught to believe he was their brother. He wore a shepherd's frock of grey serge, fastened round the waist by a leather belt, with half-boots made of untanned deer-skin; and every morning he went out with his foster-father to mind the flocks, taking with him, in a little wallet slung over his shoulder, his mid-day meal, which he would eat as he sat on some grassy mound, or by the side of a rivulet, from which he could fill his horn cup with water. How different was this from the costly banquet in his father's hall, where he had servants to attend upon him, and drank out of a goblet of gold or silver. Yet he did not repine, but performed his duties with a willing spirit, and instead of thinking his lot was a hard one, he often reflected how much worse it would have been if he had fallen into the hands of his father's foes; still he could not help feeling melancholy at times, for he longed to see his dear mother again, and more than two months had passed, yet she came not. There was no occasion now to stain his hands and face, for the sun had embrowned them quite enough, and his long curls had been suffered to grow again, for Maud said it was a great pity to cut them off, and she was proud of hearing her neighbours say what nice hair her boy had got, and she would answer—

"Ay, my goodman tells me I take over much pride in Henry's curly locks, but he is my eldest, and sure it is natural for a mother to take pleasure in the beauty of her child, and, though I say it, he is as pretty a boy, and as good too, as any in the village."

One evening Henry had brought home the sheep, and having seen them safe in the fold, was sitting on the ground outside the cottage door eating his supper. One arm rested on the neck of a large dog, that was idly reposing by his side, as if tired with the toils of the day, for it was the shepherd's dog, and its duty was to guard the flocks as they were feeding in the fields, and warn his master if any danger seemed near them. At length the boy arose and walked slowly towards the entrance of a fair domain, where he stood gazing with tearful eyes through a long vista of tall oaks, on a noble mansion standing on the summit of a verdant slope, and his young heart was oppressed with unusual sadness as he looked wistfully on this his rightful home. He had stood there for some time when his foster-father came up and laid his hand kindly on his shoulder.

"Come, my boy, you are giving way to idle regrets. I do not like to see you here, Henry, for I know your thoughts are not what they should be."

"I know it is wrong, father, but I cannot help it sometimes."

"Whenever this feeling comes over you, Henry, try to drive it from you, and think of the past as if it had been but a dream. A dark prison, my boy, would have been a worse dwelling-place than a thatched cottage. Think of that, and be content."

"Indeed I am content, father, for you are very kind to me. But when, oh when, do you think my own dear mother will come?"

"Nay, I cannot tell; but let us hope it will not be, long first. And now, Henry, come home and go to your bed, for the sun is set, and you must be up betimes. See, here is Lion coming to meet us. Poor Lion! he does not like to lose sight of his master."

Henry, who had dried his tears and was smiling again, sprang forward to caress the faithful dog, who frolicked round him as if he thought he had been long away, and was rejoiced at his return. Maud had put aside her spinning-wheel, for it was nearly dark; the two younger children were already asleep, and Henry was about to retire to rest, when the door was opened softly, and there entered one whose form was muffled in a long dark cloak, the hood of which was drawn over the head to conceal the face from view. Robin and Maud trembled with fear as the idea struck them both that the boy's retreat had been discovered; but Henry, with the true instinct of affection, uttered the word "mother!" and rushed into the arms of the mysterious visitant, who threw off her disguise, and clasped her boy fondly to her bosom.

"My honoured lady!" exclaimed Maud, as she recognised the beautiful, but pale and careworn countenance of her mistress.

"Hush! Maud, hush!" said the lady; "are you sure we are quite safe?"

"Yes, madam, we are safe," answered Robin, "there is no one within hearing, and I will fasten the door, so that none shall enter without giving notice."

And so saying he proceeded to make all secure, whilst Henry laughed and wept by turns in the excess of his joy, and, amidst kisses and embraces, asked many questions about his brother and sister.

"I hope they are both well, my darling. Elizabeth I have seen lately, but I have not heard of Richard since his arrival in the Low Countries. Nevertheless, I trust he is safe and well. But how fares it with you, my best and dearest? Can you make yourself happy in this new life?"

"As happy as I can be away from you, dear mother. I do not mind the sort of life I lead so much as I thought I should; for I am getting used to it now."

"In truth he takes to it bravely, my lady," said Robin. "I only hope my own lad will be as good a shepherd as Henry, when he is as old."

Lady Margaret sighed deeply, for although the worthy man did not mean to give her pain, but rather pleasure, by this rough applause, she could not help feeling how very low the fortunes of De Clifford's son had fallen. But she did not make this thought apparent, she folded him closer to her heart, and whispered words of encouragement and praise.

"You have shown yourself a true hero, Henry, for nothing is more noble than to bear misfortune nobly, and this you have done. I am proud of my son, and should you ever be permitted by Providence to take your own name again, you will be doubly worthy of it."

"And that time will come, my lady," said Maud, fervently, "as sure as there are stars in yonder heavens!"

"We will hope so, Maud. And how shall I thank you for the care you have taken of my treasure? he looks well; the bloom of health is on his cheek. I would fain give you some token of my gratitude, if I durst do so."

"Better not, my lady," said Robin in his blunt way. "Besides it is for us, not you, lady, to talk of gratitude, since we owe all that we possess to your goodness. Even this cottage we live in, was it not your gift? It would be hard, then, if your child should meet with aught but kindness beneath its roof."

Lady Clifford did not stay long, fearing that her absence from her own abode might be discovered, and lead to suspicion; but she said she was going to stay some time at Londesborough, and should pay a visit to the cottage whenever she saw an opportunity of doing so without risk. For a few weeks she often came at nightfall without attracting the notice of the villagers; but at length she was obliged to leave Londesborough, and Henry saw her no more for a very long while. By degrees, however, he grew reconciled to her absence, and, as time wore on, the events of his early life were less distinctly remembered, until he could almost believe that his former grandeur had never been a reality. He often thought of his brother, and wondered where he was, and whether he was living like a peasant too, for he did not know till long afterwards that poor little Richard died soon after he was sent out of England.

When Henry was about fourteen, the death of his grandfather, Lord de Vesci, brought new dangers upon him, for a rumour got spread abroad that he was still live and in England, and, as he was the rightful heir to all the estates as well as the honours of the Bromfletes, the king's emissaries began to inquire into the matter, and make search in different parts of the country, where it was supposed he might be concealed. This alarming intelligence was first conveyed to his mother by the faithful Rolf, who, you remember, was one of the old Lord de Vesci's people, and devotedly attached to Lady Clifford. But she was not Lady Clifford now, for she was married to a noble knight named Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, whose domain was in the mountainous part of Cumberland, and was called Threlkeld. He was a kind-hearted, noble gentleman, and, as he had not taken an active part in the wars, he had been left in possession of his lands and dignities, and was living quietly on his own estate, when he offered his hand to the widowed Lady Clifford, who consented to become his wife because she knew he would be a friend to her dear boy, and they were married soon after the lady went away from Londesborough.

As soon as they heard that King Edward had instituted a search for the young heir, Sir Lancelot proposed to his lady to remove Robin the shepherd, with all his family, including Henry, from Londesborough to the hills of Cumberland, and settle them as near as possible to Threlkeld.

Robin and Maud had now five children of their own, who all looked up to Henry as their elder brother, and, as he was always kind and good-natured amongst them, treating them exactly as if they had been his brothers and sisters, they were very fond of him, nor did they ever suppose he was not the child of their parents. It was the beautiful summer-time when Sir Lancelot Threlkeld paid a visit to Londesborough, and sent for Robin, to whom he told what had happened, and explained his designs.

"The boy is no longer safe here," he said; "his life may depend on his immediate removal, but it must be very cautiously done. I shall tell the people here that we have increased our flocks at Threlkeld so that we want more shepherds there, and have fixed on Robin, whose three sons, being active lads, will be very useful. What think you of this plan?"

"It is good," replied the shepherd. "But you will see Henry yourself, my noble lord?" (It was thus he styled his lady's husband, whose servant he now deemed himself to be.)

"No, I think not," returned the knight; "it would please me much, but it will be better for him that I should not seem to think about him at all. There may be spies on the watch to take note of my movements, and if only the shadow of a suspicion should be awakened, all would be lost. We should have no power to save him then. How soon can you be ready to commence the journey?"

"To-morrow if you will, my lord."

"To-morrow let it be then, and may heaven send us a safe deliverance from this peril!"

"Amen!" responded the peasant, devoutly crossing himself. "It will be a happy day for me, and my dame too, should we live to see our Henry restored to his rights."

The worthy knight shook his head as he replied, "I fear me there is but small chance of that. The king is a young man; he is popular, and has sons to succeed him, and so long as there is one of the line of York to hold the sceptre of England, the house of De Clifford will be under a ban."

"Time, with the aid of Providence, works wonders, my lord."

"True, good Robin, true; but there is not much at present to encourage such hopes, and I would not have you speak thus to Henry."

"There would be little wisdom, indeed, in that," replied Robin smiling. "Shall I tell him I have seen you, my lord?"

"Yes, surely—and you can tell him, also, why I thought it prudent to depart without seeing him, for I would not have him think me careless or unkind."

He then gave Robin money for his journey, and when all was arranged the good man took his leave, and Sir Lancelot Threlkeld departed from Londesborough that same day.

It was joyful news for Henry to hear that he was going to live so near to his own dear mother again. In the gladness of his heart he was almost inclined to regard his enemies in the light of friends, since they had been the cause of this happy change. Maud was very glad too, for anything that gave pleasure to Henry was always pleasing to her, besides which she was devotedly attached to Lady Margaret, and rejoiced in the thought of being settled in a place where she would see her more frequently than she had done of late, and as for the children, they were almost out of their wits with delight, for young folks were quite as fond of novelty four hundred years ago as they are now.

The journey was a long and a rough one, as travellers of a humble class could not get on very fast in those days when there were no roads, and it was often a difficult matter to make their way through forests, or over wide tracts of waste land where the ground was rugged, uneven, and covered with brushwood. The vast forests which then existed in the north of England, have long since been cleared away, and wild trackless heaths have been converted into parks, meadows, and corn-fields. Maud and the two girls rode in a waggon wherein they had placed some wooden stools, several baskets of provision, and all their clothing, with such other things as they wished to take with them. Robin drove, while Henry and the other boys took it in turns to ride one at a time, the rest walking by the side of the clumsy vehicle, which could only proceed at a foot pace, so that their progress was but slow. They had taken care to put plenty of rushes in the waggon, so that some of them might sleep comfortably in it at night, while Robin and the elder lads, as it was summer-time, and warm, dry weather, could rest under the trees, wrapped in their shepherd's cloaks. In this manner they proceeded, sometimes halting at the villages to get a fresh supply of food and water, until at length they reached their destination, a small farm in a beautiful and romantic part of Cumberland, close to the borders of Scotland, but still within the domain of Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, which extended far and wide. You may be sure it was not long before our hero was again clasped to the heart of his fond mother, who, however, as before, only visited him in secret and under cover of the night. She was sometimes accompanied by Sir Lancelot, who was a kind-hearted man, and had always been well disposed towards the noble youth whom he delighted to call his son when they were alone, but at all other times he only noticed him as one of his shepherds.

Much of Henry's time was spent in solitude, as he watched his flocks feeding on the mountains, and being of a meditative disposition, he thought much and deeply of the beautiful works of the Great Creator that he beheld around him. Though wholly unlettered, though he could neither read nor write, he possessed a native nobleness of mind that raised him far above the class to which he seemingly belonged; yet his manners were plain and simple, nor did the knowledge of his high birth ever lead him to assume an air of superiority over the peasants with whom he was associated. In his solitary musings he thought so much about the wonders of the earth, the sea, and the skies, that he became quite a natural philosopher; but his chief delight was in the contemplation of the heavenly bodies, and he would watch the moon in her course, or gaze for hours on the myriads of stars that shone in the blue vault above him, until he acquired an ardent taste for the sublime study of astronomy, in which he indulged to the full at a later period of his existence.

And so the time passed on, bringing no change to Henry de Clifford, save the gradual increase of years, that transformed the slight delicate youth into the well-grown, powerful man, whose fine form, handsome face, and gentle manners won the hearts of the rustic maidens, and matrons too, of Threlkeld.

His foster-brothers and sisters, one by one, married amongst the villagers belonging to Sir Lancelot's estate, so that, at last, Henry was left alone with the worthy pair he called his father and mother.

In the meanwhile many stirring events were passing in England, though little was heard about them in the remote and quiet regions of Threlkeld. The wars of the Roses had never wholly ceased. There had been some peaceful intervals, but they had not lasted for long together, as Queen Margaret, assisted by the great Earl of Warwick, the most powerful baron in the kingdom, had resolved never to give up the cause so long as the least chance remained of replacing her husband on the throne, and securing the right of succession to her son. The Earl of Warwick had at first fought for the Duke of York, and it was through his power and influence that Edward the Fourth was made king, for he had more men and more money at his command than any other nobleman in the country. However, King Edward was unwise enough to quarrel with this high and mighty earl, who thereupon went over to the queen's party, and actually restored the poor, weak-minded King Henry the Sixth to the throne; on which Edward went over to Holland to get assistance of the Duke of Burgundy, his brother-in-law, who placed an army of foreigners at his command, with which he came back to England, and being joined by many of his partisans, a great battle was fought, in which the Earl of Warwick was slain. This event took place exactly ten years after the battle of Towton, where Lord Clifford fell. King Henry was then sent back a prisoner to the Tower, where he soon died; but Queen Margaret, who had just arrived from France, with Prince Edward, her son, who was then seventeen years old, resolved for his sake to make one more effort; but it would have been better for him and for her too, if they had given up this hopeless cause, and gone back to the court of her father, who was King of Anjou in France, for the battle was lost, the young prince was made prisoner, and being taken into the royal tent, the king spoke to him so rudely that he was provoked to answer with more spirit than he had been expected, on which some of the nobles who were standing by fiercely drew their daggers and killed him on the spot.

The unhappy queen having no one to care for, gave up the contest, and went to end her days in France, and for thirteen years afterwards there was no more open warfare in England; but there were still two parties, so that the White and the Red Rose were badges of enmity as before, for it was natural enough that all who, like the De Cliffords, had suffered from the success of the Yorkists, should wish to see the line of Lancaster restored. The existing heir of that family was Henry, Earl of Richmond, who was an exile in France, when Edward the Fourth died, leaving two sons, the eldest only eleven years of age. These were the two little princes that were sent to the Tower by their cruel, ambitious uncle, Richard the Third, who contrived that they should both die there, that he might wear the crown himself; but he had reigned very little more than two years when some of the great nobles, disgusted by his tyranny, sent word to the Earl of Richmond that, if he came to England, with a view to dethrone the usurper, he would find plenty of friends ready to assist him. The earl was soon here at the head of a large army, and met King Richard at Bosworth in Leicestershire, where the great battle was fought that put an end to the War of the Roses and to the life of Richard the Third.

You remember that when Edward the Fourth deprived the Cliffords of their lands and honours, the great manor of Skipton, with its fine old castle, was given to Sir William Stanley. This brave knight had remained faithful to King Edward, but he was amongst those who turned against Richard; and it was he who, when the fight was over and the victory won, took up the crown, which it appears, Richard had worn on the field, and placed it on Richmond's head, calling out aloud, "Long live King Henry the Seventh!" And this cry passed from one to another till the air resounded with the shouts of the victors, who thus proclaimed the new sovereign on the battle plain. When this momentous event took place Henry de Clifford was about thirty years of age. He had now dwelt for sixteen years amongst the mountains of Cumberland, and one thing only had occurred to disturb the even tenor of his peaceful life.

A gentleman of noble family and good estate, Sir John Saint John, of Bletso, in Bedfordshire, came on a visit to Threlkeld with his daughter Anne, a fair girl in the bloom of youth and beauty. Henry, who had seen her riding out over the hills with her father and Sir Lancelot, thought he had never beheld so lovely a maiden; and he was right, for in all England there were few to compare with Anne of Bletso. She had seen him too, and had observed how far superior he was in appearance to other rustic swains, for the shepherd's frock of homely grey could not conceal the graces of his person, which also attracted the notice of the worthy knight, her father, who, on one occasion, said to Sir Lancelot—

"That is a well-favoured youth of yours; I have seen a face like his before, but I cannot bethink me where or when, yet it is no common face either."

"He is the son of my chief shepherd," replied Sir Lancelot; "he was always a good-looking lad, and is an excellent servant."

Then, anxious to divert Sir John's attention from Henry, whose handsome features he feared might remind the knight of the late Lord Clifford, whom his son strongly resembled, he began to talk of other things. But Henry did not forget the sweet face of the young lady, or the beautiful eyes he had seen fixed intently upon him, eyes as bright as the stars he was so fond of gazing upon, and he could not help feeling sad to think the fates had placed him in a sphere so much beneath her.

It chanced one day as he watched his flocks feeding on the mountains, he saw the damsel on her white palfrey, attended by a single page, riding direct towards the spot where he was reclining in profound meditation, beneath the spreading branches of a luxuriant oak, that shielded him from the noonday sun. He rose at her approach, and took off his cap, displaying a rich profusion of nut-brown hair as he gracefully made his obeisance, supposing she would pass by with merely a slight notice, therefore he blushed with surprise and pleasure when she stopped her horse, and said in the sweetest tone imaginable—

"Good day, shepherd Henry; I come to ask a service of you."

"If I can render you service, lady, you may command me, even to the peril of my life."

"Nay, I would not have you peril your life for my behoof," she replied, with a smile.

"In riding over the hills this morning, I have lost a golden clasp, with three diamonds, that fastened my gorget, and I would ask you, should you meet with such a bauble in your ramblings, to carry it to the Lady Margaret of Threlkeld, who will see that it is restored to me."

"Lady I will not fail to do your bidding. Few persons traverse those hills, and I doubt not the jewel may be recovered."

"Thanks, gentle shepherd. We leave Threlkeld this day; so farewell, and be assured your courtesy will not be forgotten by Anne of Bletso."

That night, by moonlight, Henry wandered over the hills in search of the lost treasure, and for many hours he sought in vain; but at length, oh joyful sight! he saw the diamonds glittering in the moonbeams, at the bottom of a deep ravine, and without a moment's hesitation he commenced the dangerous descent. A single false step and he would have been dashed to pieces against the sharp points of the craggy rock, but with a steady hand and firm foot he gained the depth in safety, seized the prize; then, with great difficulty, and not without a few wounds and bruises, he climbed up again, and stood triumphant on the brink of a really frightful precipice. If the young lady had known where her clasp was to be found, she certainly would not have asked him to look for it; but he was himself well pleased to have encountered any danger for her sake, and in thoughtful mood he returned to the cottage, and repaired to his humble couch to dream of Anne Saint John.

"Why, Henry, what hast thee been doing to face and hands, boy?" said Robin the next morning.

"I stumbled into a brake, father," replied Henry, laughing, "and got a few scratches, that's all."

"Dear heart, but they are grievous hurts!" exclaimed Maud, "you must let me put a balsam to them, Henry."

"As you will, mother, but it is hardly worth while for so light a matter."

The balsam, however, was applied, and the wounds were speedily healed, but Henry did not recover his wonted peace of mind. As Lord Clifford he might have won the hand of the high-born maiden on whom his thoughts now constantly dwelt; but, as Henry the Shepherd, even to speak to her was presumption. Never had he lamented over his fallen fortunes as he did now; but he buried his regrets in his own bosom, nor did he let it appear, either by word or look, that he was less contented than he was before.

Lady Margaret had taken care of the clasp, but she told him the country was again threatened with warfare, so that it would not be safe to entrust anything of value to the hands of a messenger; therefore she would keep it till Sir Lancelot went to Bletso, which he intended to do ere long. She did not tell him that Sir John Saint John had come to Threlkeld to give secret information to herself and her husband of the project contemplated by the chief nobles, to depose King Richard and place the Earl of Richmond on the throne. She was afraid of exciting hopes that might end in disappointment, yet she was herself sanguine as to the possibility of De Clifford being restored to his rights if the crown should be won by a prince of the House of Lancaster. Sir John took great interest in the cause, being himself related in a distant degree to Henry Earl of Richmond; therefore the Saint John's of Bletso had royal blood in their veins.

It was the close of the autumn, in the year 1485, when Lady Margaret came one evening to Robin's cottage, not secretly as heretofore, not in fear and trembling lest it should be known for whom her visit was intended, but openly to greet her son as De Clifford's heir. Little did he guess the purport of her coming as he returned her fond embrace, but he saw that her countenance was radiant with happiness, and he asked if Sir Lancelot had returned.

"No, my son, he is in London; and, Henry, I have important news to tell. Have you courage to hear it?"

"Why should I need courage, dear mother? You do not look as if you had evil tidings to communicate."

"The tidings I bring are not evil; but it requires fortitude to bear a great joy as well as a great sorrow, when it comes upon us unexpectedly."

Henry's heart began to beat more quickly, his face flushed, and his voice trembled as he asked—

"Mother, what has happened? Tell me at once, I beseech you."

"I told you, Henry, that we were looking for a renewal of the war."

"Yes, you told me so. Has it begun again?"

"It has begun and ended, I hope, for ever. There has been a battle; King Richard is killed, and a prince of the House of Lancaster now sits on the throne."

Henry started up from his seat, his eyes fixed on Lady Margaret's face in an agony of suspense.

"And I, mother, what have I to do with this?"

"Much, my beloved son. Henry the Seventh is a just and noble prince, and your father, my husband, is at his court even now."

"Then, am I—am I—" he could not give utterance to what he wished to say, but Lady Margaret knew what he would ask, and replied—

"Yes, my Henry, it is even so. You are now Lord Clifford before all the world, and I, your mother, may once more fearlessly acknowledge my son."

Henry fell on his knees, and raised his clasped hands and streaming eyes in gratitude to heaven. He could scarcely realise this great, this overwhelming happiness. Again and again he embraced that tender mother, who, for so many years had watched over him like a guardian angel, and smoothed the rugged path he had been forced to tread.

When the first emotions of joy had in some degree subsided, and he was calm enough to listen to the account of how this happy change had been brought about, Lady Margaret told him that the new sovereign, immediately on his accession, had declared his intention of restoring to their rights all those nobles who had been dispossessed of their lands and titles by Edward the Fourth; and that Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, on hearing this, had proceeded to the court, with Sir John Saint John of Bletso, in order to make known to the king that the heir of the late Lord Clifford was still in existence. She said she had that morning received intelligence from Sir Lancelot that the royal decree was already passed for the restoration of Clifford's son to all his father's lands and dignities, and it was with the utmost surprise Henry now learned, for the first time, how immense were the possessions to which he was entitled; for, besides the great estates of Skipton and Brougham, his inheritance comprised the castles, manors, and lordships of Appleby, Pendragon, Brough, and Mallerstane Chase in Westmoreland; Barden Tower, Copley Feld, and other manors in Yorkshire; with lands and castles in Cumberland, Northumberland, Derbyshire, Worcestershire and Surrey. Clifford's Inn, which is now used as law offices and chambers, in Fleet Street, was then a nobleman's mansion with beautiful gardens; and this was Lord Clifford's residence in London.

No wonder the humble shepherd should be dazzled and astonished to find himself all at once the lord of those vast domains; and not only these, but all the Bromflete estates, that had belonged to Lord de Vesci, his grandfather, were now his by right of inheritance. It would be impossible to describe the joy of the worthy couple who had so long performed the part of parents to the shepherd lord, at the wondrous turn of fortune that had raised him once more to the elevated sphere that was his birthright.

"We have lost a son," said old Robin, "but we have found a noble master; and may heaven grant him a long life to enjoy his own."

"Think not, my father, that you have lost a son," said Henry, pressing the old man's hand with affectionate warmth. "I shall be ever a son to you."

"And to me also, my Lord Henry," said Maud, "for it would break my heart now if you should bear yourself towards me proudly in your own grand castle."

"I should ill deserve my good fortune, dear Maud, if it made me so ungrateful as to bear myself proudly towards you. Though I may be the lord of fifty castles, you will always be to me a second mother."

The next day Henry took his place in the house of Sir Lancelot Threlkeld as Lord Clifford. He laid aside the peasant's suit of homely grey for a dress befitting his rank, which Lady Margaret furnished him with from her husband's wardrobe; and very handsome he looked in a mulberry coloured vest richly embroidered with gold, a short cloak of blue satin falling over one shoulder, and a diamond hilted sword by his side, for such was the fashion of the age.

The faithful Rolf was despatched to Brougham Castle to see that all was prepared for the reception of its lord; and right well did he execute the commission. A sumptuous feast was provided, and a grand pageant prepared to meet him at the castle-gate. All the ancient banners that had been taken down and thrown aside, were now displayed again in the hall, and, under the superintendence of Rolf, everything was made to look just as it did before the banishment of the family.

At length the bright day dawned that was to see Henry de Clifford restored to the beloved home of his childhood, and the people had flocked from far and near to hail the return of Brougham's rightful lord. It was nearly noon when the cavalcade was seen approaching. Then loud acclamations rent the air, and, as Henry lifted his plumed and jewelled cap to acknowledge the greeting of the joyous multitude, his heart was overflowing with gratitude to the Father of all mercies, and he could scarcely restrain the tears that were ready to gush from his eyes. He was mounted on a fine grey horse, and on one side of him rode his lady mother, on the other Sir Lancelot Threlkeld, while behind him came a fair lady, escorted by a gentleman of noble mien. This was his sister Elizabeth, who had lived for many years in the Netherlands, and was married to Sir Robert Aske, a wealthy knight, who was now with her. They were followed; by a long train of knights and gentlemen and their attendants, forming a retinue that might have graced a prince, and so they came onward towards the castle-gate, where a triumphal arch was erected, on the top of which were two figures clothed in white, with outspread wings, and golden crowns, intended, perhaps, to represent angels; and as Clifford passed under the arch, they chanted these lines—

"Now the Red Rose blooms again, Clifford o'er his own shall reign. Fill the cup, and sheath the sword, To welcome back our noble lord."

And now the shepherd lord stood once more in his father's bannered hall. Silently he gazed around him on the well-known scene, too powerfully affected to give utterance to his feelings; and, as his mother clasped his hand, she felt that it trembled even more than her own.

"Let us pass on, my Henry," she whispered softly, "we must hold communion alone."

Henry could not speak, but he pressed her hand assentingly, and they left the hall together, amid the congratulations and good wishes of all therein assembled.

The mother and son were absent for the space of an hour, engaged, no doubt, in prayer and thanksgiving, for when they returned to the hall Henry had recovered his composure, and took the highest seat at the sumptuous banquet with all the dignity of his noble race.

Gladsome was the feast that day at Brougham Castle; joyous were the songs of the minstrel bards as they celebrated, in extempore verse, the exile's restoration to his long lost home.

You may be sure that amongst the joyful assemblage that crowded the banquetting hall on that auspicious day, old Robin and his wife Maud held a distinguished place; and proud indeed were they to hear themselves addressed by the noble host as father and mother.

It was not long after that another grand feast was held at Brougham Castle in honour of the marriage of its lord, which had been celebrated at Bletso, where the beautiful daughter of Sir John Saint John willingly bestowed her hand on him who, as a simple shepherd, had won a place in her heart.

The only drawback to the happiness of our hero was the consciousness of his neglected education. Unable to read or write, he cared not to mix with the nobles of the court, but preferred living in retirement, and with great simplicity. His grand object was to repair all his castles, which had been much injured daring the wars, and he expended vast sums of money in fitting up some of them with princely magnificence; but his own favourite residence was a quiet retreat called Barden Tower, near Bolton Priory, in Yorkshire. He chose this for his chief abode because it afforded him the opportunity of spending much of his time at the Priory with the monks, who assisted him in the delightful study of astronomy, which he was passionately fond of; but he beautified the place, and kept up a noble establishment there, worthy of his own exulted station, and of the lady he had made his bride.

"Glad were the vales, and every cottage hearth; The shepherd lord was honoured more and more: And ages after he was laid in earth, 'The good Lord Clifford' was the name he bore."

Wordsworth.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE STORY OF NELSON, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON.

My great ambition as a boy was to be a sailor; the idea of becoming one occupied my thoughts by day and influenced my dreams by night. I delighted in reading naval histories and exploits and tales of the sea, and I looked upon Rodney, Howe, Nelson, and Saint Vincent, as well as Duncan, Collingwood, Exmouth, and Sir Sidney Smith, as far greater men, and more worthy of admiration, than all the heroes of antiquity put together—an opinion which I hold even to the present day, and which, I hope, all my readers will maintain with me.

Once it happened during my summer holidays that, most unwillingly, I was taken up to London. During the time, a naval friend, having compassion on me, suggested that I might find matter of interest by a trip to Greenwich, and a visit to the Hospital. I jumped at the proposal. I can never forget the feelings with which I entered the wide, smooth space on which that beautiful collection of buildings stands, forming the Royal Hospital for Seamen, with its broad terrace facing, the river, and found myself surrounded by many hundreds of the gallant veterans who had maintained not only so nobly the honour of Old England on the deep, but had contributed to preserve her from the numberless foes who had threatened her with destruction.

The building is of itself interesting. On this spot once stood the Royal Palace of Placentia, in which no less than four successive sovereigns were born—Henry the Eighth, Edward the Sixth, Mary, and Elizabeth. Charles the Second had intended to rebuild it, but left it unfinished; and it was put into the heart of good Queen Mary, the wife of William of Orange, to establish that noble institution for the reception of the disabled seamen of the Royal Navy, which, much augmented in size, has ever since existed the noblest monument to a sovereign's memory.

I visited the beautiful chapel and the painted hall, where already were hung a number of fine pictures, illustrative of England's naval victories; and my friend then took me to see an old shipmate of his, who was one of the officers of the Hospital. When he heard that I wished to go to sea, and was so warm an admirer of Nelson, he exclaimed—

"He'll just suit me. Let him stay here for a few days. We'll fish out some of our men who long served with Nelson, and if he keeps his ears turning right and left he'll hear many a yarn to astonish him. He must have patience though. The old fellows will not open out at once; their memories are like wells, you must throw a little water down at first before you can get them to draw."

I was delighted with the proposal. My friend, however, began to make excuses, saying that he ought to take me back, and that I had no clothes with me. At this the Greenwich officer, Lieutenant R—, laughed heartily.

"A shirt-collar and a pocket-comb? What does a midshipman want more?" he exclaimed. "But I will find him all the luxuries he may require. Let him stay, and tell his friends that he is in safe keeping."

So it was arranged, and I found myself an inmate of Greenwich Hospital.

After I had been seen walking up and down the terrace a few times with Lieutenant R—, the pensioners, when I spoke to them, answered me readily, though at first rather shy of talking of themselves or their adventures. At length I fell in with a fine old man, and sitting down on one of the benches facing the river, I began to tell him how much I honoured and loved all sailors, and how I longed myself to become one.

"Ay, boy, there are good and bad at sea as well as on shore; but as to the life, it's good enough; and if I had mine to begin again, I would choose it before all others," he answered, and once more relapsed into silence.

Just then Lieutenant R— passed; he nodded at me with a smile, saying, as he passed on, "My old friend there will tell you more of Lord Nelson than any man now in the Hospital."

The old man looked at me with a beaming expression on his countenance.

"Ay, that I can," he said, "boy and man I sailed with him all my life, from the day he got his first command till he was struck down in the hour of victory. So to speak, sir, I may say I knew him from the very day he first stepped on board a ship. This is how it was: My father was a seaman, and belonged to the 'Raisonable,' just fitted out by Captain Suckling, and lying in the Medway. One afternoon a little fellow was brought on board by one of the officers, and it was said that he was the captain's nephew; but the captain was on shore, and there was nobody to look after him. He walked the deck up and down, looking very miserable, but not crying, as some boys would have done—not he. That wasn't his way at any time. When the captain did come on board, and he saw his nephew, he shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say that he didn't think he was fit for a sea-life. No more he did look fit for it, for he was a sick, weakly-looking little fellow. However, it wasn't long before he showed what a great spirit there was in him."

"Ay," said I, "there is a story I have heard which proved that, when he was merely a child. He and another little fellow had gone away bird's-nesting from his grandmother's house, and he not coming back, the servants were sent to look for him. He was found seated by the side of a brook, which he could not get over. 'I wonder, child,' said the old lady, when she saw him, 'that hunger and fear did not drive you home.' 'Fear, grandmamma!' answered the boy, 'I never saw fear! What is it?'"

"True, true!" exclaimed the old man. "Fear! I don't think he ever felt it either. Well, as I was going to tell you, my father followed Captain Suckling into the 'Triumph,' and young Nelson went with him; but as she was merely to do duty as guard-ship in the Thames, the captain sent his nephew out in a merchant-vessel to the West Indies, to pick up some knowledge of seamanship. When he came back he soon showed that he had not lost his time, and that he was already a good practical seaman. Soon after this an expedition was fitted out for a voyage of discovery towards the North Pole, under Captain Phipps and Captain Lutwidge, in the 'Racehorse' and 'Carcass.' My father volunteered, and so did Mr Nelson, who got a berth as captain's coxswain with Captain Lutwidge. The ships, after entering the polar seas, were quickly beset with ice. Mr Nelson, who had command of a boat, soon showed what he was made of. My father was in another boat, and as they were exploring a channel to try and find a passage for the ships into the open sea, one of the officers fired at a walrus. 'Ah, I've hit him!' he exclaimed, 'not a bad shot!' and he thought no more about the matter. But the brute gave a look up with a face like a human being, as much as to say, 'We'll see if more than one can play at that game,' and down he dived. Presently up again he came, with some twenty or more companions, and with the greatest fury they set on the boat with their tusks, and tried to capsize her. My father and the rest of the crew fought desperately with boat-hook and axes, but they were getting the worst of it, and well-nigh gave themselves up as lost, when another boat was seen coming along the channel towards them. On she dashed; a young officer, a very little fellow, with an axe in his hand, sprang to the bows, and began dealing his blows right and left at the heads of the walruses till several were killed, when the rest dived down and took to flight. That young lad was Nelson. Soon after this, one morning he and another boy were missed from the ship. It was reported that they had gone away in pursuit of a bear which had been seen prowling about. A thick fog had come on, and they did not return. The captain began to think that they were lost, and a party was sent out to look for them. After wandering about for some time, the fog cleared off, and there was Mr Nelson, with a ship's musket in his hand, close up to a big white polar bear, who could have made mincemeat of him in a moment. The party shouted to him to return, but he wouldn't listen to them; and they expected every moment to see the bear turn and crush him. Still on he went, moving sideways with the bear. When they got up, they found that there was a wide chasm which had prevented him from getting closer to the animal. They led him back to the ship, and when the captain asked him why he had gone, he answered, with a pouting lip, that he had set his heart on getting a bear's skin for his father, and that he didn't think he should have a better opportunity.

"The captain reprimanded, but forgave him. There were greater dangers in store both for him and all in the expedition; and for a long time they had little hope of getting the ships clear of the ice. Mr Nelson exerted himself to cut a channel to let them escape; and at length a favourable wind getting up, they stood clear of it just as it was expected that they would be frozen in. They found themselves free, and reached England in safety. Mr Nelson had nearly been killed by the cold, and now he was to be tried by the scorching climate of the Indian seas. Such are the rapid changes we seamen have to undergo. He was appointed to the 'Seahorse,' and out she went to the Indian station. The climate soon did what no dangers or common hardships could do; it took away the use of his limbs, and almost overcame his brave spirit. He returned home, feeling that he should never succeed in the navy or in anything else. But then suddenly he thought, 'I was not born to die unknown. I'll try what I can do. I'll trust in Providence. I'll serve my king and country—I will be a hero.' I heard him say this long after, and I have often since thought if all lads were to try to do their best, and trust in Providence, we shouldn't hear of so many as we do getting into poverty and disgrace.

"No officer, I have heard, ever passed a better examination for seamanship and navigation than did Mr Nelson. His uncle was present, but did not say who the young man was till the examination was over. Whatever he did he tried to do as well as he could; that was the reason of his success. Just about this time, young as I was, my father took me to sea with him, and we went out to the West Indies. We were shortly turned over to the 'Hichinbrook,' a prize captured from the enemy, and mounting twenty-eight guns. I was walking the deck with my father when a thin, sallow, small young man stepped up the side. I should have taken him for a midshipman, but he had on a post-captain's uniform. He nodded, as an old acquaintance, to my father, who stood hat in hand with the other men to receive him. 'That's Mr Nelson, our new captain,' said my father; 'he'll not let the grass grow under his feet.' That was the first time I ever saw the great Lord Nelson. What my father said was true. We soon sailed to convoy a fleet of transports destined to attack Saint Juan de Nicaragua. Up a muddy river we pulled, led by our captain, with a hot scorching sun striking down on us. We arrived before a fort. Captain Nelson leaped on shore, sword in hand, leaving his shoes in the mud, to attack it. The fort was taken, and so was San Juan itself; and though the grass did not grow under our feet, it was soon growing over the heads of numbers of the fine fellows who composed the expedition—both redcoats and seamen; and though our captain, receiving notice of his appointment to another ship, the 'Janus,' sailed away immediately, we lost the greater number of our people by sickness. The captain was so knocked up that he had to go home invalided, as did my father, who was never able again to go to sea. I went with him, and we lived for some time at Deal.

"I remember early in January, 1782, a tremendous gale sprang up. My father and I were standing on the shore, he with his glass in his hand watching the ships driving here and there, one running foul of another, when we observed a heavy store-ship drive right down on a frigate.

"'They'll grind each other down to the water's edge,' observed my father. 'Does no one on board know what to do? I'd like to be off to lend a hand, but that's impossible; few boats could live in such a sea.'

"While we were talking, a lad came running along the beach, saying that an officer was in a great taking, wanting to get off to his ship, and no one would go.

"'Who is he?' asked my father.

"'A Captain Nelson,' answered the lad.

"'I'll go, if any man will trust his boat,' exclaimed my father. 'Come along, Ned.'

"We ran along the beach, and there we found our late captain walking up and down, fuming away, and trying to persuade the boatmen to take him off.

"'I'll go, sir, if I had a boat,' said my father. 'I've long sailed with you.'

"'Ah! Ned Freeman. Thank you—thank you,' exclaimed the captain. 'I'm sure you'd go with me anywhere.'

"'We'll take the captain off if he'll give us fifteen guineas,' observed several of the men, owners of a fine boat.

"'Done!' exclaimed the captain. 'Off we go at once.'

"My father and I, with the other men, launched the boat. Away we pulled with the white-topped seas dancing up round us and the dangerous Goodwin Sands to leeward, towards which the frigate was driving fast. Captain Nelson, by word and look, urged us on, though more than once I thought the boat would have been swamped, and all hands lost. We did succeed in getting alongside. The captain sprang on board, and soon had got the ships clear with only the loss of the frigate's bowsprit and pennant.

"'Well, Freeman, if you can't sail with me, your boy must,' said the captain, as the boat was about to shove off for the shore; 'I'll look after him.'

"'Will you go, Ned?' said my father to me.

"There was no time for consideration. I said, 'Yes, father.'

"My kind father wrung my hand, and we parted never to meet again.

"The 'Albemarle' soon after sailed for Canada and the West Indies. Our captain had a kind heart. On our first cruise we captured a fishing vessel belonging to Boston. The master wrung his hands, declaring that he had no other property, and a large family at home to support, who would all be brought to beggary. The captain told him not to be cast down; that he would employ him as a pilot, and give him back his vessel at the end of the time. He was as good as his word, and I never saw a poor fellow so happy and grateful as the fisherman was when he was put on shore. Some time after, when we were all suffering from scurvy, not having had a fresh piece of meat or vegetables for many months, the same man came off to us with a full supply for several days, which I believe saved the lives of many poor fellows on board.

"Soon after this, while cruising off Boston, a squadron of four French line-of-battle ships and a frigate were seen from the masthead. They made sail in chase, but the captain knew well all the shoals and quicksands in those parts, and soon got into channels where the big ships were afraid to follow. The frigate, however, kept on her course, and when we saw this we hove to, to wait for her. We all looked forward with joy to a brush, but she did not like our appearance, and much to out disappointment, about she went and rejoined her consorts.

"I can't tell you all the things we did in the West Indies. At last we went home, and were paid off; and I remained on shore with my widowed mother till I heard that Captain Nelson had commissioned the 'Boreas.' I went and joined him. He received me heartily, and away we sailed for the West Indies.

"Young as was our captain, he found himself senior officer on the station—that is to say, second in command under the admiral; for in those days we had old heads on young shoulders; so we should now, if boys would try to imitate the example of wise and noble men, not to ape the folly of foolish ones. We were chiefly among the Leeward Islands.

"While visiting the island of Nevis, the captain fell in love with a lady, a Mrs Nisbet, and they married: a very good, kind young lady she was, that I remember; but after we returned home I saw no more of her. The 'Boreas' was paid off in 1787. Thus I have told you most of what I remember about Nelson's early days. He was soon to be known to the world as the greatest naval captain of his time."

II.

"You have heard speak of the 'Agamemnon' of 64 guns. I was one of the old Agamemnons, as we called ourselves. We, all her crew, were proud of her, and good reason we had to be so. Captain Nelson commissioned her on the 26th of January, 1793, and it wasn't many days after this that I joined her. You see I kept my eye on him. When a man has found a good captain, if he's wise he will follow him whenever he can.

"I can't now remember all the places we went to. First, we were one of the Channel fleet. Then we were sent out to the Mediterranean, where our captain astonished the admirals, and made the soldier-generals almost tear their eyes out by the way he did things. He took care that the weeds should not grow to the bottom of the ship he commanded. First we had to conquer the island of Corsica [Note 1]. We drove the French out of every place but the strong fort of Bastia, so we landed, and hauled our guns up the heights, and kept up such a hot fire on the place that it gave up, and then the soldiers marched in and gained the glory. Then we took a place called Calvi. Here it was that a shot, striking the ground, threw up some sand in the captain's eye, and though we thought but little of it at the time, he never saw again with that eye. It was very hard work, and the country was unhealthy, and many of us grew sick, so that we were heartily glad when it was over. There was something better in store for us too. News was brought us that the French fleet, nearly twice as strong as ours, was on the look-out for us. Our fleet was under the command of Admiral Hotham. You may be sure that we kept a bright look-out for the enemy. At last they hove in sight, and one of our frigates, the 'Inconstant,' got so close that she brought to action the 'Ca Ira,' a French eighty-four, which had carried away her main and foretop masts. The 'Inconstant,' however, was obliged to bear away, and a French frigate came up and took the line-of-battle ship in tow, while two other line-of-battle ships guarded her on her weather bow.

"Our captain had been watching all that took place, and, though we had no line-of-battle ship to support us, we made all sail in chase. There was not a man on board whose heart didn't beat high with pride at the way we went into action against odds so great; but we Agamemnons knew well enough what our captain could do and would do. As soon as the enemy could bring their guns to bear, they kept firing away their stern-chasers at us. We stood on, without answering a shot, till we were within a hundred yards of them. 'Starboard the helm!' cried the captain. The after-sails were brailed up, and the ship falling off, our broadside was brought to bear on the retreating enemy. Now we opened a tremendous fire on them, every gun telling. Then the helm was put a-port, the after-yards braced up, and again we were after them.

"Again and again we practised the same manoeuvre, never allowing the 'Ca Ira' to get a shot at us with one of her broadside guns. The enemy, however, were not idle with their after-guns, though it was not till we had torn her sails almost to ribbons that the French frigates began to open their fire upon us. Then down came more of the enemy's ships towards us. The captain seemed only the better pleased at seeing this, and it's my opinion he would have hove to to meet them, and still managed to come off victorious by some means or other, even if the admiral had not made the signal of recall. Though our sails and rigging were much cut up, we had only seven men wounded, while the 'Ca Ira' lost one hundred and ten that day.

"The next day we were again at it, for we managed to cut off the 'Ca Ira,' and the 'Censeur,' which had her in tow. This time we got one on each side of us, and both of them fought well; but we fought better, and at length both struck, and our boats were sent on board to take possession. I never before had witnessed such a scene as that I saw on board the 'Ca Ira.' On her decks lay three hundred brave fellows, dead or dying, or badly wounded, besides those she had lost the day before, while the 'Censeur' had lost three hundred and fifty. Our captain wanted to follow up the enemy, and it's my belief, if we had, we should have taken every one of them; but the admiral would not let him, and said we had done very well as it was. So we had; but, you see, our captain was the man who always wanted to do something better than well. Do well sits on the main-top—Do better climbs to the truck.

"The 'Agamemnon' had been so knocked about, that the captain now shifted his flag into the 'Minerva' frigate, and took me and many other men with him. One of our first duties was to carry off the English garrison and privateers and merchantmen from Corsica, which had declared for the French. We soon afterwards fought several actions with the enemy, and then war broke out between England and Spain, and we had a narrow escape from an overwhelming force of Spanish ships. We had just sailed from Gibraltar, when two Spanish line-of-battle ships followed us. We were keeping pretty well ahead when a man fell overboard. To let a man drown without trying to help him was against our captain's nature. A jolly-boat, commanded by Lieutenant Hardy, was lowered, and away she pulled to try and pick up the poor fellow. The boat was within range of the enemy's guns: the man was not to be seen. The captain had been anxiously watching all that took place. 'I'll not lose Hardy,' he exclaimed. 'Back the main-topsail!' No order was ever obeyed more readily, and soon we were dropping back towards our boat, and towards the enemy. We fully expected to be brought to action, but we did not care for that; we got back Mr Hardy and our boat, when what was our astonishment to see the headmost Spaniard shorten sail to wait for his consort. There can be no doubt he thought we had assistance not far off. The Spaniards were very timid of us in those days—they had good reason to be so. With flying colours we sailed out of the Straits, laughing at our enemy.

"Both officers and men were constantly being shifted from ship to ship in those days; and, as soon as we reached Cadiz we found ourselves transferred to the 'Captain,' a fine seventy-four. Captain Nelson hoisted his pennant, as commodore, on board of her, with Captain Miller under him. You have heard speak of the battle of Saint Vincent. Sir John Jervis, who was made Earl Saint Vincent, was our admiral, and Commodore Nelson was second in command. He was now going to show all the world what he really was. The Spaniards had twice as many ships as we had. They were much bigger, and carried heavier guns; but what did Nelson or we care for that. It is the men who fight the battles, and Nelson knew the stuff British seamen are made of.

"Early in the morning of the 14th of February, the Spanish fleet hove in sight, and we bore down on them. They were in line, that is, one following the other. We managed to break that line, and cut off one part from the other, just as you cut a snake in two. We followed the head, the biggest part. That part bore away before the wind to join the tail. The 'Captain' was instantly wore round, instead of tacking, according to a signal just then made by the admiral, and away, after them we went, followed by the 'Culloden,' 'Blenheim,' and 'Diadem.' The 'Captain' was in the rear of the British line; but by the manoeuvre just performed, we came up with the Spaniards, and in a short time we and the 'Blenheim' were tooth and nail with no less than seven Spanish line-of-battle ships—one, the 'Santissima Trinidade,' of 130 guns, and the 'San Josef' and 'Salvador del Mundo' of 112, the others being of 80 and 74 guns. For nearly an hour we pounded away at them, till Captain Collingwood, in the 'Excellent,' came up, and gave us a helping hand by pouring a tremendous broadside into the 'San Nicolas.'

"Our captain now let us fall close alongside that ship, and then he called for boarders, and away we dashed into her. Right through her we went; her flag was hauled down, and then, more boarders coming up, on we dashed aboard the big 'San Joseph,' and in a little time we had her also. We followed our captain to the quarterdeck, and then the Spanish officers assembled, and their captain and all of them presented their swords to Commodore Nelson. As he received them he gave them to one of his bargemen, William Fearney, who, with no little pleasure, tucked them under his arm, just as you see in the picture in the Painted Hall yonder. All the seven ships were taken, and if the Spaniards had had any pluck we should have taken the remainder; but they hadn't, and made off while we were unable to follow. That is the worst of fighting with cowards. If they had been brave men they would have stopped to fight, and we should have captured every one of their ships. That was the battle of Saint Vincent.

"The commodore was made an admiral and a knight, and now everybody in England, high and low, rich and poor, had heard of him, and sung his praises.

"You've seen a picture of Sir Horatio Nelson, as he was then, in a boat attacked by Spaniards, and his coxswain, John Sykes, defending him, and receiving on his own head the blow made at him by one of the enemy. I'll tell you how it was:—

"His flag was flying on board the 'Theseus,' and he had command of the inner squadron blockading Cadiz. The Spanish gunboats had annoyed us, and he resolved to attack them with the boats at night. In we pulled. In the admiral's barge there were only his ten bargemen—I was one of them—Captain Freemantle, and his coxswain, John Sykes, when suddenly we found ourselves close up with a Spanish launch carrying twenty-six men or more. To run was not in our nature, so we tackled to with the launch. It was desperate work, and the Spaniards fought well. Sir Horatio was foremost in the fight; but the enemy seemed to know who he was, and aimed many a blow at his head. Sykes, not thinking of himself, defended him as a bear does her whelps. Blow after blow he warded off, till at last his own arm was disabled. Still, instead of getting over to the other side of the boat, he stood by the admiral. Down came another Spaniard's sword which Sir Horatio could not ward off, but Sykes sprung forward and received the blow on his own head, which it laid open. This did not make us less determined to beat the enemy. One after the other we cut them down till we killed eighteen, wounded the rest, and towed their launch off in triumph. It will just show you how the men who served with him loved the admiral. That was a desperate fight in a small way, let me tell you; but before long we had still worse work to go through.

"Many men are thought a great deal of if they gain one victory. Nelson never but once suffered a defeat. It was at the island of Teneriffe. He was sent there, by Sir John Jervis, with a squadron to cut out a rich Manilla ship returning to Spain, which lay in the harbour of Santa Cruz. Our squadron consisted of four ships of the line, three frigates, and the 'Fox' cutter. Our first attempt at landing failed, and then the admiral, who never would be beaten, against the orders of Sir John himself, determined to take command of the expedition on shore. Midnight was the time chosen for the attack. The orders were, that all the boats should land at a big mole which runs out from the town. Away we pulled; the night was very dark, the boats got separated, and when we reached the mole there were only four or five boats there. A heavy fire was at once opened on us, but the admiral would not be turned back. Drawing his sword, he was springing on shore, but the same moment he was struck by a musket ball, and fell back into the arms of his step-son, Lieutenant Nisbet. The lieutenant and one of our men bound up his arm, while all those who could be collected jumped into the boat to shove her off. It was difficult work, for she had grounded. We pulled close under the battery to avoid the heavy fire from it. As we moved on, all we could see was the bright flashes from the guns extending in a long line in front of us. On again pulling out, a fearful cry was raised. It came from the 'Fox' cutter. A shot had struck her between wind and water, and down she went, leaving her crew struggling in the waves. The admiral had just before been lifted up in the stern-sheets by Mr Nisbet to look about him.

"'Give way, lads—give way,' he shouted, forgetting his own desperate wound. 'We must save them.'

"Soon we were in among the struggling men, and hauling them into the boats as fast as we could, the shot all the time rattling about us. The admiral seemed to have recovered his strength, and worked away with his left arm, assisting in saving a great many. Eighty men were saved, but more than half the crew were lost. The first ship we came to was the 'Seahorse.' Her captain's wife, Mrs Freemantle, was on board, but he was with the boats, and no one could tell whether he was alive or dead.

"'No, no,' exclaimed the admiral; 'I can give the poor lady no tidings of her husband; she shall not see me in this state. Pull to another ship.'

"We managed to reach the 'Theseus.' When a rope was lowered, he sprung up the side, and would have no help. We could scarcely believe our eyes, for we thought he was half dead. His was a wonderful spirit. Then he sent us off to try and save a few more of the poor fellows from the 'Fox.' When we got back we found that he had made the surgeon at once cut off his arm. We brought him the news that Captain Freemantle, though badly wounded, had got off in safety to his ship. You may be sure that both he and all of us were very anxious to know what was going forward on shore. At length we heard that Captain Troubridge had managed to collect two or three hundred men—all who were not drowned or killed by shot—and having marched into the square, had taken the town. Of course, he could do nothing against the citadel. Some eight thousand Spanish troops were collecting about the place, but he was not a man to be daunted; telling them that he would burn the town if they molested him, he was able to draw off all his men in safety. During that business we lost two hundred and fifty men and officers. It was a sad affair, but though it was a failure every man engaged in it did his duty bravely, and no one could blame the admiral for what had happened. We heard that the Spaniards treated our wounded men who were left on shore with the greatest kindness and care. No one among the wounded suffered more than the admiral, and it was some months, I've heard say, before the pain left his arm.

"Once more we returned to old England, and the admiral went up to London to try and get cured of his wound. Since he left home he had lost an eye and an arm, and had been terribly knocked about besides; but people thought of what he had done, not of how he looked, and he was received with honour wherever he went.

"I and a few others of his old hands lived on shore, keeping a look-out for when he should get another command. We were afraid of being pressed, and made to serve somewhere away from him. One and all of us were ready enough to fight for our king and our country, provided we could fight under him. We had not long to wait. We soon got news that the 'Vanguard' was to be commissioned to carry Sir Horatio Nelson's flag to join the Mediterranean fleet under Earl Saint Vincent. That was in the year 1798.

"We sailed from Gibraltar on the 9th of May with three line-of-battle ships, four frigates, and a sloop of war, to look after the French fleet, which consisted of thirteen ships of the line, seven frigates, twenty-four smaller ships of war, and a fleet of transports, bound, as we afterwards learned, for Egypt. If the French had conquered that country, they would have gone on, there is no doubt of it, to attack our possessions in India. The admiral, I dare say, knew the importance of stopping that French fleet. In spite of their numbers we did not fear them. Proud we were of our ship, and prouder still was our admiral of her and her crew and the fleet he commanded. While we were in the Gulf of Lyons, after it had been blowing hard all day, it came on one dark night to blow harder still, and, without warning, first our main and then our mizen-topmast went over the side, and lastly the foremast went altogether, so that we no longer could carry sail on it. What a crippled wreck we looked in the morning! There was a thick fog: not one of the squadron could be seen. We were boasting the day before that we were ready to meet more than an equal number of the finest ships the French could bring against us; and now we lay docked of our wings, and scarcely able to contend with the smallest frigate. Providence was watching over us, and we had good reason to believe this when some time afterwards we learned that that very day the French fleet sailed from Toulon, and passed within a few miles of us, while we were hid from them by the fog. At last Captain Ball, in the 'Alexander,' came up, and towed us into the harbour of San Pietro in Sardinia, where in four days, with the aid of his and other two ships' companies, we got completely refitted and ready for sea. Away we went in search of the French fleet, with General Bonaparte himself on board. We heard of the French at Gozo, and our admiral would have attacked them there, but they had gone; then on we railed for Egypt, hoping to find them off Alexandria, but not a sign of them could we discover. If we had had our frigates, we should have found them out fast enough. Leaving Alexandria, we steered for Syracuse, where we provisioned and watered; we visited the Morea; we hunted along the Greek coast. At last we entered the Gulf of Coron, where Captain Troubridge brought us the news that the French fleet had been seen steering from Candia for Egypt four weeks before. Instantly all sail was made for Alexandria. Still we scarcely expected to find the French fleet there. Great then was our joy when the signal was seen flying from the masthead of the 'Zealous,' Captain Hood, that the enemy's fleet were moored in Aboukir Bay. Not a moment was lost in clearing the ships for action. We all knew that we had hot work before us. We found the French fleet moored in a sort of curve in the bay, but far enough from the shore to let some of our ships get inside of them; that is, between them and the land. This the French little expected, and many hadn't even their guns loaded on that side.

"Oh! it was a magnificent sight, as on we sailed, receiving a hot fire from the shore batteries, but not answering a shot, while silently we furled our sails, and got ready for anchoring. I believe that silence made the hearts of the Frenchmen quake more than our loudest hurrahs would have done. It was evening; the sun was just sinking into the ocean as we entered the bay. The 'Goliath' led the way, followed by the 'Zealous,' and then came the 'Orion,' all anchoring inside the enemy's line. The 'Vanguard' (our ship) was the first which anchored outside, within half pistol-shot of the 'Spartiate.' We had six colours flying, just us a sign to the Frenchmen that come what might we were not likely to strike to them; and now there was very little to be seen but the flashes and thick smoke from the guns. Other ships followed us outside the French line, but the greater number were inside. No sooner were our anchors dropped than we opened fire, our example being followed by the other ships as they brought up. We blazed away in right earnest; there was no flinching from our guns. What the Frenchmen were about I cannot tell, but we seemed to fire two shots to their one; but then their guns carried heavier metal than ours, and they had many more of them. It was so dark that we had to get our fighting-lanterns hung up along the decks. Just fancy us then stripped to the waist, with handkerchiefs bound round our heads, and straining every nerve as we ran in and out, and cleaned and loaded our heavy guns, and blazed away as fast as we could. We were covered, too, with smoke and powder, and before long most of us were sprinkled pretty thickly with our own or our shipmates' blood. Such was the sight you would have seen between decks on board every ship in the action.

"I must tell you what happened in other parts. There was a shoal we had to pass on our starboard hand. The 'Culloden,' the ship of the brave Captain Troubridge, struck on it when standing in, for by that time the darkness of night had come on. He instantly made signals which prevented the other ships, the 'Alexander,' 'Swiftsure,' and 'Leander,' following, and getting on shore. They did their best to help off the 'Culloden,' but could not get her off, so stood on into the battle. Before even they opened their fire, five of the enemy's ships had struck. On standing on, Captain Hollowell fell in with the old 'Billyruffian' ('Bellerophon'), with already two hundred dead and wounded, and almost a wreck from the tremendous fire of 'L'Orient' of 120 guns. The 'Swiftsure' took her place, and soon made the Frenchman pay dear for what she had done. I heard of this afterwards. A seaman at his gun can know little more of an action than what he sees before his nose, and that is chiefly smoke and fire, and part of the hull and rigging of one ship, and men struck down, and timbers and splinters flying about, and yards and blocks rattling down, while he hears alone the roar of the guns, the shouts, and shrieks, and groans of those around him. This sort of terrible work was going on for some time, when the word got about that the admiral himself was desperately wounded in the head. It made our hearts sink within us with sorrow, but it did not cause us to fight less fiercely, or be less determined to gain the victory. How anxiously we waited to hear what the surgeons would say about the wound of our noble chief! and when we were told that it was merely the skin of his head which was hurt, and which had almost blinded him, how hearty the cheer we gave. It must have astonished the Frenchmen, who could not tell the cause. Then at it again we went blazing away like fury, the round-shot and chain-shot and bullets whizzing and tearing along our decks, making the white splinters fly, and sending many a poor fellow out of the world, when suddenly the darkness, which had till now surrounded us, was lighted up by the bright flames which darted out of every port and twisted round the masts of a burning ship. We soon learned that she was a French ship, the big 'L'Orient,' with which the 'Billyruffian' had been engaged. Never did I see such a sight; in a few minutes she was just one mass of flame, from her truck to the water's edge. Her miserable crew, from one end of her to the other, were leaping into the water to avoid the scorching heat. 'Out boats!' was the order, and each of our ships near at hand sent as many boats as could be manned to the rescue of our unfortunate enemies. Had they been our own shipmates, we could not have exerted ourselves more. Still the battle raged from one end of the line to the other. Suddenly there was a sound as if the earth were rent asunder. In one pointed mass of flame up went the tall masts, and spars, and the decks of the huge 'L'Orient.' They seemed, in one body of fire, to rise above our mastheads, and then down they came, spreading far and wide, hissing into the water among the boats and the hundreds of poor wretches struggling for their lives. Among them was the French commodore. Captain Casabianca, I heard, was his name. He was a brave man. He had his son with him, a little fellow only ten years old, as gallant, those we rescued told us, as his father. They were blown up together. We saw the two, the father holding on his son clinging to a spar. We pulled towards them, but just then a bit of the burning wreck must have struck them and carried them down, for when we got up to the spot they were nowhere to be seen. That's the worst of a battle; there are so many young boys on board who often get as cruelly hurt as the men, and haven't the strength to bear up against their sufferings. Well, as I was saying, we pulled about, picking up the half-burnt struggling wretches wherever we could find them among the bits of floating wreck. Only seventy were saved out of many more than a thousand men on board. That was about ten o'clock. For some time not a shot was fired. Every man felt that something awful had happened, but still many of the Frenchmen hadn't given in. So at it again we went, and blazed away at each other till three in the morning. When daylight returned, only two of the enemy's ships of the line had their colours flying, and they had not been engaged. They, with two frigates, cut their cables in the forenoon, and stood out to sea, we having no ships in a fit state to follow them. There were thirteen French line-of-battle ships when the action began; we took nine, two were burned, and two escaped; and of the four frigates one was sunk and another burned; while the enemy lost three thousand one hundred and five men in killed and wounded. Captain Westcott was the only captain killed, but we lost in all nearly nine hundred other officers and men. As soon as the battle was over, an order was issued that all on board every ship should return thanks to Almighty God, who had given us the victory. Many a hearty thanksgiving was offered up that day. It was a solemn ceremony; not a word was spoken fore and aft till the chaplain began the prayers. A dead silence reigned throughout the fleet. The Egyptians and Arabs on shore could not make it out, I've heard say; and even the French officers, prisoners on board, infidels as they were, listened with respect, and could not help believing that there must be a God who had given us the victory. Hard work we had to get our ships and prizes fit for sea again after the battering they had got; as it was, we had to burn four of our prizes, as it would have taken too long to refit them; and then at last away we sailed with the larger part of the fleet for Naples.