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Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year IHM, or LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT.

Is the Clerk's OfBce of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts,




STRATFORD UPON AVON. — SHA.K8PEA.ttE, .    .    17

NEWSTEAD ABBEY. — Byron, .    .    .    .29

SHERWOOD FOREST. — Robin Hood,    .    .49

NOTTINGHAM CASTLE. — Alice Vane, .    .    •    79

WARWICK CASTLE. — Guy op Warwick, .    .    .101

LINCOLN CATHEDRAL AND YORK MINSTER.— Queen Philippa,.......    . 123

KENILWORTH CASTLE. — Little Rosamond,    .    . 143

LONDON AND THE TOWER. — Sir Walter Raleigh,    .    .    165

THE TOWER, CONTINUED. — Ladies Jane and Catharine Grey.........187

THE TOWER, CONTINUED. — Arabella Stuart,    . 209

WESTMINSTER ABBEY. — The Two Wills,    .    . 227

THE NEW PALACE OF WESTMINSTER. — The Prorogation, .    ...    .    245



It is to the little readers of The Little Pilgrim, for whose instruction and amusement the following sketches were originally written, that I dedicate them now.




When in my childhood I read the charming stories of Mrs. Sherwood and Miss Edgeworth, and Walter Scott’s Tales of a Grandfather, there sprang lip in my heart a great longing to visit those noble old countries over the sea from whence our forefathers came; and when in my girlhood, at school, I read the histories of England, Ireland, Scotland, France, and ancient .Rome, stronger and stronger grew that longing, and every year that passed after only added to its intensity, until at last I resolved that, God willing, I would see those foreign lands and those peoples about which I had thought and dreamed so long. I have always noticed that a resolution formed in this manner is very sure to be carried out. There were many obstacles in the way of my darling plan ; but my heart and will were in it ; and so it came about that, on the 29th of May, 1852, I sailed from New York


or the steamship Atlantic for Liverpool, England.

I never shall forget that day. It was very calm and sunny; the skies shed no tears over our going, and the sea seemed to invite us out on to its smooth and smiling expanse. They say that I bore up very well in parting with the friends who went with me on board the ship ; but when they were gone, and we had put off from shore, all seemed to grow dark and desolate around me. I felt like a poor little child left for the first time among strangers, and for a while I fear I behaved like a child; for I bowed m) head upon my hands and cried bitterly, and thought that I had been rash and foolish in. leaving my pleasant valley home and all my dear ones to seek my fortune, as it were, in that great, strange world over the sea. But presently I said to myself, “ This will never do; we have undertaken a brave thing, and we must carry it bravely through.” So, dashing away my tears,

1 choked down my childish feelings, and never *et them overcome me again.

For the first half of the voyage the weather continued pleasant and all went well. We


became accustomed to our life on shipboard, and endeavored to make ourselves at home. But it was very, very dull, I assure you, though we tried hard to amuse ourselves by walking and talking, reading and playing games. Borne ate and drank a great deal, “ just to pass away the time,” they said; though, if you had seen them,at the table, you would have supposed they had always been used to eating five hearty meals a day, they took to it so naturally. We were all so anxious to be entertained that we laughed at jokes that we would never have thought of laughing at on shore ; indeed, I am afraid that two or three young gentlemen grew rather conceited and fancied themselves very clever and witty because we laughed at their nonsense when we had nothing else to do. There was one of these, I remember, who one morning formed the bright idea of pinning a large card, with the word “ Engaged ” printed on it, belonging to his state room, on to the coat skirt of another gentleman ; but he so enjoyed his own trick beforehand that he went round among all the passengers to tell them what he was going to do; and the consequence was, that some one slyly pinned just such


a card to his coat skirt; and we were ail laughing at him when he thought we were laughing at his foolish joke.

There was an elderly gentleman who had a Bpyglass, and was always on the lookout for icebergs and whales. One day, after standing for hours on the wheel house, patiently watching, he shouted out that there was a great iceberg in sight. Though we all became excited in a moment and eager to behold this new wonder of the great deep, we could not make out any thing distinctly ; but the elderly gentleman declared that he saw it as plainly as possible, sparkling in the noonday sun, and a large polar bear sitting on the topmost point. But when the captain levelled his glass in the direction pointed out he laughed, and said there was nothing there but a great white cloud. As for whales, there was but one seen during the voyage, and that came spouting along one morning when the elderly gentleman was down below eating his lunch. He was terribly vexed at losing the sight after having watched for it so long, and really seemed to take a spite against whales, for he never looked out for them after, but turned


his attention to Mother Carey’s chickens and porpoises. The first are little sea birds that sailors have a high regard for and consider sacred. If a passenger should shoot one, they would expect a tremendous storm to come up directly and the vessel to be wrecked in a few hours. Of course this is a foolish superstition. • Porpoises are great, ugly, clumsy fish, that generally swim in large companies, or “ schools,” as ■ they are caUed, and roll and tumble about in an

extraordinary manner.

Hour after hour of the long, bright days, when we were out of sight of land, I used to sit on deck, looking over the sea, watching the great green waves, with their white tops flashing in the sun, as they rolled far, far away, till they

seemed to break against the sky. I knew it was

very grand and sublime; but I hated it all the while, and would have given more for a few rods of firm earth, grassy, and shady, and flowery, than for all the seas that ever rolled under the sun. Though I kept up, and went to my meals, and made believe I enjoyed them; though I walked the deck every day as if I were working my passage over; though I laughed at every


body’s jokes, which was hardest of all, — yet I never felt happy or well, and always longed for land.

One day, much to my surprise, I spied a real live butterfly on one of the spars of the vessel. It had been blown out from the shore, the captain said; but its wings were wet with spray and torn by the winds, and it did not live many minutes after it lit.

I thought to myself that perhaps this poor little creature had been born in some secluded cottage garden, brought up on the sweetest honey and the purest dew, cradled by night in a jasmine flower, and rocked by soft summer winds, or cosily couched in the heart of a rose, and sung to sleep by a merry cricket; that perhaps she had always been happy and contented till some gossiping locust or vagrant humming bird had filled her ears with fine stories of grander gardens over the sea, and she had been seized with a foolish longing for foreign travel, strange sights, and adventures; that from this time she had found her garden-home dull, her honey and dew insipid, her rose-bed uncomfortable, the song of her cricket-nurse harsh, till she could stand it no


longer, but bravely flew off from shore, right over that beautiful, sparkling sea. Then the strong wind took her and whirled her on and on through the salt ocean spray all day and all night, till it left her at last, not in a foreign, fairy garden, but on a great ship, which smelt of tar instead of roses, and where she sunk fluttering down on to the deck, and the small gold stars died out of her azure wings, and she was soon only a little heap of shining dust. Somehow I did not feel in such good spirits about my own travels after thinking out this story of the butterfly.

Finally there came on stormy weather. It was rainy, windy, and cold, and the waves ran mountain high. They said that the sea looked very grand and terrible from the deck; but I knew nothing of it, for I was down in the cabin prostrated with sea-sickness. I am not going to describe this to you, dear children. There are some dreadful things in this life which it is best you should not know much about till you are old and strong enough to bear them bravely; and eea-sickness is one of these.

I remember that one day, when I was most ill


ancl sad, a young lady came to the sofa on which I lay, and bent over me, and talked for some time kindly and cheerfully. I had seen her in our own country, dressed very richly, and adorned with flowers and jewels, standing before great crowds of people, and singing as we fancy the angels sing; but never had she seemed so beautiful and so good as when smiling over my couch and speaking such gentle, encouraging words to me in my suffering. That lady’s name was Jenny Lind.

There were several long, dark days when the ship did nothing but roll, and pitch, and creak, and every thing seemed turning upside down; but, with patient waiting and enduring, all darkness and trouble pass off at last. The day that the glad cry of “ Land ahead! ” was heard the sky grew clear, the sea smooth, and we sufferers all got well.

I can never tell how rejoiced I was to feel the ground under my feet again, nor how green, and pleasant, and garden-like England looked to me. It did not seem a strange country, even at first; and I soon grew to love it and its kind, hospitable people with all my heart. I presently


went into the country to visit some friends who lived in a very charming place. On my way there, and, indeed, every where that I went in England, I saw noble houses, parks, and gardens, and pretty cottages, beautiful hedges and lawns, grand old trees, and hosts on hosts of flowers. X soon became quite contented and happy; and I should have been very ungrateful if I had felt otherwise, all was so delightful about me, and every where I met such kind and generous friends. I was sometimes sorry that I could do so little and give so little in return for this goodness. I could only love them and thank God; but perhaps this was enough.

In the sketches which I now propose to write I do not intend to give you a particular description of all my travels, but shall try to tell you something interesting of the principal places I visited, and of the distinguished men and women who live or have lived in them. And so ends my introduction.

^trntfnrö tiptt Ittntu



of friends into a quiet country village, and stopped before a remarkably old and odd-looking house, which, after gazing at very earnestly for a while, we entered. We first passed through a


room, which seemed built for a shop, into a smaller apartment, containing a great deep fireplace, with seats in each corner under the chimney. We then ascended a narrow flight of stairs to a chamber empty of every thing but a few books and pictures, and with the walls and even the ceiling written all over with visitors’ names. Well, this queer old house is the house of the great Shakspeare, and this little chamber is the one in which he was born.

The English keep very sacredly the ancient, weather-beaten, moss-grown building in which their grandest poet first opened his baby eyes, toddled about in as an infant, played in as a boy, spent year after year in as a young man. They are proud enough, all the world knows, of many other things, but proudest of all of the name and fame of Shakspeare. Among those names written on the walls I found many famous men and women, and even some kings and princes, though by far the greater part were Smiths and Joneses, Robinsons and Jacksons, Browns and Simpsons — families which I think oiust travel a great deal and very fast; for I


saw their names every where I went in Europe, though I was pretty sure I left them all in America.

From the house we went to a lonely old church on the banks of the river Avon, where, in what is called the chancel, we saw the tomb and the bust of Shakspeare.

When, my dear young readers, you are grown to be vmen and women, you will doubtless read the works of this poet; but in the mean time, as we are at Stratford, perhaps you will be interested in hearing something of the man who has made it such a famous place.


On the 26th day of April, 1564, (only thmlc how long ago!) one Mr. John Shakspeare and his wife Mary presented themselves at the parish church of Stratford upon Avon with a young baby, whom they had christened William. The parents were probably dressed in their best, and brought a good number of friends with them. The mother may have looked a little pale, and


trembled, and wept somewhat with joy and thankfulness. The father must have been proud and happy; for, though he had two little daughters, this was his first son ; but he doubtless bore himself like a man on the occasion.

Mr. John Shakspeare was a respectable wool-dealer and a magistrate; but his wife was of a proud and wealthy family, — one of the Ardens of Wilmecote,—and some of her friends thought that she might have looked higher than a tradesman. But I hope that she never felt so, nor treated her husband any less kindly than if he had been a lord.

Years went by, and the little William, or Will., as he was called, grew in beauty and in knowledge. He was not so ruddy and robust as most English boys; but he was well formed, active, and spirited. He had a broad, high brow, great, deep, thoughtful eyes, and a mouth full of sweetness and pleasantness. Yet he was a strange wayward, wilful boy, who never took heartily to work of any kind, and was never tired of reading poetry, plays, romances, and history. He loved to wander off alone in the fields and woods, to listen to the winds and birds in the


trees, and the ripple and laughter of brooks down rocks and glens’; and he sometimes might Have been overheard talking to himself and singing snatches of wild songs. He would lie for hours on the banks of the Avon, watching the shadows and the clouds, or idly plucking up grass and daisies and flinging them on the little river, while he dreamed out beautiful plays and wonderful fairy tales; and in stormy winter nights he would sit in the great chimney corner and tell strange, wild stories to his brothers and sisters, till he made them laugh and cry, and sometimes huddle together and cling about their mother with fright and horror. He was his mother’s darling child. She only understood him, and knew all that was noble and beautiful under his faults and strange ways ; yet she was at times almost frightened to see how: much wit, and cleverness, and understanding the boy had. When sometimes his father would scold because William showed no inclination towards the wool business or any business at all, and would say that the lad would “never come to any good,” his mother always answered, with a good deal of spirit, u Our Will, is sure to


make some noise in the world yet; now, mark my words, John.”

But the neighbors all shook their heads wisely and said, “ Mrs. Shakspeare is spoiling that boy he’ll never make the man his father is.”

• I am sorry to say that, as he grew out of boy hood, tns young poet fell into rather wild ways He was very witty and lively, and so was mucl courted by gay company and exposed to many temptations. He showed, too, that a great genius can be very foolish and imprudent, by marrying, before he was eighteen, Miss Anne Hatha way — doubtless a worthy young woman in her way, but not suited to William Shakspeare, it seems, for he was not long happy with her. He was obliged to leave his family and Stratford at last very suddenly, and probably in the night time, for having been engaged in poaching and deer killing on the estate of one Sir Thomas Lucy, a great man in those parts, who became very much enraged against him. He went up to London, and became a writer of plays and an actor at the Globe Theatre. This was in the latter part of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, or good Queen Bess,” as she was called. She


was a good sovereign on many accounts, but a hard-hearted, vain, and passionate woman. She loved to be feared, honored, and obeyed ; but, better stiJl, she loved to be flattered. When she was young she was rather fine looking, and used to spend many hours at the mirror adorning and admiring herself; but, as she grew old, she grew excessively ugly, till at last she took a vow never to look in a glass again. After that, some of her maids, who had a spite against her, were mischievous enough to dress her hair in ridiculous ways, and put the paint on her cheeks in streaks and spots; so that she often was a hideous object when she believed herself looking charmingly.

This Queen was fond of the theatre, and admired William Shakspeare’s plays. She sometimes set him subjects. He wrote one of his best plays for her, and paid her several beautiful compliments. After the Queen had smiled on him, all the noble ladies and gentlemen suddenly found out that he was a great wit and genius, and every body paid court to him. But the royal favor never came to any thing more than words. Her majesty never gave him titles, cas-


ties, or estates; and I don’t suppose it ever en tered into her head to make him one of her councillors. But perhaps it was as well for him; for that was not altogether an agreeable or comfortable office, the Queen being in the habit of storming furiously at her .ministers when they ventured to differ from her—’.sometimes jumping up and soundly boxing their ears.

It is not now known just what kind of a life William Shakspeare led in London. His friend Ben Jonson, a writer, praises him very much, and, as we can find no bad account of him, we may safely conclude that he was not a bad man. You know there are always plenty of people in the world who are more ready to speak their minds about their neighbors’ faults than to correct their own; so, if the poet had been very immoral, it would surely have come down to us in some way.

The great Elizabeth died a miserable old woman at last—left a thousand magnificent dresses in her wardrobe, and not a friend to weep over her grave; for she had never loved any one half so well as she loved herself.

Soon after King James VI, of Scotland, came


to the throne, William Shakspeare left London and the theatre, and, with a little fortune that he had made by his writings, went down to Stratford, where he bought a place not far from the old house, and lived very comfortably with his family.

The neighbors said that he had turned out better than they expected, but that he was still far from equal to his father, honest John Shakspeare, the wool-dealer. He was never a great man to them. Neighbors are always the last people in the world to see a man’s greatness. They never made a magistrate of him in Stratford; and he died as he had lived — simple Will. Shakspeare.

But since that time his fame has filled the world, until it is every where allowed that he is the greatest poet that ever existed. There is no book of poetry that has ever been written that contains so many wise, and beautiful, and wonderful things as the works of Shakspeare, as you will find when you are old enough to read them for yourselves. When that time comes, let me advise you to be sure and get an edition without


any notes. There are some passages in Shales peare of which it is difficult to understand the meaning; and if you read the notes you are sure never to get to the bottom of it, they make the matter so much worse.



BYRON.    31

One of the pleasantest excursions 1 made while in England was to Newstead Abbey, Nottingham, and Lincoln, from Birmingham, where I was visiting.

Newstead Abbey, once the home of the celebrated Lord Byron, was founded by Henry II. Its monks were of the order of St. Augustine, very rich and learned men, high in the favor of


the king. This abbey stands in the most beautiful part of Nottinghamshire, in the very heart of old Sherwood Forest. It is a noble building, though now partly in ruins. It is in the midst of a fine park, and is surrounded by noble trees, among which are some yews full seven hundred years old. There is a lovely lake in front of the abbey, a stream and waterfall, and back of it gardens, fountains, walks, long shady avenues, fish-ponds, and almdsl every out-door luxury you can imagine. Ah, they understood how to enjoy the good" things of Ihis life, those same holy old monks. At the reformation, the abbey and lands of Newstead were taken from the Roman church and given to one Sir John Byron, a favorite of the king; and in the Byron family they remained until the late Lord Byron sold them to his friend Colonel Wildman. But, though it is now repaired and splendidly fitted up as a gentleman’s residence, Newstead Abbey would be a place of little interest if it were not for the memory of the great poet who once owned it.

The works of Lord Byron — some of which, I am sorry to say, are not so good as they should be — you will not read for years to come; but

BYRON.    33

I think it is well yon should know something of the poet himself, that you may be better able to judge of any of his writings which may accidentally fall into your hands; and so I will tell you


George Gordon Byron was born in London January 22, 1788. His father was Captain Byron, and his mother Catharine Gordon, of Gight. "When George was about two years old his parents removed to Aberdeen, in Scotland. Captain Byron and his wife were unfortunately not well suited to one another. They found that they did not agree living together, and so agreed to live apart. Yet they were not on very bad terms with each other, but polite and even neighborly, Captain Byron often dropping in to take a cup of tea with his wife and little son in a friendly way. Such a state of things would seem rather strange to us; but people in high life have many ways which we common folks lind it hard to understand.

Mrs. Byron was a woman of most violent 3


temper, and, though a foolishly fond mother, often harsh and impatient with her son, who was a passionate, high-spirited boy. She used to fly into a terrible fit of anger and storm away at him whenever he did any thing wrong; and this would rouse his pride and resentment. So there were sometimes frightful scenes between these two, who, after all, loved each other very dearly.

George was, from his birth, lame from having one of his feet deformed, and through all his boyhood suffered a great deal from the efforts made by the surgeons to put this foot into shape ; but he is said to have borne his pain with the utmost courage and patience. He had a nurse, a very good young woman, named May Gray, of whom he was very fond, and who used always to dress his foot for him when the doctor did not. After putting on the machines and bandages at night, May would sit down beside his bed and sing to him sweetly and soothingly, and tell him stories and legends, or teach him to repeat holy Psalms. In this way he learned a great deal of the Bible. When at last he had fallen asleep, she would bend over his pillow

BYRON.    35

and gaze 011 him as he lay with one delicate hand under his flushed cheek—on his full, fair brow, and clustering curls, and long, dark eyelashes, and proud, sweet lips; for George was a very beautiful boy; and she would grieve that her darling little master must suffer so much pain and mortification from his deformed foot, till the tears would drop from her eyes down on to his face, and he would stir uneasily in his sleep. Then she would go away softly and leave him to his rest. Then, perhaps, Mrs. Byron would come in to see him as he lay in his little crib ; and, though she may have beaten him violently only an hour or two before, she would now, looking at his noble head, and not seeing his poor foot, feel such pride in his beauty that she would fall to kissing and fondling him till she got him wide awake, and poor May’s work had all to be done over again.

When I was at Newstead I heard a funny anecdote of little Byron and his nurse which may amuse you.

When his foot was very bad she was in the habit of carrying him about the house and garden on her back. One day he wished her to


take him with her to an out-house where hens and pheasants were kept. He had on a fine velvet suit, and it rained; but he insisted that he would see his “ pretty pheasants; ” so May hoisted him on her shoulders and trotted off. Just inside the door of this out-house there stood a bin full of the feathers of hens, ducks, turkeys, and pheasants; and it happened that May, in her hurry to get in out of the rain, stumbled, and pitched her little master right over her head into this bin. Down, down he sunk, kicking and choking; and when his nurse pulled him out he looked so funny, with his wet, velvet clothes and his curly head stuck all over with down and feathers, that she broke into a merry fit of laughter. This threw George into such a terrific passion that he flew at her and fought like a little cock-sparrow.

For several years George attended a grammar school in Aberdeen, kept by one Master Bowers. His schoolmates say of him that he was “ a lively warm-hearted, and spirited boy, passionate and resentful, but affectionate and companionable — to a remarkable degree fearless and venturous, and always more ready to give than to take a blow.”

BYRON.    37

We have seen that his unworthy father took no care of him in his education and training; he was never taught by his mother to control his temper or'curb his pride ; he had little help from any body in cultivating what was good and putting down what was bad in his character; so we must not blame him too harshly because he was a wilful, wayward, and passionate boy.

Though quick at the studies that suited his taste, George was not, in general, a forward and ambitious scholar ; indeed, he was nearly always at the foot of his class; but at this school it was the custom to alter the order of the classes once in a while, so that the highest and lowest boys would change places. When this happened the young poet would find himself at the head; and then his master would laugh, and say, slyly, “ Now, Georgie, my man, let me see how soon you’ll be at the foot again.”

From Aberdeen George was removed by his mother into the Highlands for the good of his health, which was very delicate after an attack of scarlet fever. Here he learned to love mountains, waterfalls, dark glens, and the wild sea 'shore. He would often wander off by himself,


and sometimes get lost in the high heal her 01 stuck fast in a morass.

In his eleventh year George Byron’s grand-uncle died, and he became Lord Byron, of New-stead and Rochdale, in Lancashire. This was a great change for the little lad — a greater change than you, dear children, can understand in this republican country of ours, where we have no grand titles of this sort, where we don’t want them, — at least we say so, — and where it is certain we can’t get them. When first his name was read aloud in school as “ Lord Byron,” and he saw all his schoolfellows, with whom he had so often frolicked and fought, open their eyes wide, and look at him so still, and respectful, and almost frightened, he turned pale and red, and then burst into tears. In play-hours the boys were so distant and deferential, or made fun of him so maliciously, that he had little pleasure in his new title ; and when he went home he ran up to his mother and asked her if she saw any difference in him since he had been made a lord, as he didn’t see any himself.

It was in the joyous summer time that the young lord left Scotland, with his mother and

BYRON.    39

nurse May, to take possession of the family estate of Newstead. In this journey they passed beautiful Loch Leven, much fine scenery, and many noble country seats ; but the thoughts of little George were filled with glowing anticipations of the grand old house to which he was going. When they reached the Newstead toll-bar, and saw the wide grounds and rich woods of the abbey stretching out before them, Mrs. Byron pretended not to know where they were, but said to the woman of the toll-house, —

“ Pray, who owns this fine place ? ”

“ Why, my lady, it belonged to old Lord Byron, who died some months ago.”

“ And who is the next heir ? ” asked the mother.

“ They say,” the woman answered, “ it is a little boy who lives at Aberdeen.”

“ And this is he, bless him! ” cried out May Gray, who could not restrain her delight any longer, but turned and kissed the young lord at her side with tears of joy in her eyes. Byron returned the kiss in a proud, patronizing way he had lately assumed, but with a curl of his red,


handsome lip that seemed to say, “ What silly creatures these women are ! ”

At Newstead George remained, enjoying the grandeur of having a neglected estate and a dilapidated old abbey of his own, and hearing himself “ My lord-ed ” from morning to night till he got used to it; for people will get used to any great honor at last. You know we sometimes see, in our own country, captains, colonels, and even generals, who after a while take their titles so easily one would scarcely know them from common men except on muster days.

Here, for some time, poor Byron suffered more cruelly than ever with his foot; here his genius first broke out into rhyme. I am very sorry to be obliged to record that his first poem was a naughty epigram on an old lady who, while on a visit to his mother, had made some remark that offended his little lordship; but he seems to have been contented with this, and to have strung no more rhymes for several years.

Byron had a half-sister, Augusta, of whcm he was very fond always. She was his playmate at Newstead. I saw in the grounds an elm tree 'f

BYRON.    41

in the bark of 'which he once carved her name with his own. Some of the letters yet remain.

After a. year or two the Byrons left .Newstead for London, where the yonng lord was placed at his studies under a tutor. His dear nurse, May Gray, was then obliged to leave him and return to Scotland. She was grieved to go, and he was sad to part with hei. He gave her his own watch, and a pretty, full-length miniature of himself, and never forgot her love and faithfulness.

From London Byron went to the great school at Harrow — a very . beautiful place. Here, though he often showed himself proud and imperious, he was beloved and admired for what was true and noble in his character.

There was at this school a fine, clever boy, who was known as “ little Bob Peel.” One day it happened that one of the older boys, a stout, brutal fellow, undertook to make a “ fag ” —- that is, a sort of school slave — of young Peel; but the little hero resisted with all his might. His tyrant, however, soon conquered, and then proceeded to beat him in a most cruel manner. In the midst of this, another boy, somewhat older than Peel, but too small to hope to master the


large boy, came running up, and, with tears in his eyes and cheeks hot with indignation, asked how many blows he meant to inflict.

“ Why, what is that to you, you young ras-cal ? ” was the reply.

“ Because, if you please,” said the noble lad, “ 1 would take half!

This boy was afterwards the great Lord Byron ; little Bob was the great Sir Robert Peel; but the big bully who beat them nobody knows any thing about now.

From Harrow Byron went to Cambridge College.

Here he published his first volume of poems, which were not thought remarkably clever, even for a lord. Indeed, the critics came down upon them in a savage way, and thought, doubtless, that they had made an end of the poor young lordling. But no ; their abuse only did him gooji and brought him out stronger than ever. He came down upon the critics in his turn bitterly and fiercely; and they soon found they had brought a hornet’s nest about their ears when they thought they were only demolishing a twittering swallow’s nest.

BYRON.    43

Byron spent some of his vacations at New-stead, which, though in an almost rained condition, he always loved. He had here a faithful servant, “old Joe Murray,” of whom he was very fond, and a noble Newfoundland dog, named Boatswain, who was his favorite pet and playfellow. This dog was seized with madness, and, after a great deal of suffering, which he bore gently and patiently, died, much to the grief of his master, who mourned for him as for a dear friend, and erected over his grave a beautiful marble monument, which is standing to this day. It is related that, during the dreadful last illness of poor Boatswain, Byron would sit by him in his paroxysms and tenderly wipe the foam from his mouth.

After leaving college, Byron took his seat as a peer of England in the House of Lords. Then he went into London society, and became, I am sorry to say, a very wild and extravagant young man. But he grew more and more famous, till all the world did all in their power to spoil him with deference and flattery. He was especially praised and petted by the ladies, who declared that he was the handsomest, wittiest, and most


interesting young lord that ever was seen. Men were not so enthusiastic as all this; they sometimes called him. a coxcomb, and did not account him so very handsome or so wonderfully clever after all.

Lord Byron next travelled on the continent of Europe a year or two, and wrote the first part of his great poem, CMlde Harold. Then he returned to England and married,, but did not settle, down quietly and contentedly as he should have done, but went on in his old, wild, reckless way, and got deeper and deeper into debt, till the friends of Lady Byron interfered, and she, with her infant daughter, little Ada, went away from her husband, never to return. Then, when he was most desolate and desperate, every body who had praised and flattered him when, perhaps, he was no better than now, broke out against him, and raised a perfect tempest of blame and hatred about his head. This is the way of the world, children, at least of the greak fashionable world, every where. Byron’s mothe-g was now dead ; his sister Augusta was married \ his property was gone, for he was obliged to sell dear old Newstead; so he resolved to leave Eng<

BYRON."    45

land forever. He went down to Italy, where he spent several years, writing great poems, but living a, most unhappy life. His troubles and misfortunes had hardened and imbittered his heart. He was sad and sometimes remorseful, but never humble and repentant. He tried to escape from the reproaches of his conscience in pleasure, adventiire, and dissipation ; and, because of the wrongs inflicted on him by a few, he tried to hate all the world; but he could not quite do this. There were times when the old love for his country, his boyhood’s friends, his sister, his wife, and little daughter Ada broke out in sweet and sorrowful poetry, which one can hardly read without tears. Even when his life was most blamable he was often known to do things which showed what generous and noble impulses he had by nature. He was always kind and charitable to the poor, and, though far from rich, never refused to give to the truly needy and suffering.

It is recorded of him that once, when passing over the Alps on horseback, there came up a terrific thunder storm. In th3 midst of it he recollected that his guide was carrying for him


a sword-cane, and, fearing that the lightning might be attracted towards the poor Swiss lad by the steel, took it away from him and carried it himself.

But the last days of Lord Byron were the noblest. He went into Greece in the year 1823, and offered his services to the brave Greeks in their struggle with the Turks for freedom. They gratefully accepted his generous offer ; but he never had the privilege of fighting and shedding his noble blood in their righteous cause. At Missolonghi he was taken ill of a fever, not very violently, however, and there seemed little danger at first; but he had not very skilful nursing or many comforts about him ; and he had several physicians, who were never done with blood-letting; so it soon went hard with him, and after a few days all hope was given up. On the afternoon before he died, when he was very weak, he called his faithful servant Fletcher to him and gave him some last messages to his wife, and daughter, and sister, but in such an indistinct voice that poor Fletcher could only make out the names, u Lady Byron,” “ Ada,” “ Augusta.’ When, weeping, he told his master that he

BYRON.    4?

had not understood any thing more, Byron seemed much distressed, and said, —

“What a pity! Then it is too late; all is over.”

“I hope not,” Fletcher answered; “but the Lord’s will be done.”

“ Yes, not mine,” said Byron, now subdued and humble as a little child.

About six o’clock in the evening, after suffering great pain in his head, he grew very quiet, and said, softly, “ Now I will go to sleep” And he did fall asleep, but never to wake again in this world.

Lord Byron’s body was taken to England and buried in Ilucknall Church, near Newstead. His sister Augusta placed over his grave a small and simple marble tablet, knowing that it was enough for so great a poet. Only people who do nothing to make a name for themselves while living need great monuments when they are dead.

Within this year Ada Byron (Lady Lovelace) nas been laid by the side of her father.

In judging of the character of Lord Byron, dear children, I trust that you will pity him, even while you condemn his faults; for the


erring are always the most unhappy. Remember that he had great and peculiar temptations ; that, when a child, much harm was done to him, both by too fond indulgence and too great severity; and that, as he grew older, he was followed and flattered as a handsome young nobleman and a brilliant genius, till it was a wonder his head was not completely turned. Remember that he had no kind, wise father, and no gentle, religious mother, to teach him the right, to pray for him and with him and help him to be good ; and, while you are sorrowful for - him that he so often went astray and made a wrong use of his beautiful talent, for your own happier condition, shielded from the temptations of the great world, rank, and flattery, and pleasure, — for your own greater blessings in pleasant, peaceful homes, and the love and watchful care of kind parents, — thank God morning and night.



1 have said that Newstead Abbey stood in the heart of old Sherwood Forest. This, you will remember, was the favorite domain of that prince of outlaws — bold Robin Ilood. There is little forest-land about there now,— none, indeed, that we should so call,— all the woods being enclosed in parks, and as carefully kept as gardens. But, as I journeyed


through the country, my thoughts so went back to the old, old time that I almost expected, whenever we passed a grove of trees or a shadowy glen, to be suddenly surrounded by Robin Hood’s merry men, armed with long bows and clad in Lincoln-green, or to see Robin Hood himself standing under an oak, sounding his silver bugle, till the old woods rang to the brave blast and echo answered far adown the glen.

You have all doubtless read many stories of Robin Hood; but, if you will listen to mine, I hope I shall be able to tell you some things that you have never heard before.

Robert Fitzooth, Earl of Huntingdon, was born at Locksley, in the county of Nottingham, about the year 1160, in the reign of Henry II. He was left an orphan in his childhood, and placed under the guardianship of his uncle, the Abbot of St. Mary’s, in York. This priest professed to be a just and holy man ; but, as it often is when people make great pretensions to piety, he was far enough the other way. In those days priests were greatly feared and honored, and could do pretty much as they pleased. So the Abbot of


St. Mary’s, who was a hard, avaricious man, found no difficulty in taking advantage of the young Earl Robert. By such wily, wicked ways as only bad priests know‘he took possession of all his nephew’s estates and revenues one after another, pretending that he only meant to take care of them, lest Robert, whom he accused of being a wild lad, should squander them in dissipation. Robert bore this for a while, and tried hard to keep on peaceable terms with his uncle ; but the old man was very provoking. He would sit in the refectory of the splendid abbey, at a dinner table loaded with every luxury in the way of food, served on massive gold and silver plate, and with half a dozen bottles of good old wine before him, and then lecture poor Robert upon temperance, self-denial, and sober, godly living, till Robert would smile grimly, and play with the hilt of his dagger in a way that the venerable abbot did not like.

When the Earl of Huntingdon came of age there was not a handsomer or more gallant young man among all the nobility and yeomanry of England. He was tall, straight, and athletic, vdth a quick, bounding step, and a


brave, broad breast. He bad a commanding but pleasant voice, a hearty smile, clear, honest eyes, ruddy checks and lips; and his head, which he held rather haughtily, was crowned with clustering light-brown curls. Though belonging to a proud, aristocratic family^ — who, in tracing their noble pedigree, could go back, back, till, for all I know, they lost themselves and their reckoning in the fogs of the first morning after the deluge, — Robert was not an aristocrat. He sympathized with the common people, in that day shamefully imposed upon, taxed, and tyrannized over by the bold barons and hard-hearted priests. He joined in all their merry-makings, their manly and warlike exercises. He became so skilful with his bow that it is said he frequently sent an arrow the distance of a mile. From among his fiiends he selected four comrades, who were always true to him — John Nailor, whom he nicknamed “ Little John,” George-a-Green, Muck, a miller’s son, and a jolly friar called Tuck, the only priest Robert could ever abide.

One day a small sprig of the nobility, one Sir Roger, of Doncaster, saw him mingling with the honest yeomen in their sports, and sneered at his


vulgar tastes. Robert replied by challenging him to a shooting match. Sir Roger’s arrow missed the target altogether, and stuck fast in the trunk of a tree some distance farther on. Robert took aim at this shaft, and split it clean up the middle. Then all the yeomen shouted and laughed; and Sir Roger was so enraged that he was foolish enough to accept a second challenge to a wrestling match, in which Earl Robert threw him so often that he never felt fairly on his legs, but seemed always to be bumping against the ground. At last his senses were quite bumped out of him, and he lay stiff and still. Earl Robert revived him and helped him up; but he was mortified and sullen, and ever after had a mean, bitter spite against his brave conqueror.

It was not long after Robert came of age before he was quite convinced that it was vain to hope to get his property out of the close clutch of his reverend relative. There was no use in his appealing to the king. Henry II. was now dead, and Richard I., called “ the lion-hearted,” had ascended the throne. But in a short time, thinking he had a call to go on a crusade to the.


Holy Land to fight the Saracens, he left the government to the care of Hugh Pudsey, Bishop of Durham, who was soon supplanted by a bolder and stronger man — Longchamp, Bishop of Ely and Chancellor of England, who usurped all the power and dignity of a monarch, and taxed and tyrannized to his bad heart’s content.

So, getting desperate, Earl Robert called together the bravest of his friends, threw up his title, assumed the name of Robin Hood, and took to the forest, where he led from that time a daring and dangerous, but an independent and merry life. I know it is quite too late to think of making my hero- out a good, honest man, though Mr. Abbott has done wonders in that way for Bonaparte ; for long, long ago it got noised about that Robin Hood was a robber and outlaw. But in those old days, when kings robbed, and barons robbed, and priests robbed worse than all, the thieving business was a good deal more respectable than it is now; and the only difference between Robin Hood and those others was, that he took only from the rich and powerful, while they robbed the poor and defenceless.


The brave outlaw was joined by the best archers in the country, to the number of a hundred stout men and bold. These he clad all in Lincoln-green — a dress which made it hard to distinguish them at a little distance from the forest foliage amid which they lurked. When any one of these men was killed or took the strange notion to return to his friends and turn honest man again, Robin Hood would set out on a recruiting expedition. Wherever he heard of a young man of uncommon strength and hardihood he would go, disguised, and try him in wrestling and archery; then, if satisfied, persuade the yeoman to enlist. This was most often easily done; for those were hard times for the people, and Robin Hood had a flattering tongue. So he kept himself in his hundred archers, and with them haunted the merry greenwood —-Barnsdale, in Yorkshire, Plompton Park, in Cumberland, and Sherwood, in Nottinghamshire. Past or through those forests ran the king’s highways, whereon traders, nobles, and priests were obliged to travel; but, after Robin Hood became sovereign of them, few jour neys could be safely made in their vicinity


Sometimes, just when travellers began to breathe freely and speak above a whisper, thinking themselves out of danger, Robin was down upon them, and they were obliged to come down with their money or stand as targets for his archers. Knowing that it was not good for holy men to be cumbered with too much worldly wealth, he always made free with the purses of rich priests. The old Abbot of St. Mary’s himself, who once ventured to pass through Sherwood with a rich store of gold and silver, guarded by two hundred men, fell into his hands. After helping himself to the old miser’s money, which was rightly his own, he set his lordship on his horse, with his face towards the tail, and so sent him off towards York, fretting and fuming, and (some of Robin’s men said) swearing; but that could hardly have been. The money so wrested from rich monks and arrogant barons Robin. Hood constantly shared with the poor, and so filled many a sad home with mirth and comfort, and made glad and grateful the hearts of the widow and the fatherless. He was always tender and kind to women and children. Noble ladies, with retinues and treasures, could pass in


safety through his forests. One time a young dandy nobleman, meaning to take advantage of the generous outlaw’s gallantry, undertook to pass through Sherwood, leading a train, in the disguise of a lady; but at the first sight of a band of archers he showed himself so much more of a coward than a woman that Little John suspected him, tore off his veil, and hood, and velvet mantle, and made him pay dearly for the insult he had put upon womankind.

Of the thousand and one adventures related of Robin Hood I have only room in this short history for two ; the first showing how he made a friend—the second how he won a wife.

One morning, near Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood met a young man walking slowly, drooping his head and sighing deeply; and he thought to himself, “ This poor fellow must be melancholy mad or.in love ; in either case he is to be pitied.” So he kindly questioned the youth, who proved to be a yeoman by the name of Will. Scarlocke. He trusted Robin Hood from the first, and told him that he was grieving because a fair maiden whom he loved, and who loved him, was that day to be married by her friends to


a rich old man whom she detested. Robin Hood inquired the time and place of the wedding; then, telling Will, to keep up a good heart, bounded off’ into the forest.

About noon there was a great ringing of bells at the church; then came the wedding party and their friends. The bridegroom looked very proud and pompous in his gold-laced, velvet doublet and white silk hose ; but he was wheezy and hard of hearing, and so gouty that he had a little page to lift his feet, first one, then the other, up the altar-steps. The bride wept and looked wistfully round for her lover, who was hid behind a pillar, waiting for Robin Hood. The ceremony began, and Will, was getting desperate, when a tall man, in the dress of a beggar, standing near the altar, drew a silver horn from beneath his mantle and blew a startling blast. Instantly fifty men in Lincoln-green burst into the church and dispersed the bridal party, all but the low happy bride and the frightened priest, whom Robin Hood commanded to marry the faithful pair at once. It was done ; and ever after Will Scarlocke was the fast friend of Robin Hood.

One day, in pursuing a deer, Robin Hood was


led into the park of the Earl of Fitzwater. There he suddenly heard voices and the trampling of horses, and soon saw a mail-clad knight, followed by six men-at-arms, and leading by the bridle a‘palfrey, on which sat a lovely lady, weeping and wringing her hands. This maiden Robin H6od recognized at once as the young Lady Matilda, only daughter of the Earl of Fitzwater. Though quite alone, he did not hesitate, but sprang forward before the party, crying, — “Hold, thou false knight! I command thee to let that noble lady go free! ”

“ Stand off, thou unmannerly churl, or I will cleave thy skull with my broadsword! Know thou that I am John, thy prince.”

“ And know thou,” replied the outlaw, “ that I am Robin Hood, King of Sherwood Forest.”

At these words all six of the men-at-arms put spurs to their horses and fled; and the prince was glad to follow, scowling and cursing as he went. Then Lady Matilda, who seems to have been rather a romantic young woman, fainted, and fell into Robin Hood’s arms; and he, not knowing exactly what to do for a lady in such a case, carried her to a brook, and was about to dip her


head in the water, when she suddenly came to herself. She then related to her preserver how that bad prince, whom she hated with all her might, had long been urging her to go with him to his wicked court, and how that afternoon, while she was walking in the park, he had surprised and carried her off. She told this story reclining on a mossy bank, with Robin Hood sitting at her feet, looking up into her face. She finished her story; yet still Robin Hood sat at her feet, looking up into her face. At last the twilight shadows began to fall; then he sighed, and said, —

“It is getting late, my lady; shall I conduct you home ? ”

But the Lady Matilda bent towards him, blushing and speaking very softly, and said,— “ You have saved me from shame and sorrow, henceforth I belong to you.”

Robin Hood started up gladly, then sunk back sadder than before, and said, —

“ No, lady, no ; you have been too delicately reared for an outlaw’s wife.”

He then told her that though she might not dislike his forest life in the warm summer-time,


yet when the fall rains and winter frosts came she would find the cave in which he lived dark and chill, and would sigh for her father’s comfortable castle-halls.

. But Lady Matilda was strong and healthful, and had little fear of colds or rheumatisms. She thought Robin Hood excessively handsome, and fancied that he would be the best protector against that naughty prince she could have. So she looked into his face with her beautiful, blue, beseeching eyes till he could resist her no longer, but lifted her on to her palfrey, and walked by her side towards Sherwood Forest, talking to her, holding her hand, and loving her better and better every step. They were married at the camp by jolly Friar Tuck, and had a merry wedding-feast. The next day Robin Hood and his wife, who had +aken the name of Marian, sent a messenger to the Earl of Fitzwater, telling him how they were married, and asking if he had any objections. He sent back word that he disowned his daughter, and never would forgive her, and made some rather unhandsome remarks upon the character of his son-in-law, which roused Marian’s spirit. But the old Earl missed


his only child, and was so lonely in his grand castle that at last it seemed to him he must see her, or he should die. So he disguised himself as a mendicant minstrel and went to Robin Hood’s camp. He was kindly received, and feasted with good game and excellent wine. After dinner Robin Hood flung himself down on a bank of wild violets for a nap, and Marian began scattering daisies over him. The Earl watched them in their happiness, and thought of his own loneliness till he could stand it no longer, but bowed his head in his hands and burst into tears. Marian knew that sob; she had heard it once before, when her mother died. She dropped her flowers, ran to her father, flung her arms round his neck, and wept with him. Robin Hood sprang up and joined them, and all was made up among the three. Earl Fitzwatcr became quite fond of his son-in-law, though he often warned him that he would come to the gallows if he did not mend his ways. Rut Robin Hood never changed for the better or worse. He continued to take from the rich and give to the poor — to play tricks and seek ad ventures in disguise — to fight the troops of the


king and the sheriff of Nottingham — to hate and make war on all priests to the last. He lived to be an old man, loved by the poor, feared and hated by the rich.

At length he fell ill of a lingering fever, and, unluckily, went for help to his aunt, Elizabeth de Staynton, Prioress of Kirklees Nunnery, in Yorkshire— a woman who had great skill in medicine. His old enemy, Sir Roger, of Doncaster, hearing of this, went to her, and, telling her she had in her power a great enemy of the church, urged her on to a dark and cruel deed. The Prioress went alone to Robin Hood as he lay tossing and gasping with his fever, and, pretending great kindness, said she must bleed him. He stretched out his arm, and she opened a large vein. The blood spouted out fiercely at first, and ran for a long time full and fast.

“ Haven’t you taken enough ? ” asked Robin Hood again and again, his voice growing weaker and weaker; but the stern old woman always answered, £< No.” Then he sunk back on his pillow and fainted. Still the Prioress stood and looked on him with a cold, stony face, and still he 5


bled and bled, till the couch on which he lay was all afloat with his blood. At last his white lips moved, and he murmured one word that touched the cruel heart of the Prioress. It was the name of Lis mother — her own sister. She sprang forward to bind up the arm and stop the bleeding, but too late. Robin Hood was dead.


There is a legend of Robin Hood never yet told in this country, which I think explains better than any other his leading such a wild, unlawful life.

"When the young Earl of Huntingdon was ward of the Abbot of St. Mary’s he went often to the Nunnery of Kirklees, under pretence of paying his respects to his aunt, Elizabeth de Staynton, the Prioress, but really to see a lovely little girl whom she had under her care. This was his cousin, the Lady Mildred de Clare, who, like him, was an orphan. Lord Kyme, her father, a gallant soldier, had been killed in


battle ; and his wife, who loved him more dearly than life, than the world and every body in it, mourned and wept herself away. Even when her little daughter nestled warmest against her bosom and wound her soft arms closest about her neck, she would long to be lying beside him under the lonely battle-ground, with her head on his cold, dead heart

Lady Kyme always loved Robert Fitzooth, her favorite sister’s son; and one day when, as the children were playing on the walls of her husband’s castle, the little Mildred fell into the moat, and Robert saved her life at the risk of his own, she made a solemn engagement with his mother that, when Robert should have grown to be a man and Mildred a young woman, they should be married; for so, she said, two loving hearts, two noble titles, and two fine estates would be united.

From this time the shy and tender Mildred looked up to her brave cousin as her future lord and husband; while Robert began to call her his “ little wife,” and was very loving and condescending towards her. She had a boudoir of her own, where she used to play housekeeping,


and he would come to see her. Sometimes h would pretend he was just returned from the chase, and would stride in, blowing a little bugle, and carrying an old deerskin, with the horns on, and half a dozen grouse or pheasants, borrowed from the larder. These he would fling at Mildred’s feet, saying,—

“ See, my fair lady, what trophies your noble lord brings from the chase! Killed them all myself with one arrow.”

Sometimes he would come as from the wars, armed with rusty old pieces of mail and weapons taken from the armory — a helmet so big that he was obliged to stuff his jerkin (a sort of jacket) into it to keep it from shutting down quite over his face; a ragged corselet of chain armor, which came to his knees; a lance, with the point broken ; a long sword, which dragged behind him ; and a pair of big boots of mail, with spurs. He would look proud and warlike as he kissed Mildred’s hand ; but he would beg her not to embrace him, as he had no less than a score of wounds on his breast, and some of them were a little sore. If she asked him to take a seat, he would say, “No, I thank you; I have several other battles


to fight to-day';” but the fact was, his boots came up so high and his corselet hung so low he couldn’t sit down to save him. Sometimes he would come in morning-gown and slippers, and, with a grand, indifferent air, lounge on a couch, play with his dog, and take no notice of his poor little wife, till she would begin to cry, and ask him what she had done to make him stop loving her, or do a wiser thing — go and get him something nice to eat; when he was sure to grow good humored and soon tease her for more.

But these happy, childish days passed by ; the cousins became orphans at nearly the same time, and, as we have seen, each was placed under the care of a hard-hearted relative. But, though they had many trials and discouragements, they kept on loving each other truly year after year, till Bobert was a brave young man and Mildred a beautiful young woman. Bobert could not often see his betrothed except in the presence of his stern aunt the Prioress, and could only talk to her through a screen of lattice-work. But sometimes the Prioress permitted a certain old nun to go with Mildred to meet her cousin. This Sister Agatha was a good, compassionate woman.


Sie remembered that she was once young, and how she Joved a brave soldier who fell in battle. She still wore a lock of his hair, and a piece of his scarf, with a dark-red stain upon it, next her poor old heart. So she felt for Robert and Mildred, and would leave them alone, and kneel in the next room to pray for them, while they talked in low, loving tones, and smiled over pleasant plans, but oftener wept sad tears on each other’s hands, held through the lattice. Here Robert would lighten his heart of its load of care and grief, and pour out his impatience and indignation against his hypocritical uncle; while Mildred would, grieving, tell how every day the Prioress warned her against him as a wild, reckless, priest-distrusting, and therefore godless young man. The Prioress was a bigot, and really thought she was doing right in hating and opposing her nephew because he was not religious in her particular way. I am sadly afraid there are some people very like her in this respect now-a-days. But the Abbot had his own reasons for setting himself against this marriage. Lady Mildred had a large fortune, which he had not been able to obtain possession of. If Earl


Robert married her this would be his, and with it he might get back his own ; for in those wicked days kings could be bribed and priests could be bribed; and lawyers were not much better; they could be bribed too. I am not sure but that we have a few of the same sort in our time.

So the Abbot set himself to work, and with the Prioress and Robert’s enemy, Sir Roger of Doncaster, concocted a fine plot. The Abbot suddenly pretended friendliness, and proposed to his nephew to go to Nottingham Castle, with a fine escort and outfit, and join Prince John’s guard. Noble hearts are the last to suspect treachery. Robert believed his uncle, went to court, and, as he bore a sealed letter from the Abbot, was graciously received by the Prince. Lady Mildred grieved at his going, and, being very modest, feared he would forget her when he came to see the gay and grand ladies of the court. And her fears seemed well founded ; for weeks and months passed without bringing her one word from Robert: then came a short, cold letter, telling her she must give up all thought of him as her husband, for he was about to marry one of Queen Elinor’s maids of honor. Poor


Mildred at first cried day and night; then she grew restless, and walked about as if she were in a dream, and didn’t see any body or any thing; then she became calm and haughty, and smiled sometimes, a chill sort of a smile, and spoke in a strange, hard tone, as though all the sweetness had been drained out of her voice in tears. Then the Abbot and Prioress began to urge her to marry Sir Roger, of Doncaster ; and, as she didn’t care what became of her now, she consented.

Earl Robert’s faithful friend, Little John, having heard that this wedding was to be, went in great haste to Nottingham, to Earl Robert, who was true to his love, who had written to her many letters, which the Prioress had pocketed, and which the Abbot had used in imitating the hand-writing when he forged the one that did the mischief at last.

When Earl Robert heard Little John’s news he. set off at once for Yorkshire, never waiting for the Prince’s leave. He rode day and night; but he reached Kirklees Nunnery an hour too late. The wedding was over, and Mildred, his dear “ little wife,” was lost to him forever.


When Lady Doncaster heard that her cousin Robert had been constant, and that in his angei and despair he had taken to the forests and become an outlaw, when she found her husband to be a cowardly, dishonorable man, she prayed that she^might die. But after a while God consoled her with the gift of a noble little boy, who from the first was like her, and unlike his father. In loving and caring for this son, Lady Mildred found her only happiness. Sir Roger was proud of his handsome heir, but never was fond of him; for, when he said or did a mean thing, he could not bear the still scorn in the child’s eyes and the disdainful quiver of his lip.

The castle of Sir Roger was near Barnsdale, one of Robin Hood’s forests : and, when the free-booting chief was there, Sir Roger never dared to journey or hunt with ever so large a train without his wife to protect him. He kept his son also very close ; for he suspected him of having an admiration for the character, if not a taste for the life, of Robin Hood.

But one morning, when Hubert was about twelve years old, he managed to escape from the castle, and stole off into the greenwood. That


day and night passed ; yet he did not return. Sir Roger, after making all the search he dared, became convinced that the lad had fallen into Robin Hood’s hands, and groaned with the fear that they should never see him alive. But Lady Mildred said, calmly, “ If Hubert is with him, Sir Roger, he is safe. Robert Fitzooth would never harm my — our child.”

They sent a herald to Robin Hood’s camp to ransom and bring back the lad; but the herald returned alone, saying that Hubert was at the camp, but Robin Hood refused to receive the ransom. Then Sir Roger’s fright and rage increased ; but Lady Mildred smiled her sad, quiet smile, and looked out towards the forest. Suddenly there emerged from the wood Robin Hood and his favorite comrades, mounted on gayly caparisoned steeds and followed by fifty archers. They paused on a little hill, about a bow-shot from the castle, and drew together as if consulting. Then Sir Roger, growing very pale, cried, “ The villain outlaw means to murder our boy before our eyes ! ” But Lady Mildred still smiled her sad, quiet smile. Then the group of horsemen parted, and from between Robin Hood


and Little John came young Hubert, riding a beautiful pony, as black as night and as fleet as the wind. Down the hill he dashed, over the meadow! The warder hurried to let down the drawbridge and raise the portcullis ; and he came galloping through, reined up in the court, and flung himself, laughing, into his mother’s arms!

That night, in the great supper-hall of the castle, Hubert told his adventures and praised Robin Hood till his father frowned and bade him “ cease his chattering.” But after supper his mother called him to her chamber and questioned him about his night in the forest. He said that soon after he reached the wood he met an archer, and boldly told hirr that he wanted to see Robin Hood. The archer, who was a good-natured fellow, conducted him to the camp and introduced him to his chief as the son of Sir Roger, of Doncaster. Robin Hood started and frowned at first, he said; then took him by the arm and looked long and earnestly in his face and sighed. Here Lady Mildred sighed too.

But after that Robin Hood was very kind to his young guest, gave him the place of honor by his side at supper, and made the men sing, and


wrestle, and shoot with the long-bow for his amusement. “ And at night,” said Hubert, “ he himself arranged my bed of moss and leaves and spread over me his own mantle, and then sat down by my side and talked to me of you, mother.” Here Lady Mildred sighed again.

“He staid,” continued Hubert, “talking with me softly in the moonlight, till a beautiful lady, whom he called Marian, came out of her tent, where she had been singing ballads all the evening to a little boy at her knee, and beckoned him away.” Here Lady Mildred sighed deeper than before, and turned her face away from her son.

Hubert kept Robin Hood’s gift many years, and sometimes rode on him to visit his outlawed friend. He grew up to be a brave and honest man, in spite of his weak, bad father, and won much honor in the service of Richard, the Lion-hearted.

So Lady Mildred, who lived to a good old age, was always happy in her noble son. As for Sir Roger, after having helped to bring aboul the death of bold Robin Hood, he was one day waylaid by Will. Scarlocke and Little John, whfi


robbed him of his money and his fine velvet doublet and tied him to a tree ; and, though he was set free and sent home in the morning, he took such a fright and such a cold that he fell into a fever and died.



site and a few remains of an old castle, which we read a great deal about in English history. A new castle was built out of the remains of the old in Queen Anne’s time, which in turn has gone to decay, or rather was demolished about 6


twenty years ago by a mob, who were enraged against the owner, the Duke of Newcastle, for some political act.

Old Nottingham Castle, a famous stronghold of the early Kings of England, was built on a high rock, overlooking the beautiful vale of Bel-voir, the hills of Leicestershire, Nottinghamshire wolds, and the silvery windings of the river Trent. At the base of the great rock glides the little river Leen.

Underneath the castle the rock is curiously perforated in every direction by winding passages and small caverns, some formed by Nature, but most, it is supposed, hewn out of the solid stone by an ancient heathen priesthood of Britain called Druids. They sacrificed human victims to their deity, and made use of these caves as vaults for dead bodies of those they had murdered in a pious way, or as prisons for such refractory men and women as objected to their particular part in the bloody religious ceremony : at least so we are told by antiquarians — a set of very wise men, who get together and form societies, and talk very learnedly over old stones and bones and rusty armor and musty books, and


know a great deal more about the people that lived hundreds of years ago than about their own brothers and sisters. They always seem to me a sort of human owl, they can look so far Into the dark ages, and are so delightfully at home where every body else gets puzzled and lost.

King John, the bad brother of Richard the Lion-hearted, frequently held his court at Nottingham ; and it was the chosen abode of the beautiful Queen Isabella, wife of Edward II. This Queen had a favorite, one Roger de Mortimer, of whom she was very fond, and, when her husband was deposed, made him Regent. Mortimer proved arrogant and tyrannical. The nobles and people hated him; and the young King, Edward III., hated him worse than all. So, by the advice of a Parliament, he resolved to make way with his mother’s dangerous pet.

Through one of the underground passages of which I have spoken Edward entered the citadel and took Mortimer prisoner, in the very presence of the Queen, and in spite of her remonstrances and threats. Richard III., who should


have been called Richard the Tiger-hearted, so cruel and blood-thirsty was he, often held court at Nottingham. He went from here to Bosworth Field, where his ugly, deformed body was cut down in battle. The unfortunate Charles I., in his war with Oliver Cromwell and the Parliament, hoisted his banner on the highest turret of the castle, and with his own hand set up his royal standard on a hill near by. A great storm arose and blew it down that very night, which was taken by the superstitious people for a fearful omen ; and when, a few years after, the poor King was brought to Nottingham Castle, on his way to Holmby, in Nottinghamshire, a powerless prisoner, every body said, “ I told you so.”

For several years during the period of the great civil war between the Royalists and Republicans, which took place more than two hundred years ago, one Colonel John Hutchinson was Governor of Nottingham Castle, holding it for Cromwell and the Parliament. It was a very important fortress; and the Royalists tried every means in their power to get possession of it. The Earl of Newcastle offered a bribe of ten


thousand pounds to Colonel Hutchinson to betray it into his hands : but the gallant colonel repelled the offer with manly indignation. If he had yielded to this temptation he would have been classed among traitors, and his name would have been dishonored forever, instead of coming down to us, as it has come, with a brave and honest sound.

In this war, the party under Cromwell, who were called Puritans and Roundheads, because of their being greatly given to praying and psalming and wearing their hair closely cropped, contended for civil and religious liberty and a republican form of government with the Royalists, who were mostly aristocrats, and who were called Cavaliers. After a great deal of hard fighting and hard praying, the Roundheads got the power into their hands. They put King Charles I. to death, which they had better not have done, and made Cromwell Lord Protector; or rather he made himself so ; for he had a will and a genius for generalship and government which nothing could withstand.

But Cromwell died, and left no one great and power! d enough to succeed him. Then the Roy-


alists came pouring in from France and other countries whence they had fled or been banished, and brought with them Charles II., as profligate a Prince as ever lived, and set him on the throne, and things went on as bad as ever, till there came another revolution, and England got finally rid of the royal family of Stuart, and established a constitutional government, a strictly limited mon archy, better suited to a great and enlightened people. Charles I. was a handsome and elegant Prince, who suffered meekly all the insult and hard usage put upon him, and died like a man and a Christian at last. Though often false and weak, he was doubtless more to be pitied than blamed ; for falsehood and weakness ran in the Stuart blood.

Cromwell was a rough, rude, brawny soldier, with a big nose, and an ugly wart on his forehead; but though not always just or true, though always ambitious, and sometimes unscrupulous, he taught the world a great new lesson — that kings have no “ divine right ” to tyrannize and break faith ; and that they should be made to answer, not only to God, but to the people, foi the way in which they govern.


The Cavaliers were gay and gallant gentle« men, who wore elegant dresses and long curls; loved good wine and beautiful ladies; sung merry songs in praise of their Prince and in ridicule of the Eoundheads ; danced well; fought well; and were altogether very fascinating fellows.

But, as a party, they despised the common people, scoffed at republican principles of freedom and justice, and even at religion.

The Roundheads were generally stern-featured, plainly clad men, who wore long faces, and spoke through their noses, in Scripture language, which particularly offended the Cavaliers, who held that to quote so much from a book of which they knew nothing was the height of ill-breeding. In truth, I do not suppose that these Roundheads were the pleasantest sort of people to meet at balls and merry-makings ; but they were mostly earnest, honest, determined men, who fought for what they believed the right; and, though there were some precious rascals and hypocrites among them, there were others grandly good and true,—such as John Hampden, John Milton, Sir Harry Vane, Henry Marten, and Andrew Marvel, — whose memories are still and


ever shall be hated by tyrants and loved by the free; the wide world over. Amen.


When Colonel Hutchinson went to take command of the fortress of Nottingham he took with him his young wife, a very clever and spirited woman, who afterwards wrote an interesting life of her husband, which yon may read some day.

During the last year of her stay in the castle Mrs. Hutchinson had under her care a little orphan relative by the name of Alice Vane—a beautiful, dark-eyed, sad, and silent child.

Alice was but a babe, too young to grieve, when her gentle mother died; but within this year she had lost her father and her only brother, both of whom had been killed at the bloody battle of Naseby. She had dearly loved her noble father, who, stern as he was among men, was always mild and tender towards her ; but she had utterly idolized her brave brother Walter, so beautiful, so young; for he was only seventeen the day of the battle in which he fell.


Alice grieved so bitterly for the loss of these dear ones that her health suffered. She grew very pale and thin; and, when she was brought to her aunt at Nottingham, it was said that she looked more like a sorrowful little spirit than like a flesh-and-blood child. She was a strange, shy, melancholy girl, who in the midst of her grief was seldom seen to weep, but always sought some lonely and silent place in which to indulge her sorrow. She was a true Puritan — plain in speech and manner, and though not stiff or stern, always brave and truthful in heart.

One day, soon after she came to Nottingham, she was allowed to descend with the warden into those curious caves and passages underneath the castle. These she explored with much interest, as she had an adventurous, inquiring spirit; and she fixed upon one little cave, feebly lit by a fissure in the rock, opening out to the day, for her own. She persuaded her kind friends to allow her to spend an hour or two every day here, taking with her some of her books and playthings.

She loved to escape to this quiet spot, from the sound of endless praying and psalm-singing


and leligious discussions, which she could not. understand, from the clang of muskets and the noise of rude soldiers, to read her little Bible, to repeat her hymns and the simple prayers her father had taught her, to think of him and her darling brother, and to weep for them, without being told that it was sinful rebellion against God to mourn for those He had taken to himself.

One sunny day, when the light in her cave was unusually clear, Alice noticed that the wall in one corner did not seem of solid rock, but formed of stones piled one upon another.

Little girls were as curious two hundred years ago as they are now-a-days. So Alice went to work at once, pulling and heaving with all her might; and at last the stones gave way, one after another, and she saw that they had hid a small, low passage, leading directly down to the river Leen.

All was dark at first; but after a moment there was a little gleaming of sunlight and green leaves at the farther end of the passage. This was charming, after being so long confined to the court-yard of a castle, to be able to sit under the shade of the thick shrubbery, on the banks of


that pretty stream, to gather flowers, and put her feet in the water, and remember pleasant old times. So she lost not a moment; but, gathering her frock about her, and crouching low, she groped her way carefully downward and stole out into the sunshine. She found the mouth of the passage completely hid on the outside by bushes, and that she, as she sat herself down on a bank, sweet with violets and bright with cowslips, could not be seen from the plain below or the castle above. As she sat there, listening to the birds, and wondering why it was that they never seemed to be singing solemn psalms through their noses like pious Puritans, never seemed to be preaching or rebuking, but always trying to cheer her heart with notes of joy and little melodious laughters, — so sweet, so tender, as though they were loving aloud,— her eye caught something gleaming through the foliage near by, which she took for a bunch of scarlet poppies. But, going nearer, she found that it was the end of a silken scarf; and, putting aside some bushes, she saw that this was a part of the dress of a young man, who was lying asleep close against the rock. He was a Cavalier. Alice knew it


at once by his rich velvet doublet, his plumed and jewelled hat, and his long curls. The scar let scarf she had first noticed was bound about his right arm; and Alice now saw that it and the lace ruffles at his wrist were deeply stained with blood.- He was a very handsome, gallant-looking young man, but so deathly pale, and with so much suffering in his face, that Alice pitied him ; and, like the good, brave girl she was, she laid her hand on his shoulder and shook him gently, to waken him. He sprang up instantly and half drew his sword. Alice did not scream, scarcely moved, but said, very calmly, “ It is only I, a little girl. What can I do for you, Sir Cavalier ? ” The young man looked at her doubtfully at first and questioned her closely; but when he found that she was quite alone, and that she gave frank, straight-forward answers, he confided in her and begged her to help him. He was a nobleman, Lord Villiers, in the service of the King. He had been wounded the night before, in a skirmish near the castle, by a deep sword-cut in the arm, and stunned by a fall from his horse. His men, who were defeated, had left him for dead; but he had revived, a nd in the early morning had


dragged himself to this spot where he had hid, hoping to be able to escape that night to some place of safety. But now, he said, he found himself so weak from pain, loss of blood, and want of food, that he doubted whether he could walk at all. Alice advised him to yield himself up as a- prisoner of war at the castle; but he swore an oath, that made her shudder, that he would sooner die where he was.

“ Then,” said she, quietly, “ I must do my best to conceal you, and nurse and feed you, till you are well enough to go on your way. Trust in me, and follow me.”

The Cavalier did as he was bid ; but, before entering the narrow, dark passage, he held up the cross of his sword-handle and bade Alice swear she would not betray him into her uncle’s hands. But the little lady put it away with a great deal of dignity, and said, “ I have promised. We Republicans do not need oaths to hold us to our word.”

Alice took back with her an armful of leafy branches, and, when they reached her little cave, spread them down for Lord Villiers to lie upon. She gave him for a pilow the cushion she had


used to kneel on in her devotions, and laid over him her own little mantle. She then stole up Into the castle and got some refreshment for him and a roll of old linen to bandage his arm-This she dressed as well as she knew how; then smoothed his pillow, tucked her mantle closei about him, advised him to say his prayers like a good Christian, bade him good night, and left him to his rest.

Alice had watched her aunt nursing wounded soldiers ; and the next morning, thinking it very probable that Lord Vhliers’s arm would be inflamed, she took down suitable medicines and dressings. She found her patient tossing and moaning with fever, and for twe or three days he suffered a great deal; then she had the happiness to see him get better and stronger, till he began to talk and lay plans about leaving her. The young noble was gentle and grateful, and Alice grew really fond of him, though it grieved her that he was a Papist and a Royalist. He was very familiar and confiding with his little friend, and told her of his beautiful sister, who was a great Duchess, and showed her a miniature, which he wore next his heart, of a still lovelier and


dearer lady; and Alice one day told him her sad story, in a low, mournful voice, struggling hard to keep the tears back, while her friend laid his hand on her head in a soft, pitying way.

At last little Alice brought the joyful news that a considerable body of Royalist troops were encamped in the neighborhood; and Lord Vil-liers resolved to sscape and join them that very night.

In preparation for this escape, he proceeded to buckle on his sword-belt, which he had laid aside during his illness. As Alice sat watching him, her eye fell for the first time on a jewel-hilted dagger which he wore under his doublet.

Giving a quick, sharp cry, she sprang forward, caught this from its sheath, and, holding it up, exclaimed, “ Where did you get this ? Tell me! O, tell me!”

The Cavalier was a good deal startled; but he replied, very directly, “ Why, to tell the truth, I took it from the body of a young Roundhead whom I killed at Naseby. 1 did not take it as a trophy of war, but as a memento of him ; for, though a mere boy, he was as brave as a lion.”


“ You killed our Walter! You ? ” cried xAlice, in a tone of heart-breaking reproach ; then, sinking back, she clasped the dagger against her breast, and, bowing her head, rocked back and forth, murmuring, “ O brother! brother ! ”

The careless young nobleman was shocked and grieved for Alice. He laid his hand on her head in the old caressing way ; but she flung it off with a shudder. Then, a little frightened, he exclaimed, £< Now, Alice, you hate me, and perhaps you will betray me.”

But Alice, lifting her head proudly, replied, “ Do you Royalists have such notions of honor ? We Republicans do not know how to break our word or betray a trust. You are safe ; and you would have been safe had you killed my father and everybody I loved in the world; for you trusted in me.”

They parted, not as enemies, but hardly as friends ; for Alice could not again shake cordially the hand that had cut down her beloved, only brother. She kept Walter’s dagger, and treasured it sorrowfully all her life.

Lord Villiers escaped that night and joined the Royalist troops in safety. He continued to


fight for the King till there was no more hope; then went over to France, where he remained until after the Restoration, when he was appointed an officer in the court of Charles II. One of the first things he did was to inquire for the family of Colonel Hutchinson ; for he had always gratefully remembered his young protectress. He found that the colonel was imprisoned in the Tower, in very ill health, and that his wife and Alice Vane, now a young woman grown, were faithfully attending him. So he wrote to Alice, telling her how grateful he had ever been for her goodness and care and brave protection, which had surely saved his life, and how he hoped she bore no malice towards him in her heart for the death of her brother. He went on to say that he could not rest till he had done something to repay her for her great kindness ; that he had it in his power through his wife, (for he was now married,) and his sister, the beautiful Duchess, to obtain for her the envied situation of Maid of Honor to the Queen. He said that, among the many beauties of that gay court, there was not one so lovely in his eyes as his dear little protectress had promised to be; and that, should she 7


accept the offered place, a life of luxury and pleas ure would be before her; for every body, from the King and Queen down to the pages and falconers of the court, would admire and love her for the beauty of her face and the nobleness of her character.

Alice Vane replied to Lord Villiers in a frank, straight-forward letter, with which I will close this story. You will see that she employed the plain language then in great use among the Puritans, especially in writing. I have changed the spelling, which was in the old English style, and would be a little difficult for you to read.

Dear Friend : It has given me joy to hear by thy letter that thou art living and wedded to the maiden thy heart hath cleaved unto so long; but I am grieved that thou art exposing her and thyself to the temptations of a most ungodly court.

I have long ago forgiven thee that cruel sword-thrust which made untimely end of my comely young brother’s life and of the best joy of mine, and I have prayed that the Lord in his exceeding mercy will hold thee guiltless of his blood. Ye did meet in fair fight; and verily


hadst thou borne thyself less manfully, thou wouldst have lain in poor Walter’s place.

Thou dost owe me nought for the little service I did thee. I would have dorie the same for the poorest man in the realm had he so needed.

Thy gay court is no place for a lowly Christian maiden like me. Thine offer was made in kindness; but forbear to urge it, lest thou wouldst have me come to stand before the man Charles Stuart and warn him to repent of his waste and wickedness and turn unto the Lord while it is yet time.

We have been sorely tried by persecutions, loss, and imprisonment; but the God of Israel hath been with us in his spirit and his word, and we have not been dismayed.

I shall tarry with my kinsfolk as long as they have such earnest need of me; but when I have release from this dear duty, with a beloved and godly friend, whom the Lord hath raised up for me, I shall depart from this unhappy country, which hath backslidden from liberty and the true faith, to a land where we may worship in freedom and in peace. We shall cross the great deep,


to where, in the heathen wilderness of America, God hath prepared a refuge for his people.

The Lord be with thee and preserve thee amid all the temptations that beset thee, 'and bring thee home, if even by sore chastening, to thy Father’s house at last.

I rest thy friend,

Alice Vane.

Bflrarizj' fysilt.



In the town of Warwick, near Stratford upon Avon, stands a grand old castle, built in the feudal times. It is not in ruins, like nearly all other English castles of that date, but is kept in beautiful repair and inhabited by the Earl of Warwick — one of the richest noblemen in England.

It was on a lovely morning in June that we


visited Warwick Castle. From a pretty carved stone bridge over the Avon we took our first view of the gray old walls, the towers and battlements, just enough overgrown with ivy to look beautiful and not ruinous. Never before had I seen a building for people to live in half so grand and noble ; yet often, after reading old English ballads and romances, I had dreamed of just such places.

We stopped at the porter’s lodge to wait for the Earl’s permission to enter. In England it is not customary to admit strangers to see great houses when the masters or mistresses are at home; but, on hearing that one of our party was an American lady, his lordship immediately commanded that his steward should show us over the castle and grounds. We passed up a long, wide passage, cut in the rock, but perfectly lined with ivy and flowers, visited the summer houses, and lingered under the shadow of magnificent oaks and cedars. The deep moat, once filled with water for defence, is now drained and overgrown with grass and shrubbery; but we crossed it on a drawbridge, passed under a portcullis into the court-yard, and from thence into


the great hall of the castle. This is a splendid apartment, with a floor of polished marble and a ceiling of curiously-carved oak. It is hung with shining suits of armor and great branching horns of deer, and has a wide, deep chimney, with cosy oaken seats in the corners. We were then shown through long suites of magnificent rooms, filled with rich furniture, pictures, vases, statues, and all sorts of beautiful and costly things.

The steward who conducted us was a tall, dignified person, very elegantly dressed — a grander looking man than our President; but I am sorry to say he spoke very bad English. He had a way, which I did not like particularly, of hurrying us away from things which we wanted to see, and of calling upon us to admire things which we didn’t take to at all. He looked most proud and solemn, and talked most eloquently, when he showed us a gloomy state bed, hung with faded silk curtains and called “ Queen Anne’s bed,” because that good-natured, stout, and somewhat stupid old lady once slept on it.

As we entered a small hall, dimly lighted, I Biaricd back suddenly ; for at the other end

106    WARWICK «A6TLE.

appeared a proud-looking man on horseback, who seemed just about to ride down upon us; but at the next glance I saw that it was a picture — the portrait of King Charles I. by the great painter Vandyck.

When we left the castle we found that our friend the steward did not feel quite so grand as he looked; for he seemed to be very glad to get the half crown we gave him for his pains, and touched his hat to us, or rather made believe he did, for he was bareheaded at the time.

As we were passing out of the grounds we were invited to stop at the porter’s lodge, to see some curious old armor and arms, by the portress, whom I thought very hospitable in her feelings till I found that she expected a fee as well as the steward.

The armor and arms kept here are of gigantic size, and are said to have belonged to Guy of Warwick — a famous knight, about whose history and exploits countless ballads and romances were written in old times. From some of these I will try to make out his story in such a way as to give you amusement, if not profit.



There was once, in the days of the Saxon kings, a very powerful noble, named Roland, who was Earl, not only of Warwick, but of Oxford and Rockingham. He had no son to inherit his titles and estates; but he had an only daughter, named Felice, who was a most extraordinary young woman, not only on account of her great beauty and wit, but for her learning, which was prodigious. In, those times, if a young lady could sing a song, play a little on the lute, dance, ride, fly a hawk, work tapestry, and write her name, she was considered wonderfully accomplished. But Miss Felice had learned masters, whom her father sent for all the way to Toulouse, who taught her astronomy, arithmetic, geometry, geography, and rhetoric; and she finally astonished all the world by her science.

Earl Roland had a steward, named Segard—-a clever, worthy man, who managed the vast estates of his lord wisely and justly. This Segard had an only son, named Guy, a remarkably


beautiful, strong, and courageous young man. He had been educated as a page to the Earl, but had been promoted to the office of cupbearer— a sort of poetic name for waiter. The first time that Guy was appointed to attend upon the Lady Felice at dinner he dressed himself elegantly, for he was a bit of a dandy, and looked so uncommonly handsome that her ladyship smiled on him graciously, and said that she was very happy to make the acquaintance of such a worthy young man as her papa had often told her he was. Guy was so agitated at this kind speech that he spilt a glass of wine he was pouring for her on her new satin dress. He was dreadfully frightened at what ie had done, till Felice said, sweetly, “ Never mind; ” which showed that she was a very amiablk young lady indeed.

Guy Segard seems to have had all the virtues but modesty. He presently grew so presuming

as to make love to his beautiful and tress and to ask her to marry him.

learned mis* The proud'

Felice said “No!” very scornfully; and Guy took it so to heart that he fell sick with sorrow. He had the Earl’s best physicians ; but they could


not make out what ailed him, though they all agreed that he was sure to die; and his simple old father believed them, and got every thing ready for the funeral. Then the Lady Felice thought to herself that matters were getting rather serious, and that really something ought to be done to save the poor young man. So she went to work and dreamed a dream that an angel appeared to her and told her to return the love of the gallant Guy; and in the morning early she sent him word that, as soon as he had received the honor of knighthood and proved his valor in battles and tournaments, she would be his wife. On hearing this good news Guy threw away his physic, drove out his doleful doctors, and got well directly.

The good old Earl soon after bestowed upon him the hoiror of knighthood,in this way: Guy, clad in the richest armor, knelt at the feet of the Earl, in the presence of the whole court; and the Earl, striking him gently on the shoulder with his sword, said, “ Rise, Sir Knight! ” and Guy, who had knelt down a peasant-page, arose a gentlemm-soldier.

The nett day he took leave of his father and


mother, of the Lady Felice, and lastly of the Earl, who certainly behaved very handsomely on the occasion, furnishing the young knight with horses and followers and a considerable sum of money, with which he set out on hiis travels in search of honors and adventures. Felice felt sad at first; but she finally consoled herself with science, and went on studying the stars.

Sir Guy first went into Normandy, where he presently distinguished himself at a great tournament to such a degree that he wa offered the hand of the Princess Blanche, the daughter of the Emperor Reignier. Sir Guy answered that he was sorry to disappoint the Princess, but he was already engaged to the most beautiinl and scientific lady in the world. Blanche, who was very pretty, lifted her head proudly and angrily at what he said about beauty, but dropped itiagain when he came to the science; for she, poor thing! could hardly write her name, and didn’t even know the Multiplication Table.

From Normandy Sir Guy travelled through Germany, Lombardy, and Spain, fighting in every tournament, winning every prize! and making himself more and more famous. Then he


returned to England, where he was received with flattering kindness by the King. He hurried down to Warwick, hoping that Felice would now be ready to marry him ; but the proud lady was not yet satisfied. She told him to go abroad again and get more glory; and he went.

But, while waiting on the sea shore for a fair wind, Sir Guy heard strange stories of the dev astations of a furious dun cow, so enormous that her bellow vas like thunder, and her tramp shook down houses like an earthquake; and, when she pawed the ground, she dug great pits and raised vast clouds Df dust.

The people prayed fervently to be delivered from her; and as for fasting, they were obliged to do that; for every where she went she eat up all the grair. Of course Sir Guy buckled on his armor and :ode forth to slay. He followed the cow to a vllage, where she went tearing up the street, jaring down steeples with her bellow, whisking df chimneys with her tail, and driving the frightened villagers before her, till she had them all n the market-place, where she began tossing tiem on her horns so fast and furious that whei the knight came up there seemed to


be more people in the air than on the. ground. But Sir Guy went at her so bravely, and prickea her so smartly with his lance, that she soon took flight, and ran bellowing home to her haunt on Dunsmore Heath. The knight followed at full speed, and, with a few stout blows [with his tremendous battle-axe, put a stop to her cruel sport, and made happy hundreds on hundreds of poor oeasants.

I cannot think of relating to you all of the exploits and adventures of Sir Guy dnring his second tour, which lasted several years long was he away from his Felice came near forgetting her and doing 1 wrong. This was how it happened :

Indeed, so hat he once her a great dearing that

the Greek Emperor Ernis was besieged at Constantinople by the Soudan with a »owerful army, he went to his help at the head of a thousand brave knights. The Saracens dame up in vast hosts to assault the city; but (ruy, at the head of his men, went out to meet them with some terrible engines he had inventedfand fought himself with such prodigious fiercmess and strength that the Soudan was defeatld and no less than fifteen acres were covered withpead Saracens.


The next day Sir Guy rode out alone to the Soudan’s camp, to propose to him to have the conflict settled by a single combat; but the discourteous Soudan no sooner heard his name than he commanded that the knight should be immediately put to death; but in an instant Guy drew his sword, and, dashing up to the monarch, shaved his head clear off, and, catching it up with his left hand and fighting with the right, galloped through the camp and back to the city; and this finished the war. The Emperor Ernis was so grateful for all these services that he offered him half his kingdom and the hand of his daughter in marriage. Loret was a beautiful Princess. Sir Guy consented, and stood up to be married; when suddenly, at the sight of the wedding-ring, he thought of Felice, and dropped the bride’s hand as though it had been a hot iron, declaring that he could not have her at all. He then fell down in a swoon, and was so ill as to keep his bed for several weeks. When he recovered he still declined to be married; but the Emperor and Loret, who seem to have been very good-natured people, treated him just as well as ever.



But after a while something occurred to make him feel a little uncomfortable at Constantinople, and caused him to leave rather suddenly.

One day, when Sir Guy first came into the Emperor’s dominions, while riding through a forest, he witnessed a dreadful conflict between a lion and a dragon. Now, Sir Guy never would see a fight of any kind without having a hand in it; so he put his lance in rest, and, galloping up to the dragon, pierced him through and through, and at last pinned him to the ground. When he had finished the monster he was about to go at the lion with his battle-axe; when that ferocious animal showed his gratitude at being delivered from the dragon by crouching before the knight and fawning on him like a dog.

When Sir Guy turned to go the lion followed him, and continued to follow him, watch over him, and share in all his travels and adventures. When his master was engaged in combat with any reasonable number of Saracens at a time he would stand back and see fair play, feeling quite sure that the knight would be victorious; Dutwhen he saw fifteen or twenty attack Sir Guy at once he would set up a tremendous roar, leap


into the midst of the fight, and soon settle the matter. Then the knight would pat him on the head and say, “ Good old Leo ! ” and Leo would wag his tail, and lick the hand of the knight, and trot along after him in search of new adventures.

At the court of the Emperor, Leo became a /ery great lion indeed, and always created a sensation when he appeared in society. The Greek knights envied Sir Guy his noble favorite, and would have given any price for him if he would have been as docile to them ; but faithful hearts can never be bought. The ladies were desperately afraid of him ; yet for the sake of his handsome master they pretended to admire him, and said he was “ a love of a pet ; ” but they took good care to keep out of the reach of his claws. The Princess Loret once went so far as to lay her hand on his mane and say, “Good Leo; pretty Leo ; ” but when he was impolite enough to reply to her compliment by a roar, though it was one of his mildest, she fainted quite away and fell into Sir Guy’s arms.

Sir Guy had a rival, one Sir Morgadour, the steward of the Emperor, who tried for a long


time to take the brave knight’s life by treachery and assassination ; for he never had courage to contend with him singly in fair fight. One day this cruel and cowardly fellow, seeing the lion quietly sleeping in an arbor, sent a poisoned arrow into his breast. Poor Leo had only strength enough to reach Sir Guy’s chamber and drag himself to his dear master’s feet, where he lay groaning piteously, and wagging his tail slowly and more slowly, till he died. While the knight stood weeping beside the corpse, a little girl — for there were little girls in those warlike old times — came softly in and told him that, while she was in the garden picking a few figs for dinner, she saw Sir Morgadour shoot the lion. Sir Guy had forgiven his enemy every attempt upon his own life; but he now swore over the bleeding body of his friend to avenge his death. So, drawing his sword, he rushed out to seek Sir Morgadour, whom he found directly; and, walking straight up to him, he immediately cut his head off—a very severe punishment, certainly, while it lasted.

As Sir Morgadour’s friends at court looked olack at Sir Guy after this, or cut his acquaint-


ance altogether, he concluded, as I said, to leave Constantinople. He travelled again through Germany and various other countries, fighting and conquering, defending the right and befriending the weak ; till at last, having won all the glory that was to be had in the world, he returned to England. First he went to York to pay his respects to King Athelstan, who was particularly overjoyed to see him just then, because he had use for him. There was a monstrous dragon, black and scaly, winged and six-headed, which was murdering and eating up people by the score in the county of Northumberland.

So the King said to Sir Guy, “ My people are petitioning me every day to deliver them from this monster. They are always grumbling about something. It seems to me there’s not much reason in this complaint, for, if the dragon eats them, they’ll surely get rid of paying taxes ; but perhaps, we may as well put an end to the career of the foul beast; for he might take a fancy to come to court — which would be unpleasant, you know. So Guy, my dear fellow, as dragons are in your line, suppose you undertake this one.”


The knight bowed low and said, “ Very well, sire; ” and a few days after he sent King Athel-stan the dragon’s six heads, with his compliments.

Then he went to Warwick to see Felice, who had got enough of science, as he of glory. So they were married, amid great pomp and rejoicing.

After this happy event people thought that Sir Guy would settle down quietly and peaceably at Warwick. But no : his life there soon seemed very dull and insipid; and, when his wife talked to him about science, he yawned and sighed for new adventures. It may be that Felice attended more to the stars than to her own household ; it may be she was not a good pudding-maker; for in a short time Sir Guy left her and set ou again on his fighting travels as a knight errant. Knights errant were roving soldiers, who went about attending to every body’s business but their own. There are none of these in our time. The nearest approach we have to them are a sort of female knights errant, who go about meddling and making with their neighbors' affairs; who meet at tea-tables instead of


tournaments, and tilt with tongues instead of lances. You can find several of these in every village.

Lady Felice wept till her bright eyes grew dim after her husband left her. The stars could not console her this time ; but a little son who was born to her did; though at first she wept more bitterly than ever — he looked so like his father. She called him Raynburn, and cared for him lovingly till he was four years of age, when he was stolen away by some Saracens ; and, though he grew to be a great knight, his mother never saw him again. So the poor woman had sorrow enough to punish her for all the pride and vanity of her girlhood.

Sir Guy continued to have many wonderful adventures; but I have only room for one more.

Once, in Constantinople, he challenged to combat an uncommonly brave and powerful knight, one Sir Barnard ; and, though they fought all day, neither was victorious. But Sir Barnard was afraid to meet his foe next day, and in the night, while Sir Guy slept soundly, had his bed taken up, with him on it, and flung into the sea. The waves were calm ; and Sir Guy floated quietly


off, never once starting in his sleep. Early in the morning he awoke with a strange feeling in his stomach, which he presently found was sea-sickness. He found, also, that he was nearly out of sight of land. By and by he saw a fishing-boat in the distance. He waived a sheet as ä sign of distress ; and the fisherman came, took him into his boat and rowed him back to the city, where, as soon as he was dressed and armed, he entered the lists, challenged the astonished Sir Barnard again, and this time slew him.

After some years Sir Guy went back to England and visited Warwick in the disguise of a palmer. He found his wife grown very charitable and religious; and, seeing that things were going on very well, he did not reveal himself, but went away disguised as he came, having made a visit more satisfactory to himself than to his wife. He retired to the forest of Ardenne, where he spent the rest of his days as a hermit, growing more and more pious as he grew old and feeble. When he took to his bed with his last sickness, he thought it would be a comfortable thing to have a wile to nurse him. So he sent for Felice, who came and nursed him tenderly


till he died. Then, for all that he had been but a poor vagabond sort of husband to her, she grieved so bitterly for him that in fifteen days she died too.

This is all I can tell you of Guy of Warwick ; but perhaps it is more than enough. Between you and me, I very much doubt the truth of some of these wonderful stories, especially the one about the dun cow. Dragons we read of in the Scriptures; so perhaps it won’t do to dispute the possibility of his having killed some monster of that sort; but who ever heard before of a cow behaving in such an extraordinary manner, devastating whole countries and tossing such multitudes of people on her horns ? On the whole, I am inclined to believe it was a mammoth, or perhaps only a large Durham bull gone mad.





fminlrt Cattjriiral attii fmk JÖinirttr.



Lincoln is an old> old town in the interior of England, and was one of the strongholds of the ancient Britons, and, after them, of the Romans, under Julius Caesar. Roman walls, pavements, and coins are found in the city to this day. The greatest curiosities of the place are the ruins of a fine old castle, prettily overgrown with moss, ivy, and wall-flowers, and


a magnificent cathedral, built, or rather founded, by a Bishop Remegeus, somewhere about the year 1090, but not completed till the year 1380. So, you see, it is rather slow work building these immense and splendid churches. This cathedral stands on a high hill, and can be seen from a great distance every way. I will not try to give you an idea of its beauty and grandeur, of its height and length and breadth, of its splendid carved arches and enormous pillars, its statues and gorgeous windows of stained glass. Until you go abroad you will never see such buildings. They cost countless sums of money, which the kings and priests of Catholic countries persuade or compel the people to raise. Many and many a poor man has given his last hard-earned penny for the building of some grand church or monastery when his family were suffering for the want of food and clothing. We Protestants do not believe that God, our kind Father, requires or is pleased with such sacrifices from his poor children. We believe what he tells us in the Scripture, that he dwells not in splendid temples made by human hands, but in the pure hearts of all who believe in him and love him.


We went up to the summit of the highest cathedral tower and had a wide view over a beautiful country. While up there we heard a great bell strike the hours in a belfry a little way beneath us. It gave out such a thundrous sound that the old stone tower trembled frightfully. But we did not hear the big bell of all. “ The great Tom,” as he is called, must be a very grand, aristocratic old bell, as he never rings but on great occasions, such as Christmas, or a sovereign’s coronation. I believe he condescended to peal out on the birth of the Prince of Wales, making the old belfry rock again ; but I don’t suppose he has made any account of the many Princes and Princesses that have followed.

After we descended from the tower we saw service performed. There was a grand organ, that sent its solemn music rolling and swelling up through the arches and down that vast cathedral like great billows of delicious sound. Then followed the sweetest singing you can imagine from a band of boys who are carefully trained for choristers. Afterwards we went out and walked quite round the cathedral, viewing it on all sides — no trifle of a walk, I assure you.


The outside is ornamented with a host of statues and figures of all sorts — some very queer and funny, though they are on a holy building.

There is one of a profligate priest, Archbishop Blowet, very appropriately blowing a swineherd’s horn ; and there is another of Satan himself, who, the old monks used to say, envied them their grand cathedral; and so, to aggravate him, they perched him up on a high point, where he could overlook all the beautiful building. He has a mean, ugly face and figure, and, besides looking as spiteful and cross as it is natural for demons to look, seems ready to die of envy. I am afraid that the monks who put him up there rather enjoyed seeing him in such an uncomfortable situation* for, with all their piety, I don’t think they were like the kind little boy you may have heard of, who pitied Satan and called him “ poor fellow,” because, he said, “ nobody loves him.”

York Minster is a vast and magnificent building, far more beautiful than the cathedral at Lincoln or than any other that I saw in England. I wandered through it for hours, wonder-


mg and admiring, never satisfied with gazing up at its grand arches of finely-carved stone, rising one above another, supported by immense columns, and at the great windows of stained glass, which seemed to turn all the light of the day into glorious rainbows. Nor could I ever tire of listening to the music of the noble organ, now solemn, now joyful, and the sweet chanting of the young choristers, which made me dream of the great music of heaven and the singing of the saints in blessedness.

York Minster was founded as long ago as the year 627, by Edwyn, an Anglo-Saxon King of the Northumbrians. This monarch was converted from paganism in a rather romantic way; but he proved a Very true and faithful Christian for all that.

He wished to marry Edilburga, the daughter of Ethelbert, King of Kent; but that young Princess was a Christian, and would not consent to be his wife, though she liked him very well, unless he would promise, not only to allow her to enjoy her religious faith, but to renounce paganism. Edwyn agreed to let Edilburga keep her belief; but, though very much in love, he was too


wise and honest to promise to give up his own without knowing what he was going to have in the place of it. So he told her that he would examine her religion, and, if it should appear to him better and purer than his own, he would adopt it and support it with all his power.

So Edilburga, who relied on his word, came to York to be his Queen, accompanied by a learned and eloquent minister named Paulinus, who talked and argued with the King till be acknowledged himself entirely convinced. Then he called a council of his great men and frankly acknowledged his change of sentiments, and called upon them to examine and adopt the new religion.

This was a very brave and manly deed for a young King to do. It is always a dangerous thing to meddle with a people’s religion, if it is ever so false and bad. It is sacred to those who believe in it; and those who don’t believe in it either fear it or live by it; so nobody likes to see it touched. Now, the armed nobles looked at one another in silent astonishment; the priests looked frightened or angry, or drew down their faces and rolled up their eyes, as though shocked


at the King’s profanity. Edwyn was pale, and his voice shook a little, but not with fear; for God strengthened his heart that it did not fail. A holy light shone in his eye, and he spoke such wise and earnest words that every honest man ' present felt ready to adopt the religion of Jesus Christ.

Wonderful to tell, the first to address the council after the King was Coifi, the heathen high-priest, who boldly acknowledged that the deities he had been serving were worthless and powerless, and declared his willingness to be taught a better doctrine. Then a noble spoke, saying, “ O mighty King, of what good is our religion ? Does it not leave us in thick darkness of ignorance about the great future beyond this life ? Like birds that flit about us for a season, then fly away out of our view we know not whither, so we for a little while on this earth pass away, and no eye can follow us. If the stranger can tell what that life is that begins when our hearts stop their beating, what our souls behold when our eyes have ceased from seeing, where they dwell when the grave has shut over our bodies^ then let us receive his teachings.”


Several other speeches like this were made; and all the council professed to be of King Ed-wyn’s opinion.

Coifi, the high-priest, became so excited that he proposed at once to set about destroying the heathen temples. So he armed himself and mounted one of the king’s horses, and, heading a troop of soldiers, attacked the great temple at Godmundingham and soon levelled it to the ground.

From that time the people eagerly embraced Christianity, mostly from honest conviction, but some, I am afraid, because the King and the nobility had set the fashion. It is said that for thirty-six days Bishop Paulinus did nothing from morning till night but baptize converts ; that on one day he baptized no less than twelve thousand ! I don’t like to dispute any thing I find in history: I only say that Paulinus appears to have been a very extraordinary man in his way, and must have used wonderful despatch.

On the spot where King Edwyn was baptized he erected a magnificent stone church; but after his death the pagans got the upper hand and evelled it to the ground. In the reigns of the


warlike kings that followed, some pious, some wicked, it was rebuilt and destroyed so often that it seemed all the time to be either going up very slowly or coming down very rapidly. At last, in the year 1216, the present beautiful building was commenced; and in about two hundred years it was finished. So it is now nearly seven hundred years old.


The young King Edward III. was married to the Lady Philippa, of Hainault, at York, in the year 1328.

Edward was a brave and handsome man, and a very good Prince, as Princes go; but as for Philippa, she was one of the most beautiful and amiable, wise and noble, of Princesses. Even now men speak her name reverently ; and women are proud and happy that such a woman has lived.

That was a splendid wedding. Such a magnificent procession followed the royal pair into the minster — all the highest nobility of England and


Scotland ; the parliament and council; Edward’s beautiful mother, Queen Isabella, with her train of fair ladies;foreign princes, with their suites; soldiers, and musicians, and richly-robed priests. The minster was hung with rich draperies and strewr*. with flowers. Under the arches stood banners so thick that they shook and rustled against each other; and all down the aisles there was a great clang of swords and armor. But when Edward and Philippa stood before the altar no one noticed the splendor of the scene, for gazing on their youthful beauty; and every sound was hushed, that their voices might be heard repeating the solemn words of the priest.

As Queen Philippa was passing out of the minster, conducted by her husband, she noticed a plainly-dressed youth leaning against one of the pillars, whose pale, gentle face somehow struck to her heart. It was not the admiration she read in his gaze which made her look at him so earnestly, but the great thoughts burning in his eyes. This was Chaucer, the poet, whose works we read even now with delight, while the very names of the grand nobles and princes who surrounded him on that day are forgotten.


Philippa continued always to be as good and sensible as she was graceful and beautiful, and made the English people an excellent Queen. From the first she influenced the King to reform the abuses which had grown out of the infamous government of his bad mother and her favorite Mortimer; and she set herself to the work of improving the condition of the common people by introducing manufactories into England. Never before had woollen cloth been made in that kingdom. She encouraged art and literature also, and was the friend and patroness of poets.

Edward, brave and generous as he was, had a quick and stormy temper, and sometimes did cruel things, in the heat of passion, when away from Philippa. But that gentle Queen, when beside her stern lord, never failed to plead with him to be merciful and forgiving. She displayed this goodness and love of mercy on the occasion of an accident that happened at a great tournament given to celebrate the birth of her son Edward, afterwards the heroic “ Black Prince.” A temporary scaffolding fell to the ground, with the Queen and all her ladies. Nobody was


killed, and very few were hurt; but there was a prodigious shrieking and confusion ■—those who were quite unharmed screaming the loudest, of course.

King Edward, seeing what danger his beloved wife had been in, flew into a terrible rage, and vowed that the carpenter who built the scaffold should instantly be put to death; but Queen Philippa, though still pale and trembling from the fright of her fall, threw herself at the feet of her husband and begged him to spare the poor man’s life; and Edward yielded to her prayer.

Queen Philippa was seldom separated from her husband, but faithfully accompanied him in his journeys, wars, and cruises, bravely choosing to share in all his toils and dangers.

At length, however, the King left her in charge of the kingdom while he went to make war upon France. He took with him Prince Edward, who was but sixteen years of age, but who won much glory at the great battle of Cressy.

King David, of Scotland, took this opportunity to come down upon England with a mighty


army; but Queen Philippa collected her forces and met. him at Newcastle upon Tyne. After her men were drawn up in order of battle she rode among them, mounted on her white charger, and entreated them to do their duty to her and their absent King and to fight manfully for their country. She then commended them to the protection of God, and retired from the battle-field to pray for their success; for, brave as she was, Queen Philippa was no fighter, and shrank from the sight of blood and carnage.

The English were victorious, and took the warlike King David prisoner. After Philippa had got him lodged safely in the Tower of London she set sail for France, to join her husband at his camp before the town of Calais, which he had been besieging for several months.

And now comes the most beautiful incident in the life of Queen Philippa.

The defenders of Calais became at last so reduced by famine that they were obliged to capitulate. At first Edward declared he would put them all to death; but his councillor, Sir Walter Mauny, pleaded with him till he softened somewhat and said, —-


“ Tell the Governor of Calais that the garrison and inhabitants shall be pardoned, excepting six of the principal citizens, who must surrender themselves to death, and come forth, with ropes round their necks, bare-headed and bare-footed, bringing the keys of the town and castle in their hands.”

When Sir Walter bore this message to the Governor of Calais, he caused the bell to be rung, which called all the'inhabitants together in the town-hall. He then related to them, with many tears, the hard sentence of the King of England. It was received with groans and cries of grief and despair. But, after a short pause, the most wealthy citizen of Calais, named Eustace St. Pierre, rose and said, “ Gentlemen, both high and low: it would be a pity to let so many of our countrymen die of famine; it would be highly meritorious in the eyes of our Savior if such misery could be prevented. If I die to serve my dear townsmen, I trust I shall find grace before the tribunal of God. I name myself first of the six.”

When Eustace had done speaking, his fellow-citizens threw themselves at his feet, weeping


and blessing him. Then another rich citizen rose and offered himself; then another, another, another ; and finally the young son of St Pierre f.hrew himself into his father’s arms and entreated to be suffered to die with him; and so the number was made up. They were delivered by the - governor to Sir Walter Mauny, who conducted them to the pavilion of the King, when they knelt before him, saying that they came to die for the sake of their fellow-citizens. The poor men looked so pale and starved, and yet so brave and noble, that even the stern English knights and barons wept and pleaded for them, Sir Walter most of all. But King Edward hated the people of Calais for the great losses they had made him suffer by sea and by land ; so he ordered that the headsman should do his duty at once. Then Queen Philippa flung herself at his feet and clasped his knees, and begged him, as a proof of his love for her, and for the blessed Savior’s sake, to spare the lives of those six men.

As King Edward looked down into her tearful face, his own face greWi'söft and tender; for he remembered how she had looked when in her


beautiful girlhood she had stood by his side at the altar in York Minster; so he lifted her up and kissed her, and said, “ Ah, lady, I wish you had been any where else than here ; but you have so entreated that I cannot refuse you. I give the men to you: do as you please with them.”

Then the Queen conducted the six citizens to her apartments, had the halters taken from their necks, had them clad in handsome clothes and served with a plentiful dinner. Then she made each of them a present and sent them home with an honorable escort. I do not believe that these men ever went to bed after that day without praying for the good Queen Philippa, or blessing her memory.

There were many other beautiful acts and incidents in the history of Philippa of Hainault which I should like to tell you if I had space for them ; but I have not.

Through all her life she was amiable, virtuous, and useful—tenderly beloved by her husband and children, and revered by her grateful people; so, when God sent his angel Death


to gently lead her away from an earthly kingdom and lift from her head its earthly crown, it was that she might enter into his kingdom of rest and wear the crown of his immortality.

ftetrilnrortji Castle.



Among the grandest ruins of England are those of Kenilworth Castle, in Warwickshire, once one of the strongest and most magnificent structures of the kind in all the world. It has been besieged, battered, burned, and defaced in every possible way ; but it is still very beautiful and imposing.

I visited it on a lovely morning in early June 10


There had been a light shower a little while be* fore; the grass of the great court-yard was freshened anew; the ivy that decked the broken old walls, and climbed and swung about the great high towers, glistened in the sun and waved in a pleasant wind; and the yellowwall-flowers shed down their perfume upon us, falling so thick and so sweet every way we turned that it seemed like an invisible rain of fragrance. Daisies and other wild flowers brightened up the grass, and modest violets smiled out of shadowy nooks ; and here and there a blooming rose-tree, nestling up against the crumbling masonry, seemed trying with all its little might to hide the desolation and cheer the solitude of the scene.

Flitting every where about the ruins, and wheeling around the towers, were hosts of rooks -—black, solemn-lookingbirds, who keep up an incessant caw-cawing, a sort of doleful jabbering, among themselves, which I never could imagine how they could find amusing or profitable. But doubtless they understand their own affairs and their own language best. Perhaps they thought their melancholy cawing far more dignified and fitting in that mournful place than the sweet,


Dlithe singing of the blackbirds and the thrushes that sometimes came to make the lonely air thrill with their delicious notes and to set all the little wild flowers trembling with delight; just as some solemn people in this world think it is most proper and pious to be harsh and gloomy, and despise the merry singing of the light-hearted and the innocent laughter of children.

Kenilworth Castle was built in the reign of Henry I. by Geoffrey Clinton, a Norman noble.. In the reign of King John it passed out of the possession of the Clinton family and became the property of the crown. Henry III., after making many additions to it, granted it to his brother-in-law, Simon Montford, Earl of Leicester. This Simon Montford afterwards proved a traitor, and gave King Henry a great deal of trouble by raising a rebellion. For a time he was victorious, and, at the battle of Lewes, took captive the King and the Prince of Wales. The Prince escaped, raised another army, attacked and defeated the rebels. Montford was slain ; and the remains of his army, headed by his son, fled to Kenilworth Castle, which was besieged by Prince Edward, but gallantly defended for six


months; when famine and pestilence obliged the rebels to capitulate. Thus the castle came again into the possession of the crown.

The unfortunate Edward II., who got into so much trouble with his barons because of his favorites proving insolent and meddlesome, was imprisoned in the dungeons of Kenilworth Castle, while his beautiful but bad Queen, Isabella, and her favorite, Roger de Mortimer, were holding a gay court in its halls. Perhaps sometimes at night the poor King faintly heard the sound of music and revelry. Perhaps he wept as he sat , alone in the cold darkness, remembering how fondly he had loved that cruel woman, and listened to catch one tone of her voice, once so dear to him, though now speaking gentle words to his enemy; or even to hear the sound of her dancing feet, though they seemed to be treading on his heart.

Kenilworth remained the greater part of the time in the possession of the crown till the reign of Elizabeth, who bestowed it upon Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. It was in the time of this proud noble that Kenilworth reached the height of its splendor, and really became a


beautiful and splendid palace as well as a pow erful fortress. In erecting new and magnificent buildings, towers, and gateways ; in enlarging the lake which lay near it; in improving the chase, the parks, and gardens, — he expended no less than half a million of pounds sterling — about two millions and a half of dollars.

At this castle, in the year 1575, the Earl of Leicester received Queen Elizabeth and her whole court, and entertained them for seventeen days, in the most princely and costly manner imaginable.

When this entertainment came off all the country was turned upside down with delight and excitement, and every body said that nothing half so grand had ever happened in the world, — not even when the Queen of Sheba paid a friendly visit to King Solomon, — and never could happen again. In truth there was great parade and festivity at the castle. There were players, singers, jugglers, and tumblers from Lon don, France, and Italy ; there were hosts of gallant knights and noble ladies ; there was dancing, tilting, hunting, hawking, eating; and I am afraid there was some pretty hard drinking — at


least this little fact in history looks like it: “ Over and above the wine and other liquors, there were drank no less than three hundred and twenty hogsheads of beer.”

The Earl of Leicester was a handsome, accomplished gentleman, but a wily courtier. He sought to win the favor of the Queen, so that she should choose him for her husband and raise him to the throne.

But Elizabeth saw his ambitious designs; and, though she liked him very well, she did not think he would make a good ruler for the people. It was said, also, that this great Queen loved the power and glory of royalty too much to share them with any man. She certainly refused to marry Leicester, though he strove and plotted for years to gain a seat beside her on the throne. It is even said that he caused a lovely young girl called Amy Robsart, whom he had privately married, to be murdered, so that he could lawfully wed his Queen. But I hope it was not so; though certainly the poor lady did drop off very suddenly and mysteriously.

Elizabeth Tudor was not decidedly a good woman ; but she was one of the best sovereigns


that ever reigned in England. She was brave and energetic, and gifted with excellent sense and judgment.

This Queen was the daughter of Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn. “ Bluff King Harry,” as he was called, was a coarse and cruel man, who while he lived was feared and hated, and when he died was only not forgotten because the story of his crimes kept up a shuddering remembrance of him in the minds of the people. He divorced his good wife, Katharine of Arragon, so that „he might marry one of her maids of honor, the beautiful Anne Boleyn ; but in the course of a year or two he took a fancy to another lady, and so he had Queen Anne’s head taken off to make way for Queen Jane, who, fortunately for her, died in time to escape the scaffold. He next married the Princess Anne of Cleves, whom he divorced for Catharine Howard, who in her turn was soon obliged to lay her pretty head upon the block, because it was the King’s pleasure to have another consort. And so he went on till all the beautiful young ladies in the kingdom lived in mortal fear of the crown and the axe ; and so ne, who were neither beautiful nor


young, professed to be most frightened of all.

The motherless Elizabeth led but a sad life during the reign of her sister, Queen Mary, who imprisoned her and treated her very harshly, principally on : account of her Protestant faith. But her own trials did not make her more merciful towards others. She seldom forgave her enemies, but punished with long imprisonment or death all rebels and conspirators. When the Queen of Scots was driven from her own country by the rebellion of her subjects, and sought refuge in England, instead of granting her hospitality and help, Elizabeth piit her in prison. Mary Stuart was very beautiful; but somehow this did not seem to help her cause with her “cousin of England,” who kept her in close confinement for nineteen years, and then beheaded her.

Of Queen Elizabeth’s 3last sad days and her death I have already told you. As for her faults, after all, there may have been more excuses for them than we know, and there may have been: more noble and generous qualities in her character than we find set down in history. Histori-


ans are usually more apt to re.ate bad than good things of sovereigns and great people. There is but one true account of any human life; and that is the record kept by God’s just angel in heaven.

The descendants of the Earl of Leicester sold Kenilworth to the royal family ; and, when Cromwell became Lord Protector, he bestowed it upon six of his favorite officers. These Puritan soldiers made terrible work with it — dividing the great estate into farms, destroying the parks and gardens, draining the lake, and making of the castle a complete ruin ; and a ruin it has remained ever since.

But now for a little story, which I hope will interest you.



It was the evening of the day set for Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Kenilworth. Great multitudes of people had been for many hours assembled on the walls, in the chase, and park and


gardens, to witness the splendid sight. But her majesty had been detained till twilight at Warwick to receive the homage of her subjects; and now it was announced that the grand entrance, would be made by torchlight. At length the great bell of the castle tolled and a single rocket shot up into the air. Then all held their breath and listened. At first they could only hear a dull, sea-like sound in the direction of Warwick Castle ; but it came nearer and grew louder, till they could distinguish the tramp of horses, music, and shouting, and the clang of armor.

When the Queen entered the royal chase hundreds of great rockets were sent blazing and hissing into the sky; and such a mighty shout was set up by the multitude that it was almost a wonder it didn’t jostle the stars out of their places. Yet they did not seem at all disturbed by the tumult, but staid quietly in their orbits, and winked at one another, as though making fun of the Earl’s fireworks. The whole music of the castle burst forth; then there was a round of artillery and a tremendous discharge of blunderbusses.

The procession moved slow and stately from


the gate of the park, illuminated by two hundred great wax torches, borne by armed horsemen.

The Queen, who was young at that time, and, though not handsome, was noble and grand looking, came mounted on a beautiful milk-white horse, which she managed very finely; for she was an admirable rider. She was dressed in the richest silks, velvet, and lace; and from head to foot she seemed almost blazing with costly jewels. Beside the Queen rode the Earl of Leicester, on a jet-black steed, one of the handsomest in the world, with trappings of velvet and gold and silver bits. The Earl was gorgeously dressed, and glittered all over with gold and gems. He sat his horse so elegantly, and was so proud in his bearing, that he might have been mistaken for a King had he not rode bare-headed like the rest of the courtiers. After the Queen and the Earl followed a train of noblemen and ladies, guards, pages, knights, gentlemen, and soldiers — a long and splendid cavalcade. On either side stood a line of people closely packed together, all bowing and shouting their loyal welcomes.

As the Queen was approaching the outer


tower she checked her horse to speak to one of her ladies; when suddenly there broke, or rather slid, through the line of soldiers a little girl, who flung herself at her majesty’s feet and grasped her robe, crying, —

“ A boon ! Great Queen, a boon ! ”

A rude soldier strode forward and lifted his broadsword over the head of the child; when, quick as a flash, a boy, scarcely larger than the girl, leaped out of the crowd and snatched the sword from the soldier’s hand, saying, boldly,— “ Thou art a cowardly knave ! ”

The man turned upon him in rage, caught back the sword, and might have killed him with it had not the Queen cried, —

“ Hold, villain ! By my faith, I think the lad is right. Wouldst butcher babes like these ? Then art thou one of King Herod’s men, and none of ours. Stand back ! ”

Then, turning her eyes on the little girl, who stood trembling at her side, she looked at her a moment in silent surprise. And well she might; for the child was as beautiful as an angel. She could scarcely have been more than ten years of age. She was very fair and delicate, with a


tender, appealing face, and a voice sweet, but mournful, like the sound of a wind harp. She had large, dark eyes, with long heavy lashes; but her eyebrows were a shade lighter; and her hair, which was soft and wavy, was of a rich, golden hue. Now tears were flashing in her eyes; her red lips were quivering; her cheek was brightly flushed; her hair gently lifted from her forehead by the evening wind; and, in her simple white frock, she looked there under the torchlight so like a radiant little seraph that the stern Queen spoke softly to her, almost as though in fear, saying, —

“ Who art thou ? and what wouldst thou with me?”

“ My name is Rosamond Vere,” answered the child; “ and I come to put this petition into your own hands, and to beseech your majesty to grant the prayer of a poor motherless little girl, who will pray to God for you every night and morning as long as she lives.”

The Queen smiled graciously and took the paper, but said, —

“ This is no time or place to read petitions, child. Come to the castle to-morrow, at the hour


of twelve, and we will give thee audience. But tell me, who is thy brave young champion ? By my soul, he hath a right gallant spirit! ”

“ I do not know, your majesty. I never saw him before,” said Rosamond.

The boy of whom they spoke had gone back among the spectators; but on hearing these words he stepped modestly forward. He was a handsome lad, with deep, dark, beaming eyes, and a sort of grand look about his forehead, which made him seem, for all his plain, peasant dress, nobler than any young lord or duke in all that cavalcade.

The Queen smiled on him, and said,—

“ Well, young rash-head, what art thou called ? ”

“ William Shakspeare, may it please your majesty.”

“ Marry, a good name, and an honest; and thou art a brave lad. Doubtless we shall hear of thee when thou art a man. But now away with ye both; for it is late for such chicks to be abroad.”

Then she loosened the reins of her horse and rode forward with Leicester; and all the proces-


sior noved on again. They passed through the towfe». over the bridge, and entered the castle, with n ither peal of music and discharge of artillery, *aid such a terrific irruption of rockets chat sorrc of the country-women shrieked with fright, thk.king that the castle and all the great folks in it v-.-jre being blown into atoms ; some even fancying that they saw the Queen on her white horse riding straight up into the air.

Rosamond \ t re went away to Warwick with some friends, and William Shakspeare went home to Stratfor«' with his father and mother. They drove in a r^ agh little wagon ; for in those days only kings an^ nobles had carriages. William sat on a bag jf wool behind his parents. His head was full 01 the splendors he had seen, and his heart beat high and fast with pride because of the Queen's praise. He was greatly excited ; but he was tired also ; and when they reached home he was found fast asleep on the wool-bag.

The next day, when little Rosamond presented herself at the castle, she was at once admitted and conducted to an ante-room, where she had a few minutes to wait. She met there an elegant


young courtier, one Sir Walter Raleigh, who kindly instructed her how to conduct herself before the Queen. Above all things, he told her she must remember never to turn her back on her majesty, but, when she was dismissed, to go out backwards: and Rosamond promised to do as he bade her. Just at twelve she was summoned by the Lord Chamberlain to the great hall, where the Queen was holding court. She was seated on a throne, under a canopy of state. She wore her crown, and a dress of rich velvet, soft, blue like the sky, covered with white lace so fine that it looked like light clouds, and looped up with great diamonds, that shone like stars.

After having been conducted to the foot of the throne, Rosamond knelt there, and looked up timidly into her majesty’s face. Alas ! it was clouded with a frown.

“ And so,” t exclaimed the Queen, “ thou art the daughter of that Walter Yere who lately conspired with other traitors to set our prisoner, Mary of Scotland, free! He hath deserved death ; and death he shall have ! ”

“ O, have mercy, gracious madam! ” cried Rosamond. “My poor father had a tender heart;


and the Queen of the Scots moved it by her tears and her beauty. O, she is so beautiful, if your grace would see her you would have pity on her also.”

Queen Elizabeth blushed deeply, for she knew in her heart that she was envious of Mary Stuart’s beauty ; and she said, more sternly than before, —

“ Thy father hath acted traitorously, and must abide his sentence. Go, child ! ”

But Rosamond, instead of rising, took from her bosom a small package and placed it in the Queen’s hand. It was a paper containing a ring. On the paper was written the name of Walter Vere^ and a verse of Scripture, signed “Anne R.” On the ring was engraved a crest, the arms of the Boleyns.

Queen Elizabeth turned pale as she examined these, and hastily asked, —-

“ Where got you this ? And this ? - Speak, girl! ”

“ My father,” answered Rosamond, “ was an officer in the Tower at the time the Queen, your mother, was imprisoned there. He Was good to 11


her; and the night before she was beheaded she gave him these mementos.”

Elizabeth’s face softened, and a tear shone for a moment in her cold, gray eye, but did not fall; then she spoke : —

“ For her memory’s sake we grant thy prayer. We forgive thy father; but let him see to it how he again braves our ire.”

She then wrote an order for the immediate liberation of Walter Vere, stating that she had granted him a full pardon. This paper she was about to give into the hands of an officer, to be conveyed to London ; but Rosamond begged that she might carry it herself; and the Queen, kindly assenting, placed her under the charge of the officer, requesting him with her own lips to be kind to the child. She extended her beautiful hand to Rosamond, who kissed it fervently, but was too much overcome with joy and thankfulness to speak a word more. She rose up so bewildered, and in such haste to set out on her journey, that she quite forgot Sir Walter Raleigh’s injunctions, and, turning her back on the Queen, actually ran out of the hall, much to the merriment of the gay court.


The rest of Rosamond’s story is soon told. She went to London and freed her father, who never got into any trouble of the kind again. She grew to be a beautiful woman, married a country gentleman, and lived for many years far from the great world, but happy and beloved, because always good and loving.

ICottimit onfr fjie Comer.


LONDON.    167

On the evening of June 24 I first entered London. Coming up from Coventry by the railway, 1 could see little of the great city till I was in the midst of it. I oniy remember seeing in the distance a great cloud of smoke overhanging a dim, vast multitude of houses, towers, and spires ; then, as we drew nearer and the darkness deepened, hosts of lights,

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as innumerable as though all the stars had dropped out of heaven, began to twinkle, and flash, and throb, and waver ; and then, above the clang of the engine and the rush of the train, I could hear a strange, dull, unceasing roar. This was the noise of the travel and traffic of London — sounds that are never wholly hushed, but in the daytime thunder like torrents and cataracts, and in the night come to your ear with a hoarse, heavy swell, like the beating of .the sea against a far, rocky shore.

In truth there was something almost frightful in this first rush, and roar, and vastness of London to me, coming to it as I did at night. But when I found myself in a beautiful station, roofed with glass and.cheerfully lighted, and met there a kind friend Who was awaiting me, I took heart at once; and when, an hour later, I sat with my dear friends, the L- s, in their pleasant drawing room, chatting and drinking tea, I felt as contented and happy as I had ever felt in my life.

I Was several weeks in London on this first visit, and during that time I saw many people — authors and artists, and statesmen and philan-

LONDON.    169

thropists — whom I had long loved or honored for their works and their noble deeds; and I saw others, of whom I had hardly heard before, whom I learned to love and honor with all my heart.

It will not be possible for me to describe to you all the great sights of London; but I will tell you something of the most noted.

We will begin with


This famous fortress and ancient palace stands on the north bank of the Thames, just beyond the limits of the city. It is a large, irregular building, of dark-gray stone, with four corner turrets and two entrances — one by a bridge over the moat, and the other by a gateway from the river. This last is called the Traitor’s Gate, as state prisoners were obliged to pass through it. The older portion of the tower was built by William the Conqueror; but nearly every succeeding sovereign, down to a recent reign, made

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additions and improvements. It passed from 9 palace into a fortress, from a fortress to a prison; and now it is used only as an armory and a safe depository of state papers, rare and curious relics, and the crown jewels, called the Regalia.

Near where visitors now enter, the royal menagerie was kept until a few years ago, when it was removed to the Zoological Gardens. Here King James I. once witnessed a fight between a lion and three dogs, and seemed highly amused by the sport. If we were not talking of a crowned King, I should say he showed very cruel and vulgar propensities.

In the Bell Tower the Princess — afterwards Queen — Elizabeth is supposed to have been confined. She was imprisoned by the order of her sister, Queen Mary, on the charge of treason, of which she was quite innocent. When the stern guards brought her to the Traitor’s Gate she refused to land there; but, when they roughly reminded her that she had no choice, she stepped proudly up on to the stair, and said, solemnly, —

u Here landeth as true a subject, being a pris*

LONDON.    171

oner, as ever landed at these stairs; and before thee, O God, I speak it, having none other friends than thee.”

Opposite to the Traitor’s Gate is the Bloody Tower— so called because it is believed that in it the poor young princes, sons of Edward IV., were murdered by the order of their cruel uncle, the Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III.

In the Beauchamp Tower Lord Dudley, the husband of Lady Jane Grey, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and many other eminent prisoners were cpnfined. The Lady Jane was imprisoned in the Brick Tower. The Bowyer Tower is said to have been the scene of the murder of the Duke of Clarence by order of his brother, Richard of Gloucester.

There is a long apartment called the Horse Armory, where I saw a great many figures of knights clad in complete suits of mail, mounted and armed. These figures represent the fashions and the monarchs or great men of every reign back to that of the first Edward. It is a very interesting hall, but not so much so as the one in the White Towei, called Queen Elizabeth’s Armory. This contains a vast variety of curious

172    THE TOWER.

old weapons of warfare, such as battle-axes, lances, pikes, ponderous broadswords, halberds, glaives, and crossbows. Here is kept the beheading-block, darkly stained with blood and cut by many a deadly blow. Beside it leans the headsman’s axe, now blunt and rusty, but which was doubtless keen and bright when it severed the proud head of the Earl of Essex from his body and struck through the slender neck of poor Anne Boleyn. But more dreadful to behold even than these are the instruments of torture. These are horrible weapons and machines used to extort confessions from criminals and suspected persons. The sight of them made me shudder and grow faint; the thought of them has ever since been painful to me; so, if you please, we will talk of other things.

At the farther end of this hall there is a figure of Queen Elizabeth on horseback, dressed as she was when she went to St. Paul’s to return thanks for the destruction of the Spanish Armada which'had been sent against England.

Out of this hall opens the gloomy little room in which Sir Walter Raleigh was confined during his long imprisonment in the reign of James L


And now I will tell you some stories of the Tower, begining with a brief life of


Walter Raleigh was the younger sou of an ancient and honorable family, Who lived at a fine old country seat called Fardell, near Plymouth. He Was born in 1552. At an early age he showed such extraordinary talent that his father, who was an excellent scholar, educated him very carefully, and took much pride in the wonderful advances he made in all branches of learning. At the age of sixteen he entered Oxford, where he soon gained a great reputation for scholarship. But in a little more than a year he left college and entered the army, having volunteered to join a noble expedition fitted out by the order of Queen Elizabeth to aid the perse cuted Huguenots in France.

Like a good son, he first returned home to receive his father’s blessing and his mother’s fare-"weU kiss. His proud father gave him a fervent benediction; his gentle mother kissed him ten-

174    THE TOWER.

derly; and when she had followed him down to the court yard, and seen him mount his fiery steed and ride away with his pretty page and faithful esquire, she ascended to her chamber in a turret and watched him from the window as long as she could see the waving of his white plume, and wept and prayed for him, and then sat alone a long time, thinking of all the pleasant past, and wondering if her darling son would come back to her from the wars unchanged, still her own good, beautiful boy — if she would ever see him again.

Walter Raleigh was abroad on this dangerous and toilsome service five years. Then, after a visit to his home, he made a campaign in the Netherlands, and the next year embarked on his first voyage to America with his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert. They unluckily encountered a large Spanish fleet, and were defeated. Walter reached England just in .time to head an expedition to Ireland to put down an insurrection raised by the intriguing Spaniards. Here he was successful, and so distinguished himself by his bravery that he was appointed to the government of Munster and Cork.


But matters becoming too quiet in Ireland to suit his restless, daring spirit, he returned to England, and went to court, “ to seek his fortune,” as they say in old fairy-stories.

He was then a remarkably handsome and accomplished gentleman, with elegant manners and a great taste for splendid dress.

For some time he did not succeed in his object, as he was not very wealthy and had no great friend to present him to the Queen. But Fortune favored him at last. One day he was so lucky- as to meet her majesty walking out with her courtiers and ladies. The Queen was magnificently dressed in satin and velvet, and, as usual, was loaded with costly jewels. Around her neck was a stiff ruff of rich lace, full a foot wide ; and her hair, of a reddish yellow, — called by the court poets “ golden,” — was confined by a net of pearls and diamonds.

It was Raleigh’s first view of the Queen He was quite awe-struck by her grand manner, and so dazzled by her gorgeous dress as almost to think her beautiful. His brave heart, that had never failed him in battle or on the stormy

176    TUE TOWER.

seas, now fluttered wildly in his breast like a frightened bird. Such was English loyalty in the olden time.

It had been showery that morning, and a little pool of water lay just across her majesty’s path. As she came to this she paused, not being willing to spoil her gold-wrought slippers or risk getting a cold. Just as her minister, Lord Burleigh, was advising her to turn back and take another path, Walter Raleigh stepped forward, and, bowing very low, took from his shoulders his new court cloak of purple plush and spread it over the muddy place. The Queen smiled graciously on the young stranger ; for she was pleased with his gallantry and ready wit, and not displeased with his elegant air and handsome face; then, setting her foot on the cloak, she walked daintily over it to the dry ground.

After she and her gay train had passed by, Raleigh took up his fine new cloak, now quite ruined. But almost as soon as that mud dried it seemed to turn to gold dust for him ; for his gallant act won the kind regard of the Queen; and that brought fortune.


One day, being in one of the halls of the palace, he wrote on the glass of the window, with his diamond ring, the following line :;

“ Fain -would I climb; but yet I fear to fall.”

Elizabeth observed him; and the next morning, much to his surprise and joy, he found this line, written underneath his, in the Queen’s own hand : —

“ If thy heart fail thee, do not climb at all.’

From this time Raleigh knew that Queen Elizabeth was disposed to befriend him, and he rapidly rose to the highest favor. For a while he was very happy, and I am afraid a little proud. It seemed to him to be a grand thing to be one of that great Queen’s chosen friends ; to have her confide in him, ask his advice, and praise his wisdom and eloquence ; to receive titles and honors, to dress splendidly and live sumptuously, and be followed and flattered by a crowd of courtiers almost like a reigning prince.

He went down to Fardell about this time for a little visit, where' he talked a great deal of the 12 ' '

178    THE TOWER.

Queen and the great people at her court; anc every body wondered and admired, and was dazzled and delighted, except his mother. She was strangely sad and anxious; for she feared that this sudden favor and fortune would excite envy and ill-will, and that his own bold, adventurous spirit would bring on trouble and reverses. And then —though he was still good and loving— she saw that his old home-looks and ways were gone. She did not take to his fine court dress ; and the night after he went away she unlocked an old chest and took out a faded school-boy suit, which he had worn when he first went away from home, and wept over it, and felt that the great world had indeed got her dear boy away from her, and that she could never, never have him back again.

After a while Walter Raleigh found that these same flattering courtiers were his secret enemies, plotting against him. He became restless and uncomfortable, and set out on another voyage. He was again unsuccessful, but no wise discouraged, and in the following year fitted out two ships and sailed for the New World. This time he discovered Virginia and founded a colony thorn.


k wd.ti Raleigh, I grieve to say, who first introduced the savage habit of smoking into civilized society; for it was on his return from this voyage that tobacco was first brought to England. It is related that one morning, shortly after'he reached home, his servant coming into his library with a foaming tankard of ale, on seeing him sitting in a cloud of tobacco-smoke was so frightened by the strange sight that he threw the ale at his head to extinguish him, and, rushing down stairs, proclaimed that his master was on fire.

For several years Raleigh continued to make voyages of discovery and conquest, and gained great treasure and honor for himself and his country. Queen Elizabeth Was grateful to him : she knighted him, and bestowed upon him new offices of trust and large estates.

Sir Walter Raleigh, as we will now call him, continued to be noble and upright, and never used his influence with his sovereign except for good and just purposes. He wa3 honest and independent, and, whenever he differed from the Queen in opinion, told her so frankly. He so often interceded with her for those whom he

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thought unjustly imprisoned or condemned that she once exclaimed, impatiently, —

“ Sir Walter, when will you cease to be a beggar ? ”

“ When your majesty ceases to be' a benefactress,” he answered.

Yet, for all the Queen’s partiality for him, she was fearfully angry at his presuming to love and woo, without asking her consent, one of her maids of honor, the beautiful Elizabeth Throckmorton, and imprisoned him and his wife for several months in the Tower.

But she afterwards pardoned them, and again showered smiles and wealth upon Sir Walter. I do not know whether, with such a beautiful young wife, he cared very much for the elderly Queen’s smiles; but money never came amiss to him; for he lived very extravagantly, and had almost as great a passion for costly dress as Queen Elizabeth herself. He tilted in silver armor: his sword and belt were set with diamonds, pearls, and rubies: on great occasions he appeared at court wearing thirty thousand pounds worth of jewels.

For the next eight or nine years Sir Walter


Raleigh’s life was full of successes, conquests, and honors ; but after the death of Queen Elizabeth all went badly with him. His enemies influenced James I. against him ; and he was so slandered and persecuted that he joined in a wild conspiracy to place the Lady Arabella Stuart on the throne. For this he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to death. The King, however, reprieved him, but kept him imprisoned in the Tower for twelve years. Here it was that Sir Walter Raleigh best proved that he was a great and good man. He did not sink down in sullen despair and mope away his melancholy days, but went to work diligently and cheerfully for the good of the world. He wrote several noble works, and showed himself to be a rare scholar, a philosopher, an historian, and a poet.

At length he was released, but not formally pardoned. He found himself poor, forsaken by his old friends, and still persecuted by his foes. Yet his great courageous heart did not fail. He undertook a new voyage to Guiana — King James granting him a commission, in the hope of his bringing back much treasure* But

182    THE TOWER.

through treachery, and the folly of James himself in revealing the secret of the expedition to the Spanish minister, Raleigh suffered a disastrous defeat. In an unequal fight with the Spanish forces he lost his beloved eldest son. Returning almost heart-broken to England, Sir Walter was again arrested and committed to the Tower.

A set of wicked old judges, who only cared to decide as the King wished, and forgot that God would judge them, decided that the sentence of death pronounced upon him fifteen years ago was still in force, and should be executed. Sir Walter defended himself with wonderful eloquence ; but it was of no use. He was again condemned, and the very next day was led to the scaffold. He died grandly as a brave soldier, but meekly as a true Christian. After addressing the multitude, he took the axe from the beadsman and felt its edge, saying, “’Tis a sharp medicine, but a sure cure for all ills.” He laid his head upon the block as calmly as though it were a pillow, and commended his soul to God as serenely as though saying his nightly prayer. The headsman was so


touched with reverence and pity that he hesitated to do his dreadful duty. Seeing this, Sir Walter said, “ Strike, man — strike!” And he struck.

When that noble head — grown gray in toil and study, care and hardship — rolled upon the scaffold, a dismal groan went up from the crowd. Only selfish and ambitious courtiers had envied and hated Raleigh ; the people had always loved and honored him; and many there were that wept for him that day and prayed that his soul might rest in God.

On the night before his execution Sir Walter Raleigh wrote a very affecting letter to his beloved wife, with some portions of which I will close this history: —

“ You shall receive, my dear wife, my last words in these my last lines. My love I send you, that you may keep it when I am dead; land my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no more.

“I would not, with my will, present you sor-ows, dear Bess: let them go to the grave with me and be buried in the dust. And, seeing

184    THE TOWER.

that it is not the will of God that I shall, see you any more, bear my destruction patiently and with a heart like yourself.

“ First, I send you all the thanks that my heart can conceive or my words express for your many labors and cares for me, which though they have not taken effect as you wished, my debt to you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world.

“ Secondly, I beseech you, for the love you bear me living, do not hide yourself many days, but by your labors seek to help the miserable fortunes of your poor child.

* * #    * *

“ To what friend to direct you I know not; for mine have left me in the true time of trial. Most sorry am I that, being thus surprised by death, I can leave yo.u no better estate. God hath prevented all my determinations — that great God who worketh all in all; and, if you can live free from want, care for no more; for the rest is vanity. Love God : in him you shall find true and endless comfort. Teach your son also to serve God whilst he is young, that the fear of God may grow up in him; then will God be a


husband to you and a father to him — a husband and a father that can never be taken from you.

“ Dear wife, I beseech you pay all poor men. *    *    *    Remember your poor child for his

father’s sake, who loved you in his happiest estate. I sued for my life ; but it was for you and yours that I desired it; for know it, dear wife, your child is the son of' a true man, who in his own respect despiseth Death and his misshapen and ugly forms.

“I cannot write much. God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep ; and it is also time for me to separate my thoughts from the world.

“ Beg my dead body, which living was denied you, and either lay it in Sherbourne, or in Exeter church, by my father and mother.

“ I can say no more. Time and death call me away. The everlasting God, powerful, infinite, and inscrutable, God Almighty, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy on me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us

186    THE TOWER.

to meet in his glorious kingdom. . My dear wife, farewell! Bless my boy, pray for me, and let my true God hold you both in his arms.

“ Yours that was, but now not my own,

“ Walter Raleigh.”

•Cjjj Cnttter, rrnititrart.



with delicious sweetness, and roses, violets, and honeysuckles seemed striving which should look the most beautiful and make the most fragrance, two little girls were sitting under the shade of a laurel tree, near the basin of a fountain, in the

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garden of a grand old country residence called Bradgate, in Leicestershire. The names of these two young misses were Jane and Catharine Grey. They were the daughters of the Marquis of Dorset, — afterwards Duke of Suffolk, — and Lady Frances Brandon, who belonged to the royal family, being a niece of Henry VIII. So, little girls as they were, they bore the title of Lady.

The eldest, Lady Jane, was about twelve years of age — Lady Catharine a, year or two younger. Both were beautiful and amiable, but very unlike. The Lady Jane was quiet, thoughtful, and remarkably fond of study; while the Lady Catharine was a restless, fearless, lighthearted child, who loved many things better than she loved her books. Lady Jane was always happy when at hard study, or receiving instruction from her masters, especially from her favorite tutor, the good and learned Roger Ascham, under whoso teaching and guidance she became celebrated for her learning in the languages, sciences, and religion. She was an earnest Protestant, and was ' always able to give a reason for the faith she professed.


The Lady Catharine, though a good and do* eile pupil, fell far behind her sister in her attainments. She could hardly be said to have been fond of study ; but she endured it very well. In truth, like a few — I trust a very few — little girls in our own country and time, she often preferred play to books. She had such a passion for the open air, the wooded park, the breezy downs, the murmur of winds among the trees, the wild melody of the birds, the plash of fountains, the tinkle of pebbly brooks, the glow of sunshine, and the beauty of flowers, that her school-room too often seemed to her a dreary, weary place of confinement; and she used to pity herself, as a poor helpless prisoner in the dungeons of the cruel giant “ Useful Knowledge,” and think herself very hardly used indeed. Alas ! the time came when she better knew what imprisonment was.

This was the morning of a holiday. Lady Catharine had been running about the garden and grounds, chasing butterflies, mocking the birds, and dancing to the dash of the waterfall and now she had just returned with her arms full of roses, lilies, and glossy laurel leaves ; and flinging herself down, all flushed and panting,

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upon a bank of violets by the side of her grave sister, she exclaimed, half petulantly, half lov* ingly,—

“ I prithee, Jane, lay aside that tiresome Greek book. Thou wilt mope thyself to deatli over thy dull old Plato. Certes, sister, I marvel much thy tender conscience will allow thee to so batter thy poor brains and waste thy precious time over knotty heathen philosophies.”

The Lady Jane shook her head reprovingly, as she replied, —

“ Ah, Kate ! Kate ! thou art a froward and a naughty child to speak thus saucily of the ‘divine Plato,’ as Master Roger Ascham nameth him.”

“ Master Roger Ascham,” said Lady Catharine, “ is tiresome too; and Master Harding and Master Aylmer are also exceeding dull and prosy. I would that thou and I and our cousin Edward had never seen a word of Greek ör Latin, but could barely read and write our own homely English. Methinks we should then have been freer and merrier, and led sensible, Christian lives, like — like — the birds and the deer.”

“ Sister,” said the Lady Jane, gravely, “ me-


thinks it is time thou shouldst speak less familiarly of the King’s majesty, the high and mighty Edward VI.”

“ Why, sister dear,” said Lady Catharine, with a proud toss of her pretty head, “is he not our cousin ? and are we not also of royal blood ? I ween the honor is not all on our side. Thou mayst ‘ King’s majesty’ him as much as it pleaseth thee; but as for me, I will say ‘ our cousin Edward’ till he does an unprincely act, and then I will disown him.”

“ Thou wilt, wilt thou ? Marry, thou hast a bold spirit, coz!” exclaimed a pleasant voice behind them. Both started, looked round, and blushed. Then Lady Jane rose suddenly and bent one knee in joyful homage ; but the wilful Lady Catharine only bowed her head till its golden curls fell over her laughing eyes, and pointed to her lap full of flowers as an excuse for not rising.

The visitor was the young King, Edward VI. It was in the second year of his reign, and he was about eleven years of age. He was a slender, delicate boy, with a mild, thoughtful face, and nothing very kingly in his appearance except 13

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his dress, which was extremely costly and elegant. In his early childhood he had often visited and played with his cousins, the Ladies Jane and Catharine Grey; and when he was called to the throne by the death of his father, Henry VIIL, he still continued his friendship, preferring them to his proud sisters, the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth. Now, having made a formal visit to their noble parents, he had chosen to search for them in the' garden unattended. He found them without much difficulty; for even titled little girls —little girls with royal blood in their veins — do not always laugh and talk as softly as they should.

The boy-king first gallantly lifted the Lady Jane and kissed her on both cheeks; then he kissed Lady Catharine and pinched her ear, saying that she was the sauciest Kate in all his kingdom; and then he seated himself between the sisters and began talking in a grand, lofty style, which Lady Jane thought very proper for a monarch, but which rather amused Lady Catharine. He complained that the cares of state, and the pomp, forms, and labors of royalty, so absorbed him that he had little time for


recreation — scarce two hours in the day to give to his old favorites — Cicero, and Plato, and Virgil. And then he asked how his fair cousins got on with their classics.

“ Well and ill,” answered Lady Catharine; “ sister the first, I the last. In sooth she does not miss thee in her study half so grievously as I miss thee in my play; for thou wert right blithe of heart and mirthsome of speech ere thou didst become a great King.”

As Lady Catharine said this she looked up at the slender boy in an arch, quizzical way he didn’t quite like. So, to turn the talk from himself, he said, —

“ Prithee, Kate, what art thou weaving ot those flowers ? ”

“ Marry, royal cousin, a wreath for our grave Lady Jane, to make her look blither for our holiday ; and, now it is finished, thou thyself shalt crown her.”

“ I’faith, right willingly will we assist at the coronation of so fair a queen of the May,” said the King; and taking the wreath, woven of roses, lilies, and laurels, he lightly laid it on the brow of his cousin. But it proved to be much

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too large for her delicate head; and, being very heavy, slid down over her face and hung about her neck.

The three children laughed at first; but when King Edward, in removing the wreath, accidentally wounded his cousin with a sharp thorn hid among the roses, which made a cruel scratch across her white throat, they all became serious.

The thoughtful Lady Jane, while wiping away the blood, moralized about crowns being perilous things, till she saw that King Edward looked a little uncomfortable, when she dropped the subject and took up Plato; and presently the two young pedants got deep into a solemn Greek discourse, and made believe they understood it all and liked it as well as though it were an English ballad or a fairy tale; but I very much doubt if they did.

Lady Catharine wandered off by herself wherever the sunshine seemed the brightest or the birds sang sweetest. Suddenly, at a turning of a sheltered garden walk, she met two gay young courtiers belonging to the King’s suite. They were sauntering idly along, with their gilded spurs jingling and their jewelled swords clang*


ing at their sides. The youngest, who was a bold, reckless boy, seeing the Lady Catharine unattended, and not knowing her, started forward and addressed her in a light, familiar tone. But his companion drew him aside, and, lifting his own richly-plumed hat, bowed low as the frightened girl passed quickly by ; though neither did he know that she was a titled lady. If he had thought that she was only the gardener’s daughter it w’ould have been all the same. Some years after Lady Catharine Grey knew both these young noblemen. The eldest was the Earl of Hertford; and the youngest was Lord Herbert, son of the Earl of Pembroke.

As Lady Jane Grey grew towards womanhood she retained her love of study and became more and more famous for her learning. Her masters said that she spoke French, Italian, Latin, and Greek with ^astonishing fluency, and read the Hebrew, Chaldee, and Arabic. But you know we can make some allowance for masters. Those worthy men may have been tempted, for their own credit as tutors, to make her out a greater prodigy than she was. They may have merely

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introduced her to some of those venerable old tongues, if they did not throw in a language or two in making up the list. But, without doubt, she was a very learned young lady for those times, and, what was better, very amiable, pious, and benevolent. Poor people loved her, and the great people of the court honored her — a good deal on her own account, but mostly because the King set the fashion.

As for Lady Catharine, she continued the same proud, wayward, mirthful girl till great sorrows bowed her brave spirit and saddened her merry heart.

At the age of sixteen Lady Jane Grey was married to Lord Guilford Dudley, son of the Duke of Northumberland. The wedding was one of great pomp and splendor; and every body said that so beautiful a bride and bridegroom had never been seen at the English court. On the same day the Lady Catharine was betrothed — against her will I hope — to Lord Herbert, son of the Earl of Pembroke.

Lord Guilford Dudley was very young, but a brave and gallant nobleman : and Lady Jane loved him fondly, and looked forward to many


happy years as his wife. But her father-in-law the ambitious Duke of Northumberland, had other views for her.

That very year the health of King Edward, which had never been very robust, began to decline alarmingly fast. The gentle boy was very much under the control of his favorite adviser, the Duke of Northumberland, and by him was persuaded to make a will setting aside the rights of his sisters, Mary and Elizabeth, and appointing his beloved cousin, Lady Jane Grey, his successor to the throne.

The young King did this, not because he was wanting in affection for his sisters, but because he thought that Lady Jane, being an enlightened Protestant, would be a better sovereign for the English people than the Princess Mary, who was a bigoted Catholic—or the Princess Elizabeth in whose religious principles he had little confidence.

On the 6th of July, 1553, the amiable young King died at his palace at Greenwich. Two days after the Duke of Northumberland and other great Lords waited on the Lady Jane at Sion House to inform her of his majesty’s death,

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to acquaint her with his last will, and to offer her the crown and sceptre, hailing her as the Queen of England.

At the first announcement, the poor, timid girl was so overcome by surprise, grief, and terror that she fainted and fell to the ground.

Her father raised her and placed her on a chair >f state ; and as soon as she had revived all knelt n homage before her, while Northumberland reverently proffered her the crown. This she refused again and again with tears and strong protestations, though her proud mother wept, and her stern father commanded, and Northumberland argued and stormed. But when her husband stepped forward and took her hand, and looked pleadingly into her eyes, and begged that she would ac-jept the crown for his sake, and when they promised her that lie should have a seat beside her on the throne and share in all the power and glory of royalty, she felt her loving heart give way, and said, sadly, “ Do with me as thou wilt; but, 0 Guilford, my soul misgiveth me that no good will come of such as I aspiring to so high an estate. If you love me truly, sweet friends, you will rather wish me a secure and


quiet fortune, though mean, than an exalted condition, exposed to the tempests, and to be followed by some dismal fall.” Then, sinking on her knees, clasping her hands, and raising her tearful eyes towards heaven, she said, fervently, —

“If the right be truly mine, O gracious God, give me strength, I pray most earnestly, so to rule as to promote thy honor and my country’s good.”

On the very same day that Jane was proclaimed Queen in London, Mary was proclaimed at Norwich. Then commenced the straggle and the fighting. For a while it was doubtful which of the two the people would favor. The majority would have probably preferred a Protestant sovereign ; but the English people have always had a remarkable reverence for Kings, and the children of Kings, and for the blood royal, where it runs richest and thickest ; and so the Princess Mary, daughter of that kingly Bluebeard, Henry VIII., and Katharine of Arragon, carried it over simple Lady Jane, daughter of Henry Grey and Frances Brandon. After a troubled reign of ten days, Queen Jane was informed by her father that her cause was losi — that she must lay

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down her crown, take off her royal robes, and retire to private life.

Lady Jane received this news meekly, almost joyfully; returned to Sion House with her husband, and began again to dream of a happy life of love, and peace, and usefulness. Alas! it was never to be in this world.

By Queen Mary’s command, she was soon after arrested and committed to the Tower. Her husband, her father, the Duke of Northumberland, and many other friends were also imprisoned there. Of these all were pardoned except Northumberland and “ Guilford Dudley and his wife,” as Queen Mary slightingly called them. The two last were kept in separate and strict confinement for nearly eight months, when the Queen signed their death warrant.

The Lady Jane had borne all the sorrow and humiliation of her lot with the utmost patience and sweetness. Among the hardest of her trials were the persevering efforts made by the Queen’s priests to persuade her to renounce her Protestant faith and become a Roman Catholic; but the noble woman stood firm to her sacred principles, and heeded neither threats nor entreaties. When sen-


tenee of death was pronounced against her, the priests redoubled their zeal and arguments; but in vain. Nothing moved her calm soul from its deep trust in God. On the last night of her life, when two learned bishops came, with a forlorn hope of ' converting her, she astonished them by the clearness of her reason, the wisdom of her arguments, and the serenity and meek confidence of her spirit. In spite of their blind bigotry, they felt when they went away that they had been conversing with a saint, and that there would soon be another angel among the blessed.

Lord Guilford had obtained the Queen’s consent to a last interview with his wife that night; but she declined to see him, for fear that the dreadful parting would overcome the fortitude of both. But, to cheer his poor heart, she reminded him that the separation would be but for a very little while, and then they would meet in a world where disappointment, suffering, and death would never, never come to interrupt their wedded happiness.

She wrote a farewell letter to her sister Catharine, in the Greek language, on the flyleaf of her Testament. Then she prayed and composed

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herself to sleep, that she might be calm and strong in the morning. God’s angels ministeied to her, so that she slept peacefully, and dreamed of her home and her mother, instead of the axe and the headsman.

Lord Guilford Dudley .was first led to execution. From her grated window his wife saw him go forth from the Tow;er to death, and thought of that proud but fatal day on which he had first entered it, in pomp and splendor, by her side, when she came to be proclaimed Queen from that ancient prison-palace. Now the poor youth looked pale and wasted, and his eyes were swollen with weeping; but he ascended the scaffold with a firm tread, and died with heroic calmness and resignation.

The Lady Jane was executed within the court of the Tower. From the scaffold she briefly addressed the people. She admitted that she had erred in accepting the crown, but solemnly declared that she had meant no evil, but sought to do what was best for the people and the reformed religion. She said that she hoped for pardon and salvation only through the mercy of the Lord Jesus Christ, and then begged the spec-


tators to pray for her. She knelt down and repeated a fervent prayer ; then she rose and bared her neck for the axe. Her eyes were bandaged, and she was led to the block. She laid her beautiful head down quietly, and said, in a sweet, clear voice, “ Lord, into thy hands I commend my spirit.” The headsman swung his axe in the air; it gleamed terrible in the sunshine, then fell, with a dull, heavy sound; and all was over.

Shortly after the execution of his daughter, the Duke of Suffolk, who had been a second time arrested for treason, was also beheaded. The surviving members of his family were treated with harshness and distrust by the Queen and neglected by the servile and bigoted court. Even Lord Herbert, the betrothed husband of Lady Catharine, forsook them, and, false dastard that he was, refused to fulfil his engagement. But she was happier rid of him than she could possibly have been as- his wife; and she doubtless scorned him, and thanked Heaven for her own release.

When Elizabeth became Queen she was jealous of Lady Catharine, who had inherited

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her sister’s right, such as it was, to the throne, and wished to keep her in obscurity and prevent her marrying any powerful nobleman. So, when the Lady Catharine and the brave and true-hearted Earl of Hertford found that they dearly loved one another, they did not dare to let her majesty know it, but were privately married. After a while, Elizabeth found out their secret, and in her rage and spite had them both arrested and committed to the Tower. But her anger and cruelty could not part that devoted husband and wife. They loved tenderly, firmly, and faithfully, and thanked God for each other to the last.

After an imprisonment of seven years, during which time she had three children born in the gloomy Tower, Lady Catharine Hertford died of a broken heart, making her lonely prison-chamber a bright and blessed place by her angelic resignation. When she knew that her last hour was come, she took off her wedding ring and desired that it should be sent to her husband, who was not permitted to come to her when she was dying. She then embraced her three little boys with prayers and a few tears


which she could not keep back. Then she dosed her eyes with her own hands and went softly to sleep in the love of Jesus.

Lord Hertford was released after a longer imprisonment of three years. He lived to be an old man ; but the love of his unfortunate young wife was ever a constant memory in his heart, sweet, though mournful, like the scent of the votive wreaths that withered over her grave.

Clie Cnmtr, rantiixtieit.




“ The Lady Arabella,” as she was always called, was the only child of Charles Stuart, Earl of Lenox, and Elizabeth Cavendish, of Hardwick. Her father was of the royal blood

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of both England and Scotland ; for he was the great-grandson of’Henry VII. and the uncle of James VI. He died at the early age of twenty-one, leaving his daughter with no protector in the perilous great world to which she wa3 born.

The Lady Arabella was very carefully educated by her grandmother, the old Countess of Lenox, who lived in London. As she grew up to womanhood she became celebrated for her talents and accomplishments and for the elegance and grace of her manners. She became the ornament of that splendid court, where she was admired for her wit and learning, and loved and wondered at for her kind, generous heart, her frankness of speech and innocent ways, and for her bright, sunshiny disposition.

This was the time when Elizabeth Tudor had finally, with much reluctance, begun to realize that, great Queen as she was,— powerful, renowned, magnificent, — she was getting to be an old and a decidedly ugly woman; and accordingly she grew harsher and sourer, more testy and tyrannical, every day. Of course she made all the people about her unhappy and uncomfort-


able; though they were far enough from letting her know they felt so, I’ll warrant. No; they doubtless assured her that she was a saint for goodness and a lamb for amiability; and when, at seventy years of age, she went stiffly and rheumatically through the court dances, in her towering wig, her immense ruff, and hooped petticoat, wily courtiers who wanted gifts and offices professed to be in raptures with her sylphlike figure, graceful movements, and sweet, youthful smile; and designing court ladies, though ever so young and blooming, coyly hung back when asked to join the minuet, declaring with a simper that they really could not make figures of themselves after such dancing as that.

Yet, though they flattered her to her face in this fulsome manner, there is little doubt but that they privately relieved their feelings by ridiculing her vanity and ugliness; and some of them, I am afraid, in their secret hearts wished her quietly laid away in her royal tomb in Westminster Abbey.

Such, dear childien, were courts and courtiers in those old times — sometimes wrongly called “ the good old times.”

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The young Lady Arabella was like a singing-oird, a wild flower, a bounding doe, a laughing brook, a gleam of sunlight — any thing cheerful, sweet, glad, and natural—in that stiff, formal, cold, and hypocritical place.

But Queen Elizabeth was jealous of her, as she had been of Lady Catharine Grey, for the same absurd reason, — her royal blood, — and treated her with cruel suspicion and harshness. She was particularly set against her marrying; and when a son of the Duke of Northumberland addressed her, and she was pleased with him, and they were having a pleasant correspondence and looking forward to a happy life together, Elizabeth, like the tyrannical Queen she was, came between them and parted them forever. She placed the Lady Arabella in confinement, and kept her there until she thought her sufficiently punished for her presumption and disobedience.

As for the young noble, he seems to have been but a faint-hearted lover; for he cjuietly yielded to the Queen, and abandoned Arabella, probably contenting himself with a wife less dangerously allied to royalty, and less obnoxious to


Elizabeth, on the ground of talents and beauty, as well as illustrious birth.

When her cousin, James VI., of Scotland, ascended the throne of the United Kingdoms, Lady Arabella Stuart hoped for a brighter and easier life. But no; matters were only worse ; and she was at last convinced that, unless she could drain every drop of that fatal royal blood from her veins, she could never cease to be an object of distrust to the reigning sovereign, whether Tudor or Stuart.

To add greatly to her misfortunes, her name was made use of, without her leave or knowledge, by a set of mad adventurers who conspired to depose King James and seat her on the throne.

It was little wonder that the English people were disgusted with their new Scottish King, who, besides being coarse, ill-made, awkward, and altogether ungentlemanly, was violent-tem-pered, obstinate, conceited, tyrannical, shallow-pated, and pedantic. In short, it seems proved by the history of his time that a more contemptible monarch never sat on the throne of England for any length of time; and that is saying a great deal. The Lady Arabella, on the other

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hand, was a good, wise, and gracious lady, and would probably have made an excellent Queen. Nevertheless it was a wild and hopeless scheme ; for James had the legal right, possession, which, it is said, is “nine points of the law;” and the English people were not yet strong and free enough to disregard these things when royal prerogatives were abused and honest loyalty sought to be degraded into slavish submission.

This unfortunate plot was the one in which Sir "Walter Raleigh was so unhappily implicated. The Lady Arabella was present during the trial of the conspirators, and denied having had any knowledge of their designs. It was even proved that, when a letter was sent her to warn her that she was suspected of such a plot, she laughed over it, in her frank, light-hearted way, and sent it to the King.

But, though there was not the slightest evidence against her, and she was honorably acquitted, she was always afterwards obliged to endure cold neglect and petty persecutions from the King and royal family, and consequently the court. She grew retired, studious, and religious in her habits, shunning the gay world


much as possible. And the court grew not a little more tiresome for this. There was no one to take her place; and her lively talk and charming manners were missed even by those who were too stupid or ungenerous to acknowledge her rare talents and goodness.

It was generally thought that the Lady Arabella would never marry, she had become so thoughtful and reserved, and appeared so entirely devoted to learning and religion. It seems that the King thought so; for he gave her a writ-, ten permission to wed, provided she chose for her husband one of his subjects. He made a great parade about this, as though it were an act of wonderful generosity.

But by this time the Lady Arabella understood her royal kinsman; and when she found that in her deepest heart she loved William Seymour, son of the Earl of Beauchamp, and that all the joy of her sorrowful, persecuted life was in the dear love he gave her, she did not dare to bestow her hand upon him before the world, or to inform the King of her attachment, but was privately married, as the Lady Catharine Grey had been.

By the way, this William Seymour was a

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grandson of Lady Catharine and the Earl of Hertford; so he came of a brave and faithful stock:

This happy union was soon interrupted. The secret of the marriage was discovered, and, by some ill-natured courtier, conveyed to the King, who proceeded to take vengeance on the offenders. Mr. Seymour was at once imprisoned in the Tower. The Lady Arabella was committed to the custody of Sir Thomas Parry, at Lambeth, but soon after removed to the house of a Mr. Conyers, at Highgate, where she was not so closely watched but that she had opportunities to write and send letters to her husband, who found means to send her loving and cheering replies. So this true-hearted pair comforted each other under their trials, and thus were happy for a while, in spite of their tyrannical sovereign.

But some base little spy of a bird, who ought to have been on better business, carried tidings of this correspondence to the ear of the King, who fretted, and stormed, and swore in broad Scotch, and commanded that the Lady Arabella should be removed to Durham and kept in close confinement there.


A friend gave the poor woman timely warning ; and she, in her grief and terror at the prospect of this further separation, wrote to her husband, begging him to arrange some plan of escape for them both.

The noble Seymour had made so many friends in the Tower that he was not strictly guarded, but allowed to walk about the courts and see his friends privately. So he wrote to his wife, laying a very ingenious plan for her to escape, giving her particular directions, and promising to join her at Lee, and cross the channel with her to France, in a vessel which she would find wait* j.ng for them.

On the night before the day set for her journey to Durham, the Lady Arabella, assisted by a faithful serving woman named Markam, disguised herself completely in male attire. She put on a doublet, a pair of long French hose, a large wig of light hair covering her dark locks, a black hat, a cloak, and a pair of high top-boots.

Then she buckled about her slender waist a long, light sword, called a rapier,—trembling at the very touch of it, — and so went out with Markam quite unsuspected.

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They walked a mile and a half to an inn, where one of Seymour’s friends was awaiting them with horses.

"When the Lady Arabella mounted she was so faint with terror and fatigue that the hostler who held the stirrup for her said he feared “ that young gentleman would hardly hold out to London.”

But the brisk exercise in the cool night air revived her; and after a while she grew strong, courageous, and cheerful, and even laughed with Markam about her manly way of riding, which of course was strange and awkward to her.

About six o’clock in the morning they reached Blackwall, where they found two men, a gentlewoman, and a waiting-maid, with two boats — one to receive them, and the other filled with the trunks and valuables of Mr. Seymour and his wife.

They hastened from Blackwall to Woolwich, from Woolwich to Gravesend, and from Gravesend to Lee, where they went at once on board the French bark which was lying at anchor. Here the Lady Arabella wished to remain until her husband should come;


but her followers and the captain of the vessel thought it not prudent, and, against her tearful entreaties, hoisted sail and put out to sea, only promising her to hover as near as was safe to the English coast, that Seymour might join them.

In the mean time Mr. Seymour had safely effected his escape from the Tower by disguising himself as a countryman, in a coarse cloth suit, with a black wig and a false beard, and boldly walked out of the great west gate beside a cart that had brought him a load of fagots. The woodman who took his place for a little while was well paid for his pains, I can assure you.

Mr. Seymour then passed quietly along the Tower wharf, by the warders of the south gate, ;; to where one of his faithful friends was waiting for him with a boat. They rowed to Lee, anjd, . found to their grief that the French bark had weighed anchor and was gone. But there was a ship in the distance that they hoped was it. Though a storm was coming on, and the waves were rising very high, Mr. Seymour hired a fisherman to take him out to this vessel. Alas! it was not the right one. Then, in his sorrowful

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perplexity, almost in despair, he hailed a New* castle coal-craft, and for a large sum induced the master to alter its course and land him in Flanders— probably hoping that his wife would ü'~, able to join him there.

Now, when the news of the escape of the Lady Arabella and William Seymour came to the King he stormed worse than ever, swore several hard oaths in broad Scotch, raved up and down his cabinet, kicked the pet spaniel of his handsome favorite, the Duke of Buckingham, and behaved in a most unkingly manner generally; all because a faithful and loving husband and wife had made a brave effort to live together, as they had promised before God to do. He ordered that a vessel of war should at once be sent after the fugitives. This ship soon came up with the French bark, which was lingering for Mr. Seymour, and fired into her thirteen shot before she would surrender.

The Lady Arabella was taken and lodged in the Tower, bravely protesting, it is said, that she was more glad that her husband had escaped from it than she was sorry to enter it herself, as his happiness was of far more consequence than


her own. But, poor man ! little happiness came to his sad heart after that dreadful disappointment. He lived for several years in Flanders, a lonely, sorrowful exile — ever looking longingly towards his country, that he dared not revisit — ever think" ing of his noble wife as sitting in her gloomy prison chamber, sadly musing over the brief, happy days of their love, or as weeping wildly and stretching out her arms towards him — as sometimes despairing utterly, and sometimes vainly hoping for deliverance.

The Lady Arabella was brought before the King’s Privy Council and very sternly examined. She replied to all their questioning with frankness and admirable judgment, and bore herself far more royally than the miserable, jealous-minded monarch that opposed her. Nothing treasonable could be proved against her; and yet she was sent back to the Tower. O, what a foreboding gloom fell on her once glad spirit, what a deathlike chill shot through her brave, warm heart, as she passed once again under the cold shadows of those dark prison portals !

About a year from this time the Lady Arabella sent word to her cousin, the King, that she

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had some very important disclosures to ma*-®, So the King, rubbing his hands in savage glee at having brought the proud woman to terms, called a Privy Council, in great haste, to hear what she had to disclose.

The prisoner appeared before them and made some very startling disclosures indeed — so startling that the base King turned pale, and all those hardened old lords looked shocked, almost grieved. She revealed that sorrow, persecution, and imprisonment had driven her mad! Yes; the once gay and gifted Lady Arabella Stuart was a maniac!

Again her cousin, the King, sent her back to the Tower, perhaps thinking it the best place to hide the dreadful work of his injustice and cruelty.

But even those massive prison walls could not shut the disgraceful and horrible truth from the world. The story of the Lady Arabella’s wrongs and sufferings, despair and madness, got abroad, and few were so careless or hardhearted as not to feel for her. Women talked of her sadly at their firesides, while their children wept around ; rough men spoke her name


in pitying tones, saying, “ Alack! a woful ending to the faithful loves of so fair a dame and so gracious a gentleman! ” •— while brave youths, listening, played with the hilts of their swords and cursed the King in their secret hearts.

At last the fearful tidings reached William Seymour, and made all the sorrow that had gone before seem as nothing. After that he no longer thought of his Arabella as sitting in quiet grief, thinking of him and remembering the dear old happy days, but as shrieking out incoherent words and singing wild ballads ; as clad in a coarse garb; as bound and struggling in fierce frenzy; or as moping in speechless melancholy, slowly sinking into the deep stupor of idiocy.

So he suffered while three miserable years dragged on ; and then, it is said, a sweet vision was sent to comfort him. He dreamed he saw his beloved wife, smiling with love and happiness, clothed in beautiful garments, pure white, like her wedding dress — in her “right mind,” sitting at the feet of Him who came to 15

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comfort the sorrowful and “open the prison doors to them that are bound.”

When William Seymour awoke from this dream he was at peace, and he said, “ Now I know it is well with her.” And it was well The Lady Arabella was dead.

SBüstminsta Sllilmj.



This noble cathedral, one of the most famous religious edifices in the world, is said to have beer founded in the second century, upon the site of a Roman temple dedicated to Apollo. But there is no very authentic record of it be fore the time of Edward the Confessor. Ke rebuil* it in what was then considered a splendid stylt of architecture, and expended immense sura;


upon it. He appointed a great many monks to live there, and gave them a great deal of money, that they might be easy and comfortable; and in return they flattered and fawned upon him, put him in the conceit that he could work miracles by touching people for the “ King’s evil,” and made a saint of him after he was dead.

From his time down to a recent reign the abbey has been growing in beauty and importance, though it has suffered sadly in various revolutions, and is far less splendid in some respects than it was before the old Catholic worship was done away. It looks somewhat too dark and dreary without the rich altars, the golden chalices and candlesticks, the burning tapers and incense, the pictures and images of saints, angels, the Blessed Virgin and the Child Jesus, which once made it so brilliant and beautiful a show. But the English people, although they love beauty and splendor, thank God for this change. It is better to give freedom and the Bible to the poor than to decorate altars; and darkened churches are better than darkened souls..

Westminster Abbey is not so magnificent as


York Minster, nor so imposing as St. Paul’s Ca thedral; but it is more interesting than either, because of its age, its history, and the many tombs of distinguished people which it contains.

In the old churchyard without are a multitude of graves covered with flat stone slabs. Nearly all the inscriptions are so worn away that one tries in vain to decipher them. I thought, as I walked over these stones, that perhaps many of those who sleep in the unknown graves below may have been in their lives noble and good, though not deemed worthy of a burial among heroes, princes, and poets within the minster. And then I thought of a surer record for such, and rejoiced in the promise that the names of the righteous shall be carved on the imperishable tablets of God’s remembrance.

Westminster Abbey is a vast edifice, built, like all ancient cathedrals, in the form of a cross, with so many aisles and chapels that it seems like a congregation of small churches with one grand roof over all.

Dear children, I truly wish that I could give you such a description of Westminster Abbey as would make it stand and shine out before


you in all its immensity and solemn beauty, But, as this cannot be, I must content myself with speaking of some of the most interesting objects which it contains, and leave the grand building itself to your imaginations till that happy houi when you may behold it with your own wonder ing, delighted eyes.

In the south transept is what is called “ The-Poet’s Corner,” because here are the tombs o. taolets of many of the most famous poets of England. To this spot all who love poetry first turn their steps. The oldest tomb here is that of Chaucer, who, you will remember, lived in the time of Edward III. and Queen Philippa. The next is that of Edmund Spenser, who lived in the reign of Elizabeth, and was one of the most wonderful poets that ever was known. His soul was as full of beauty and melody as an English wood in summer is of flowers and birdsongs. He had a pure spirit, a gentle heart; and the world has been brighter and happier for his having lived and written. But alas! his own life was one of trial and suffering, though he was much courted and flattered in the first days of his fame. His friend Ben Jonson states that


he actually died of want in London, and that, >ust at the last, he refused twenty pieces of gold sent him by the Earl of Essex, saying “ he was sorry he had no time to spend them.”

But when he was dead his great friends rallied about him and made a grand funeral for him in the abbey. When his body, once admired for its symmetry and beauty, but now worn with care and wasted with famine, was let down into the grave, his brother poets threw in upon it elegies and epitaphs. Alas! so it too often is in this world. People are more ready to go to great funerals than to seek out the suffering, and find it cheaper to write elegies for the dead than to furnish bread for the starving.

Yet there was one among that group of poets who, you may rely on it, would have shared his last crust with his friend, had he known of his need. This was a play-actor and writer whom he called “ gentle Willy,” but whom the world will know forever as William Shakspeare.

The next poet buried here was Francis Beaumont. He had a dear friend whose name was Fletcher. The two always lived and worked together, and wrote so much alike that nobody


could tell their writings apart. They loved each other so well in life that it was almost cruel to separate them in death ; but Fletcher was no! buried in the abbey.

Next in interest are the tombs of Dr. Johnson, Garrick, the great actor, and Sheridan, the brilliant wit.

In this corner is the tomb of one Thomas Parr, who actually lived in the reigns of ten different sovereigns, and died at the prodigious age of a hundred and fifty-two years! Poor old man ! He must have feared that God had forgotten him.

The most beautiful of all the chapels is that of Henry VII. One can hardly imagine that this sould ever have been more magnificent than now; yet it has doubtless been much injured and defaced since the time of its royal founder.

In tne nave of this chapel the Knights of the Path have always been installed. In old times the candidates for this honor were obliged to take a cold bath and afterwards watch all night; but in modern times both the bath and the vigil have been omitted by special order, as a disagreeable and dangerous duty — that is, when


the young knight happened to be a Prince of the olood.

The principal tombs in this chapel are those of Henry VII., his Queen, and his mother, Margaret, Countess of Richmond; Queen Mary; Mary, Queen of Scots; Queen Elizabeth ; King James I., his Queen and children, and the Lady Arabella Stuart; Queen Anne, and her husband, Prince George of Denmark; William III. and his Queen; the famous Duke of Buckingham ; the poet Addison; and that noble Lord Orsory of whom his father, the Duke of Ormond, said, in the midst of his grief, “I would not exchange my dead son for any living son in Christendom.”

In this chapel there is a white marble sarcophagus, which contains some bones found in an oaken chest in the Tower during the reign of Charles II., and supposed to be the remains of the young King Edward V., and his brother, Richard of York, who were murdered by order of their uncle, Richard III.

As I stood beside this I shuddered, and the tears started to my eyes as I thought of those two poor innocent boys, smothered to death by


brumal wretches, as they lay locked in each other’s arms, dreaming pleasant dreams, perhaps, of happy days gone by forever, or of the heart broken mother they were nevermore to behold.

The stcry of a murder like this is a blood-stain on the page of history that nothing can erase; and the horror of men at such a murderer grows deeper and deeper age after age. Since Richard of Gloucester fell on Bosworth Field the world has mad; its great journey around the sun more than three hundred and fifty times; yet -it has nev.;r rolled out of the shadow of his crimes.

In the chapel of St. Paul, among the grand ■ monuments of lords and ladies, stands a colossal statue of James Watt, the great engineer, who, among other noble works, improved the steam-engine and brought it to its present perfect state. I was glad to see this statue in Westminster Abbey; for, after the best of the poets, none of the great people here buried have done so much good for the world as James Watt.

In the chapel of the Kings there is a beautiful figure of Eleanor, Queen of Edward I., which lies on her tomb Old as it is, there is nothing


so graceful and lovely in all the abbey. The tombs of Edward III. and the noble Queen Philippa are also in this chapel.

Here are kept the old coronation-chairs of the Kings and Queens of England, and the famous stone of Scone, on which the early Scottish Kings were crowned. The Scots held it in the highest veneration, and had many wonderful traditions concerning it—the most absurd of which were, that it was the pillow on which Jacob rested his head on the night when he had the beautiful dream of a ladder full of angels; and that it was once owned by the warlike Scythians ; and that, when a native Prince seated himself on it to be crowned, it gave out sounds like thunder and cried “ God save the King ” in good Scythian.

The poor Scots were greatly grieved when Edward I. took this rare stone from them. They would rather he had taken its weight in silver, provided so much of that precious metal could have been raised in all Scotland.

The great drawback to one’s pleasure in visiting Westminster Abbey is the fact that you cannot go about by yourself and see things at


your leisure, but must be conducted by a stupid-looking personage called a verger, who, after making you pay a shilling, hurries you through the chapels, giving you a lesson about the tombs, which he has by heart, and repeats in a pompous, sing-song tone, and in very bad English.

This is very trying indeed; but we must bear it, for it seems to be one of the fixed institutions — some say impositions — of the country.


In the cloudy month of April, in the year 1509, in his royal chamber in his new palace of Richmond, the mighty monarch, Kang Henry VII., lay dying with the gout. He was in great distress both in body and mind; for, whenever there was a little lull in that terrible gout-torture, his conscience set in to lash and sting him till his very soul writhed in agony. He had been a guileful, perfidious, cruel man ■— not bold in wickedness like his predecessor, Richard III., but hiding his evil deeds from the world;


and now his secret crimes looked out at him from the dark corners of his memory, like threatening dem on-faces. His dear friends the priests tried to comfort him. They told him that he had been a very good King and a most exemplary son of the church. Still they admitted that he had committed a few trifling errors, and for his human weaknesses and little sins perhaps it would be as well for him to give something more to the church, and make some provision for masses to be said for his royal soul after it should have parted from his royal body. King Henry, who knew his own sins best, thought so too, and left in his will directions for a costly tomb to be erected in his chapel before the high altar. He made many rich bequests to this altar, and left a large sum of money to pay for wax tapers which should be kept perpetually burning, and masses to be perpetually said for the repose of his soul. Then he besought his son Henry to right some of the wrongs he had done and restore some of the property he had unjustly confiscated. Think of his asking Henry VIII. to do that! And then he bowed his crowned head and yielded to a mon-


arch greater than he, a tyrant yet more inex orable— grim King Death.

In the smiling month of June, in the same year, there sat, propped up in a chair of state, before an open window that looked out upon a pleasant lawn, a noble lady— Margaret, Countess of Richmond, mother of King Henry VII. She, too, was dying; but tranquil and almost painless was her passing away ; for her heart was at peace with the world, and her soul already reposed in God.

All day long, great people — princes and princesses, lords and ladies — had been coming to pay their respects for the last time before she should depart from the world and the court forever ; and though she each time lifted her head and extended her hand in her old proud and stately way, for every guest she had wise and serious, yet kind and gentle, words of admonition and farewell.

Many a gay courtier, in her presence, felt his heart strangely touched and drawn towards God ; and many a thoughtless court dame went out from that death-chamber with her eyes cast


down and penitent tears glistening on the long lashes.

The young King, Henry VIII.,-came striding in, jingling his spurs and clanging his sword, in his rough, bluff way; and with him came his good Queen, Katharine of Arragon. When the noble Countess solemnly enjoined upon her grandson to take counsel of God, and rule justly and mercifully, he promised ; but in his base heart he knew that he lied.

There was no lack of priests about the dying Countess. She had always been considered a remarkably devout woman, and it was thought that she would leave the greater part of her- immense property to the Church. So the holy men stood by her to the last. They gave her the sacrament; they chanted and burned incense, and said a multitude of prayers in her chamber. But when Death, who came to the good Countess Margaret as an angel of blessed release, swung open the invisible gates and led her into her heavenly home, the pious fathers suffered a little disappointment; for she, too, had made a will.

She had left some bequests to the Church;



she had endowed two colleges ; but she had also left a large sum for the perpetual benefit of the poor of Westminster.

In the reign of Henry VIII. began the Reformation in England. After a while the King favored it; not from conscientious motives, but because he had quarrelled with the Pope, and because, being avaricious and rapacious, he was glad of an opportunity of getting possession of the treasures of the abbeys and churches. One of the first things he did was to rob his dead father of his silver candlesticks, his incense, and his masses. He even destroyed the altar itself, after stripping it of every thing valuable. So the lights were put out, the chanting was hushed, the ^sweet incense ceased to ascend before the tomb of Henry VII. So hi3 royal will was set at nought.

But the nobler will of his truly pious mother has remained in force and continued its blessed work through generation after generation down to this very day. Around her tomb the blessings of the poor arise in a pure, perpetual


incense; there the memory of her good deeds sheds inextinguishable light, and, more than golden chalice or silver candlestick, sacred relic or royal emblem, commends her name to the reverence and loyal love of the world.

Mem glitte if ^eatmittster.



The most beautiful modern building in England, if not in the world, is the New Palace of Westminster, which stands on the Thames, near to the Abbey. It is an immense edifice, built of fine stone, which is richly and elaborately carved in all sorts of figures, flowers, and devices. It has many graceful towers and pinnacles, and almost countless windows- arches, and piciies


and, vast as it is, it seems like a structure of fairy land, so delicately and exquisitely is it finished, where it is finished at all; for some portions of this palace are yet far from complete.

You must know this is not a royal residence, but is built for the great English" Parliament, and contains the houses of Lords and Commons.

Attached to the New Palace is old Westminster Hall — a majestic building, erected by William Rufus. That King taxed his subjects in a most grievous manner for money to expend on this hall, and compelled poor artisans to work for small wages; so that the sighs and curses of the people may be said to have echoed every stroke of the chisel and blow of the hammer till the imposing edifice stood complete.

Within this hall all coronation and state banquets were formerly given. Here Parliaments have sat and many state trials have been held. King Charles II. was tried and condemned here on the 20th of January, 1649. Here Oliver Cromwell was inaugurated Lord Protector, with


great pomp and ceremony, on the 16th of September, 1653.

- On the 30th of January, 1661, a great crowd of people were gathered in the court-yard before Westminster Hall, gazing and pointing upward to a horrible object upon the top. It was the head of Oliver Cromwell spiked upon an oaken pole, and fixed there by command of the new King, Charles II. And here I think I must tell you something more of that head of Cromwell.

Charles I., you will remember, was the son of that King James of whom we have seen so much meanness and cruelty. Charles was more of a gentleman than his father; handsomer and more gracious in his manners, but in his way scarcely less tyrannical. For many years he pursued a reckless and foolish course, unjustly extorting money from his subjects ; intriguing with foreign courts and the army; now defying and dismissing Parliament; now flattering and weakly yielding to it; always promising and never fulfilling; belying . the real kingly character; and being only true to his double-dealing Stuart nature and to his father’s bad example.


Chief among this King’s enemies, for talent, energy, boldness, and good strong sense, was Oliver Cromwell. He was a brave and skilful general, a masterly politician, an eloquent cra-tor — in short, an admirable leader for the people ; and he proved a wiser and a more active ruler than England had known for many a long year. After King Charles was beheaded, (he died very bravely, to his honor,) Oliver broke up a Parliament which didn’t suit him, and got one after his own heart, and had every thing his own way. He made the nation respected abroad; he made himself feared and honored even by kings and nobles who pretended to despise him for his lowly birth. But in one thing he was unwise : he was too strict and stern in the forms of religion. He and his Puritan followers sung too many psalms and said too many long prayers in public, and set their solemn faces too hard against the elegant arts and innocent amusements of society. The people grew tired, and secretly longed for a few royal shows, processions, coronations, tournaments, or birthday festivals. But they stood in such mortal fear of “old Noll,” as they called Oliver, that they kept pretty quiet


till he died and his son Bichard undertook to fill his place. Then they said, “Come, we have had enough of this ; let us have a real King and ä gay court again at any cost, and have done with the brewer’s family, and this long, dull Sunday.”

So they called home Charles II., who had long been hoping for an invitation, and was not backward in accepting it. They declared him King, and flattered and feasted him, and made as much joyful ado over him as though he had been the “ prodigal son ” himself; and so he was, as far as the prodigality went.

Charles II., who was called “a generous Prince ” and “ the merry monarch,” began his reign by certain acts any thing but generous or merry. He put to death nearly all the Puritan leaders he could lay his hands on; and then he had the dead bodies of Cromwell and his friends Ireton and Bradshaw taken from their graves in Westminster Abbey, dragged in a cart to Tyburn, and there hung on the gallows from sunrise to sunset. They were then cut down and beheaded. The trunks were thrown into a pit; the heads spiked and fixed on the top of Westminster Hall


Cromwell had been embalmed; and his head remained entire, though exposed to the weather twenty-five years.

One stormy night, in the latter part of the reign of James II., it is said, the old staff was broken off by a strong wind, and the head, rolling down the eaves, fell into the court below, right at the feet of a lonely sentinel. He, seeing what it was, took it up, placed it under his cloak, and went on making his dreary round. When he went home he hid it upon a spacious chimney, thinking, doubtless, that the time would come when it would bring a large price as a great curiosity. There was a mighty hue and cry set up about the missing head, and the sentinel never dared to divulge the secret of its being in his possession. But after his death his family sold it to a Mr. Russell, a relative of Cromwell. In his family it remained, descending from father to son, until one Mr. Samuel Russell, being very poor, sold it to the proprietor of a museum. About fifty years ago Mr. Henry Wilkinson bought it at a large price, and at the house of his son, William Arthur Wilkinson, Esq., a distinguished member of Parliament, I saw it a


short time before I left England. It is kept in an old oaken box, wrapped in black silk, and locked in a cabinet. It is regarded with much reverence by its present possessors, who honor the character of Cromwell, and it doubtless is a very valuable relic; but it is a mournful and horrible spectacle. So well was this head embalmed, that, notwithstanding the hard usage it has met with, much of the hair and beard, and some portions of the skin and flesh, yet remain upon it — the latter blackened and shrivelled like those of an Egyptian mummy. The iron spike of the broken oak staff is yet fast in it; and on the lower part of the skull is a deep cut, made by the headsman, who evidently struck too high the first time. And this is the story of Oliver Cromwell’s head, which, when fast on his sturdy shoulders and when his live eyes gleamed out of it, ruled a great nation and awed the whole world, but, when dead, a revengeful king could dishonor, and any crow could peck at.

I was shown over the new Palace of Westminster by Mr. Cobden, a member of the House of Commons, who explained every thing to me in the pleasantest possible manner. With him I


passed through many beautiful halls and corridors, and visited the houses of Lords and Commons. In the latter I heard a short speech from Mr. D’Israeli, a famous statesman, but a person not very remarkable in his appearance, except for a gay waistcoat, a pair of keen, restless, dark eyes, and a head of very black hair, hanging in stiff little curls, which look more like corkscrews than any thing else.

In the House of Lords we heard a few words from the great Lord Brougham. Those of you who have seen pictures of him in “ Punch” know just how he looks ; for they are frightfully like.

The House of Lords is the most magnificent and brilliant hall I ever saw. It is really dazzling with gilding and beautiful ornaments, and richer than you can imagine in carving, pictures, and velvet hangings. The seats of the peers and the steps of the throne are covered with crimson; the throne itself is a mass of rich carving, gold, and crimson velvet; and all about are the royal arms, national emblems and devices, curiously wrought or painted in gorgeous colors.


I saw this chamber to better advantage at an-ither time — and this was when Queen Victoria prorogued (that is, dismissed) Parliament, on the 1st of July, 1852.


1 took the seat appointed to me in the gallery of the House of Lords at an early hour, and watched the peers and peeresses, officers of the church and state, foreign ministers and spectators enter and take their places.

1 had never beheld any thing half so splendid in the way of costly dress and jewelry as then met my eye on every side. The peers all wore robes of crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine, with jewelled orders about their necks and diamond stars sparkling on their breasts. The foreign ministers wore the court dresses of theii various countries, some of them exceedingly rich and beautiful. The judges wore long, black robes, and those enormous white wigs which the English think so venerable and imposing, but which only strike us as queer and absurd. Then


there were the bishops, who, though doubtless very pious men, did not seem to disapprove of all this worldly pomp and splendor, but looked contented and merry, and were very handsomely attired indeed.

The p3eresses and other great ladies present were dressed in the richest velvets, satins, brocades, and laces, with ornaments of plumes, flowers, and all varieties of costly jewels ; some wearing on their heads, in their ears, about their necks and arms, and down their dresses, large fortunes in diamonds — shining, and flashing, and blinking all over them like a fairy illumination. Many of those noble lords and ladies were handsome, stately, and graceful enough to do without titles, fine dress, orders, and diamonds; but some, it seemed to me, were very much indebted indeed to titles, fine dress, orders, and diamonds. Near me sat a little Indian Princess, dressed in her native costume, and covered from head to foot with gems and gold. It was said that the court ladies were greatly interested in this child, partly because she was pretty and a little of a savage, and partly because there was something rather romantic in her his«


tory. Her mother hid been converted to Christianity, and, when she was dying, made her husband promise to take her little girl to England and place her under the charge of Queen Victoria, that she might be educated as a Christian. The Prince did as he had promised; though he knew he would be hated and denounced for it in India. He took his little daughter to England. Queen Victoria accepted the charge, and stood sponsor for her when she was baptized into the English church.

About two o’clock there was a brave firing of great guns, to announce her majesty’s arrival at the Victoria Tower; and, a few minutes after, all in the house rose in respectful silence to receive the Queen. She entered with a slow, dignified step, conducted by her husband, Prince Albert, and followed by officers of state and the army. The Queen did not wear her crown — it was borne before her on a velvet cushion by the Eau of Derby; but she wore a splendid tiara of diamonds. Her dress was of white satin, striped with gold, and over it an open robe of crimson velvet, trimmed with ermine and embroidered with gold. The train of this robe, many yards 17


in length, was borne by ladies, gentlemen, and page?.

’*■* ' Queen Victoria is a pretty pleasant-looking woman, fair and plump, with mild, blue eyes, soft, brown hair, and a very sweet smile; but she certainly is not Queen-like in the way that Mary Stuart and Elizabeth Tudor were. She is not handsome, nor haughty, nor even tall. But, short as she is, she looks quite stately enough when seated on the throne, and is not a bit too simple and mild in her manner and expression for a Queen who has really no power of herself; and, though she is not beautiful or proud, it’s a comfort to know that she will not blow up her husband with gunpowder, as Mary Stuart did hers; and will not box her ministers’ ears, or order her enemies’ heads to be cut off, like stormy Queen Bess.

Never, it seemed to me, was there a little woman so radiant with great, lustrous, throbbing diamonds. They seemed to have been starred upon her, till she shone like brightness itself. When her breast heaved they glistened like foam-beads on the crest of a wave • and when she bowed her head or moved her arms, she


shook off little sparkles of light, as a rose-tree shakes off dew-drops when it stirs in the jmorn-ing wind.    ^

On the right and left of the throne are two chairs of state — one for the heir apparent, and the other for the Prince consort The young Prince of Wales was not present that day ; but Prinee Albert sat in his place, at the left of his wife. He is a tall, handsome, military-looking man, and is much liked and respected by the English people. Between him and the Queen stood the great Duke of Wellington,, bearing the sword of state, which was almost too heavy for him in his feeble state of health. He was very old; his head was tremulous with palsy, his hair was snowy white, and his tall figure was wasted and bent. I could not realize, when I looked at him, that he was indeed that great general, the conqueror of Napoleon Bonaparte. This was the last prorogation he was to witness : he died early in the following autumn.

The members of the House of Commons were summoned, and came hurrying into a little place railed off for them under the gallery, opposite the throne. Some of these are Lords and Hohora-


bles, and all of them, it is supposed, are gentlemen ; yet they crowded and pushed one another in a most unceremonious way, and seemed as eager to see the show as a set of schoolboys. I noticed that Mr. D’Israeli soon made his way into the front rank, though he came in last. That is what genius does for a man.

There was a long, dull speech read to the Queen, which she heard patiently, being used to juch things ; then she gave her approval to some bills; and then the Lord Chancellor, kneeling at her feet, put into her hand her own speech, which she read in a sweet, clear tone of voice, with perfect emphasis and distinctness.

Then the Lord Chancellor rose and announced that Parliament was prorogued till the 20th of August; then the Queen rose and Prince Albert rose; then the peers and peeresses rose; then the foreign ministers, distinguished and undistinguished strangers, rose. Prince Albert gave his hand to the Queen; the ladies, gentlemen, and pages took up the train ; Lord Derby stepped forward with the crown ; the poor old Duke tottered along with the sword of state; the whole grand procession passed out; and the brilliant assembly


broke up and followed as quietly as possible. So ended this beautiful royal pageant for me; but some of my friends who were outside, and saw the Queen and Prince Albert get into their splendid state carriage and drive away, professed to pity me for having lost the best part of the show. It was well they thought so. According to their account, it was a wonder the sun was not dazzled quite out of sight by that gorgeous, golden equipage. But the sun was out on a holiday,— a rare thing.in England,—and determined not to be outshone even by royalty.

Queen Victoria is a gentle and conscientious sovereign, an affectionate daughter, a loving wife, a tender mother, and a true Christian. Such a woman has not sat on the throne of Great Britain for many a year, if ever before ; so let us say with her subjects, and from our hearts, “ God save the Queen! ” not because she is the Queen, but because she is good.

Fannie JSailanto.






BtfUfc Sllustratfons.



Sntered according to Act of Congnsa, In the year 1860, Vy LEANDER K • LIPPINCOTT, to the Clerk’s OSce of the District Court of the District of MaMechuaetta



ALLO WAY. — Robert Borns......1

GLASGOW. — Sir William Wallace.....19

LOCHS LOMOND AND KATRINE. —Rob Rot .    .    89

STIRLING CAS'ILE. —TnE Little Douglas    .    .    69

BANNOCKBURN. —Robert Bruce.....79

LINLITHGOW. — Mary Queen of Scots ....    99

EDINBURGH. — Little Margery and her Kitten    .    119

EDINBURGH.—The Marquis of Montrose    .    .    .143

EDINBURGH. — The Two Margarets ....    163

EDINBURGH. — The ’Prentice’s Pillar .    .    ,    .186

THE CITY CROSS. — The “Pretenders” .    .    219

MELROSE. — ABBOTSFORD. — DRYBURGH. - Sir Walter Scott ... u ....    .    246



My deab Laddie: —

Allow a happy guest in your beautiful home to dedicate to you this volume.

I am aware that few, if any, of these historical tales can be new to you; yet I am vain enough to hope that you will read my version with a new interest. Indeed, some of the stories of Scotland’s heroes and martyrs cannot be react too often. It is well to keep in fresh remembrance how much these brave and devout spirits dared and endured for their liberties, their country, and their God.

Such noble examples will serve only to stimulate and strengthen the highest and manliest attributes oft your nature,—to exalt your boyish enthusiasm for the beautiful, the heroic, and the true into an abiding principle, a habit of life, a Christian faith.

Praying that you may carry into manhood the happy ingenuous spirit, the gracious endearing qualities of the boy, — that the fondest hopes of love may be fulfilled in your fortunate and honorable future, —

I remain ever your friend,


Jamaica Plain, Dec. 3d 1860.




T WAS on the evening of September 23d, 1852, that I left dear old Ireland, with some kind friends, for a short tonr in “ Bonnie Scotland.” We took a steamer at Belfast for Ardrossan, where we landed early the next morning. From this port we went by railway to the town of Ayr, where we took a carriage and drove over to the parish of Alla-


way, the birthplace of the poet Bums. Almost all travellers who visit Scotland come here,— some merely to have it to say .hat they have seen the place, with other sights, and some because of a real love for poets and poetry.

Robert Burns was a peasant, and the son of a peasant. His father’s cottage, which we visited first, was in his time what is called in Scot* land “ a clay bigging,” containing only two apartments, a kitchen and a small sitting-room. We were sorry to find that an addition had been built on to it, and that it was occupied as an alehouse. There is a noble poem by Burns, entitled “ The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” in which this cottage is described, as are also the pious father and mother of the poet.

Near by stands “ old Alloway Kirk,” a ruined stone church, also rendered famous by a poem, though of a very different character, entitled “ Tam o’ Shanter.”

As this witty poem, like most of the writings of Robert Burns, is m tu? Scottish dialect, which my young readers would hardly understand, I will relate in plain prose the story, which made a great laugh through all the county of Ayrshire, some seventy-five years ago.


Tam o’ Shanter, which means Tom of Slian-ter, was a jolly peasant, who lived on a farm, in the poet’s neighborhood. Tam was unfortunately given to drinking too much, especially when he got away from home, among his cronies. His goodwife, Kate, did her best to admonish and reprove him, and to warn him of the danger of such evil ways. She told him plainly that he was an idle, tippling, good-for-nothing fellow, who was bound to destruction as fast as he could post, in spite of the blessings of an industrious, affectionate wife, and a blooming family of little ones. She bade him mark her words, — that, sooner or later, he would be found drowned in the Doon; or that the witches and warlocks that haunted old Alio way Kirk would catch him and run off with him, body and soul, and she would be left a poor lone widow, and her sweet bairns be forever deprived of a father’s care and example.

Well, one night, Tam came home some time after twelve, with a fearful story of strange adventures, which for once stopped his Kate’s scolding tongue with wonder and horror. It had been a market-day at Ayr, and Tam was easily persuaded to stay late at the alehouse, by

t)    ALLOWAT.

an old crony of his, one “ Souter Johnny,” or Shoemaker Johnny. The landlord and landlady sat down with them, and they drank the foaming ale, sung songs, and told stories, hour after hour, while the storm beat and the wind whistled without. At last, Tam very reluctantly mounted his good gray mare, “ Meg,” and started for home ; — facing wind, rain, thunder, and lightning, but, as he afterwards declared, thinking them of small account, compared with the tempest which Kate would raise about his ears when he should reach his farm-house at Shanter.

As he drew near Kirk Alloway, which had long enjoyed the reputation of being haunted by very naughty spirits, what was his astonishment to see bright lights shining through its ruined windows, its cracks, and crannies, and to hear from it loud sounds of laughter, fiddling, and dancing!

Tam was no coward by nature, and the strong ale he had drunk made him wonderfully brave; so he did not hesitate to satisfy his curiosity by riding up to one of the windows, where he peeped in upon a startling scene. It was, he declared, a ball of lady and gentleman witches, with “ Old Nick,” in the shape of a horned beast, for fiddler!


The dancers were a wicked-looking set of creatures,— grim, ugly, and terrible, — who danced with wild leaps and furious yells, and made themselves as hideous and disgusting as possible. There was one exception, however ; a young witch, called Nannie, tolerably good-looking, and who was so supple and frolicsome, bounded and whirled about so lightly, and took such prodigious jumps, that Tam was delighted, and, forgetting where he was, and that he must not let that select company know that an uninvited guest was watching their unholy sport, lie clapped Lis hands, and shouted, “ Well done ! ”

As the poem says,—

“In an instant, all was dark!”

and out of the kirk poured the whole witch-company, shrieking and howling, and taking after Tam, who spurred and whipped his faithful Meg to her utmost speed, in order to reach the bridge over the Doon; for those who believe in witches say that they have 110 power to cross running water. Thanks to Meg’s fleet legs, he did escape from their clutches, but she, more unlucky, came off second best, — for the spry witch Nannie


caught her by the tail, and hung on till they reached the key-stone of the bridge, when the tail gave way in her hands,

And left poor Meggie scarce a stump! ”

When Tam o’ Slianter reached home, and re lated his fearful adventure to his wife Kate, she only said, “ I told you so,” and advised him to go to bed and sleep liimself sober. I do not know that she doubted her husband’s account of the awful sights he had seen and the peril he had been in; for she was an ignorant, superstitious woman, wlio believed in warlocks, witches, and all that sort of thing. Then, I think it likely he confirmed the strange tale he told, by pointing to the one, or rather the stump of tin one poor Meg had lost; but some of his shrewd neighbors shook their heads and laughed, saying Tam had had his mare docked in town, and had either imagined the witch-dancc, from having drunk so much ale, or had invented the whole story to save himself from a sound rating, for staying so late, carousing with his roystcring friends.

I cannot say which supposition is the true one


but I was told at Alloway that after Burns wrote “ Tam o’ Shanter” the hero of the ludicrous adventure never heard the last of it, and was laughed at to the day of his death, —as every idle, careless, beer-tippling story-teller deserves tc be.

The old bridge over the Boon is still standing. We walked across it, and strolled up and down the green banks of the little river, repeating Burns’s song,—

“ Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon! ”

A few rods away from the bridge stands a no« ble monument, erected in honor of the poet. It overlooks nearly all the country which he loved and made famous, — which was called, by the right of his genius and fame, “ the land of Burns,” — though not a foot of it did he actually own while he lived.

The grounds about the monument are plantr ed with beautiful trees, shrubs, and flowers, as though to keep green and sweet the memory of the departed poet.

We next visited a pretty cottage, all clambered over with roses, where we saw the sister and twc


10    ALLOWAY.

nieces of Robert Burns. Mrs. Begg was but a little girl wlien her brother died; but she remem-oered him perfectly well, and delighted to talk about him. She was a fine-looking, intelligent, agreeable old lady, and I was sorry to part with her and her interesting daughters.

We drove back to Ayr that afternoon, and took the evening train for Glasgow.

And now, that you may all more fully understand what renders Ayrshire, and especially Alio way, so interesting to tourists, I will tell you something more of the poet-hero of that region, in a little sketch of


Robert Burns was born on the 25th of January, 1759, in a little clay cottage, in the parish Of Alloway, Ayrshire. His father, William Burns, was a farmer, — an honest, hard-working man, intelligent, and sincerely pious. His mother, Agnes Burns, was a gentle-hearted woman, rather more romantic and poetic in her tastes than her husband.



Very early in the life of her little Robert, Mrs. Burns perceived his genius, and reverenced it as a choice gift of God. Instead of trying to check his taste for poetry, lest it should be in the way of his getting on in the world as a peasant farmer, she kindly encouraged it, as something that might make the hard life of poverty beautiful and illustrious.

She had by heart a great many Scottish legends and poems, which she used to recite and sing to her noble boy. On many a stormy winter day, as she sat at her wheel, by the fireside, in their little cottage, she sung to him wild, sweet ballads, till his great, dark eyes would flash with fiery passion, or grow dim with tender tears.

Both father and mother labored diligently and constantly for the support and education of their children, whom they loved with the tenderest affection.

Robert and his brother Gilbert were early sent to school; and being boys of remarkable talent, and having an ardent desire to learn, they made rapid progress, and surpassed nearly all the other scholars.

Robert was a handsome boy, with a fine, sturdy

12    ALLOWAY.

frame; a well-formed head, proudly borne; a rich, glowing complexion; dark hair, large brown eyes, and a thoughtful, even serious expression of face; though, in his early manhood, he was renowned for wit and a reckless love of fun and frolic.

Poor Robert’s schooling was soon over; and he was obliged, like his father, to labor incessantly at farming other people’s land, — ploughing, planting, and harvesting, year after year* without a hope of earning more than a bare .support. Mr. Burns continued very poor; his life was a constant struggle with want and care ; and it was the pleasure, as well as the duty of his sons, to give him all the aid in their power.

When Robert was about sixteen, he began to write poetry, — little, light, jingling songs at first, which did not cost him much effort, or take his thoughts long from his work, but which cheered and consoled him under his many toils and privations. From that time, he continued to write, more or less, and always better and better, till he died. For a long time, he had very little to encourage him, for he was nothing but an obscure ploughman; but he was conscious of noble fv)


»ngs in his heart, and great thoughts in his brain, which the world needed to hear, and would listen to, and treasure up at last.

It would have been far better for himself and the world, if Robert Burns had never written anything but what his purest feelings prompted, and his conscience approved ; but I am sorry to have to tell you that, when he was about twenty-three, he fell in with some gay, unprincipled young men, who led him astray; and after that, he never was quite blameless in his life, and wrote some poems which do him no credit, and which he grieved to remember on his deatli-bed. When I think of his many good qualities, — his love and respect for his parents, his patient industry, his honesty and noble independence, — how I long to blot those miserable things out of the world, and out of everybody’s memory forever!

At last the young poet published a volume of his writings, which made him so famous that he was invited up to Edinburgh, by some of the most celebrated people there. He spent a winter at the capital city, where he soon found himself a very great man indeed. Authors and scholars, ords and ladies, vied witli each other as to who

14    ALLOWAY.

should honor and praise and feast him most. But through all this flattering attention from the rich and titled,, he remained a plain, simple-hearted farmer, — true to his honest class, not striving to climb above it, or learning to despise it, — utterly without affectation and pretension. He was a little rustic in his manners, but never awkward, bashful, or cringing. He had learned from the mind and life of his good mother to respect and admire noble women, — so he knew howto address duchesses and countesses; he felt that he was a man, with a heart to love all high and beautiful things, an intellect to grasp and create grand thoughts, and a soul that must live on forever, with the life of God, — and he knew that the proudest lord could be no more.

One day, when Robert Burns was dining with some literary people, he happened to be struck by some beautiful lines which were written underneath a picture, on the wall, and inquired who was the author of them. Nobody among the great folks present could answer the question ; but finally, a quiet, fair-haired boy of fifteen, with a high, intellectual head, and thoughtful gray eyes, modestly gave the name of Langhorne as


the writer. Burns turned and smiled upon the lad, with a look which he never forgot through all his own glorious life,—for that boy was Walter Scott.

It was supposed that some of the rich and powerful admirers of the “ inspired Ayrshire ploughman,” as they called Burns, would endeavor to place him in a comfortable and honorable situation, where he could devote the most of his time to literature. But no; he was only “ the fashion” with them for a little while, and then they were after some other novelty. They gave him a few dinners, bought a few copies of his book, and then left him to struggle on for himself, in the old way. The next year he solicited the influence of his best friend among the nobility, Lord Glencairn, to obtain a situation in the Excise ; yet, for some reason or other, his request was not granted. But another friend, Mr. Alexander Wood, a surgeon, still affectionately spoken of in Edinburgh as “Kind Old Sandy Wood,” a far better title than “ Earl ” or “ Duke,” hearing of the poet’s wish, quietly went and procured him the appointment. The duty of an Exciseman is to arrest smugglers and the unlicensed manufac-

16    ALLOWAY.

turers and sellers of liquor, — not a very pleasant, proper, or profitable business for the poet, but it was the best that offered then: he accepted it gratefully, and always faithfully discharged the duties of his office.

He returned to the country, married a young woman whom he had long loved, named Jean Armour, and settled down upon a farm, at Ellies-land, near Dumfries.. Here he was very happy for several years with his dear wife and children, and here he wrote some of his noblest poems. But his farm proved unproductive, his writings brought him but little money, and he was finally obliged to sell out, remove to Dumfries, and depend entirely on his office as Exciseman.

In December, 1795, he lost his only daughter, a little girl of whom he was very fond, and about that time his own health began to fail alarmingly. Biding over the country in all seasons and weather gave him rheumatic fever, from which he never wholly recovered. During the spring and early summer of 1796 he was obliged to resign his business, which was a great sorrow to him, as he thus lost the larger part of his salary, and he feared that his family must suffer without


it. On the 5th of July he went to the sea-side, hoping to get better there,—but it did him no good. On the 7th he wrote to his dear brother, Gilbert: “ I am dangerously ill, and not likely to get better. God keep my wife and children! ” On the 18tli he came home to die, and on the 21st he died.

Mrs. Burns was left with four little sons; but the last prayer of the husband and father for his dear ones was heard, and God did “ keep ” them. He raised up friends to care for them, so that they never came to want. Mrs. Burns lived to a good old age, and found herself honored more and.more, every year, as the widow of a great poet. Two of her sons are yet living, and are very much beloved and respected.

It is about sixty-four years since Robert Burns died, and now his name is known and his songs are sung the wide earth over, — which proves that when God gives a man true genius, all the neglect, poverty, and trouble in the world cannot keep it down. Yet there were many who would have lived and died happier, if, when they had the opportunity, they had given good counsel and brotherly aid to poor Burns, and, above all, com-

18    ALLOWAY.

forted him on his death-bed, with the promise that his family should not be friendless when he was gone.

Dear children, when you read or hear sung “ Auld lang Syne,” “ Bonnie Doon,” “ Highland Mary,” “ John Anderson,” and other of the sweet songs of Robert Burns, I am sure you will think gently of the poet, — will pity him for his errors, as well as for his misfortunes, and feel admiration and gratitude for one who, out of a troubled life and a sorrowful heart, made so much music for the world.



ated in Lanarkshire, on the river Clyde, at the point where it becomes navigable to the Atlantic Ocean.

This city is said to have been founded as early 560, by St. Kentegern, who appears to havtf)

22    GLASGOW.

been remarkably active and enterprising for a Churchman. Yery little is known of the early history of Glasgow, except as connected with its famous minster, founded in the reign of King David the First, in 1186, and standing yet. It is a dark, imposing edifice, more stupendous than beautiful, and chiefly remarkable as being the only cathedral in the realm which escaped destruction in the Reformation. The Protestants of Glasgow, very much to their credit, unceremoniously declared against the demolition of the ouilding; but they made a sort of burnt-offering to the spirit of the Reformation, of the pictures and images of the saints, of altars and confessionals.

After it passed into the hands of the Reformers, it was called the “ High Kirk,” or church; and, once upon a time, it occurred to the session, or leading men, that it would be convenient and comfortable to have seats, to sir upon during the long sermons of their divines. So they had made what are called “ forms,” for the male part of the congregation; surlily forbidding the women to make use of them; saying, that if they wished to sit down during service they might bring stools


from home, — good enough seats for them. I should like to see “ the brethren ” of any church, in our age, and especially in our country, attempt to carry matters over “ the sisters ” with such a high hand!

But these were disagreeable, troublesome times to live in, when the men were not only ungallant toward the women, but quarrelsome among themselves. They all went armed everywhere, — even clergymen wore daggers and small-swords into the pulpit, where they professed to teach the mild and merciful religion of Christ.

Glasgow is now a handsomely built city, with many fine public edifices, and pleasant, open squares, and several noble monuments. But it is a place of little historical or romantic interest, and tourists do not often linger in it long. We left the day after our arrival, without the unpleasant feeling which we often experienced in going from other places, that we left many things unseen which could not be seen elsewhere.

The first object of interest on our route was Dumbarton Bock, grandly towering up at the. point of junction, of the Clyde and the Severn, ■— crowned by its imposing stronghold, so often

24    GLASGOW.

mentioned in history, and most sadly memorable as having once been the prison of Sir William Wallace, about whom I shall say more by and by.

Dumbarton Rock is one of those places which seem to have been formed by nature for the sites of castles and fortresses. It rises five hundred and sixty feet above the sea, in several bare, jagged, defiant points, apparently utterly impregnable, and yet its very supposed security was once the cause of the castle being surprised and taken, in a very singular and daring way, which I would like to describe to you, f I lia).'ndie. space; but I have not.

We took a steamer up Loch Long, an arm of the sea. The scenery along this loch, or lake, is very striking and picturesque, though less so than that of Loch Goil, which branches off from it. I never shall forget my delight in sailing up this beautiful sheet of water. The shores on either side are now bold, precipitous, and rocky, now clothed with luxuriant foliage, dense, dark woodlands, or lovely green lawns, sloping down to the water.    0

Loch Goil is the scene of Campbell’s pathetic oallad of “ Lord Tillin''s Daughter.”


At the head of Loch Goil we took a coach, and drove several miles through a wild, romantic glen, to a place, called St. Catherine’s, where we crossed another lovely lake, Loch Fyne, to the town of Inverary.

The most interesting sight at Inverary is the Castle of the Duke of Argyle. This is a very handsome and stately building, but rather modem in its style. After all the palaces and castles we had seen, this did not strike us as being outwardly or inwardly very grand or wonderful. But, according to the old Scotch housekeeper, who shows visitors through the rooms, there is nothing in all the world to be compared to “ y o Dook’s braw castle.” I have my doubts wnetlier she would admit that Solomon’s famous temple approached it, in magnificence. In one of the state apartments there is some very beautiful tapestry, which the old lady solemnly affirms was woven by no human hands, but by “ goblins, wlia are a’ deid noo,” — (who are all dead now). It was only a fine specimen of the celebrated Gobelin tapestry, made in France.

We enjoyed highly our strolls through the noble park and gardens of the castle, and a charm-2

26    GLASGOW.

ing view from Duniquoich, a lofty hill, or, as 1 heard it called, “ a young mountain,” on the Duke’s estate.

The following morning we tools; a carriage, and posted through Glencoe, a grand, dark mountain pass, to Tarbet, on Loch Lomond. After strolling about the romantic shores, seeing some new beauty at almost every step, we crossed the lake in a row-boat, to Rowardennan Inn, where we took ponies to ascend Ben-Lomond. This is a very respectable mountain, rising three thousand two hundred and ten feet above the lake. The distance from the Inn to the summit is full six miles, and we found the way either boggy and slippery, or steep and rocky; — yet our brave little ponies were fully equal to it, and seemed to enjoy the climb almost as much as we.

0, the vast and wonderful prospect which we looked down upon at last! Lakes, rivers, valleys, glens, castles, parks, cities, and a countless host of mountains, stretching away to the north, like the dark, mighty waves of a great sea heaved up in a midnight storm.

But the sublime emotions which these grand


views excited in our minds, did not prevent us from keenly enjoying the fun of our descent from this lofty height. Our ponies, refreshed by a long rest, and by browsing upon the summit, went galloping, leaping, and plunging down at a right jolly rate, and dashed into the yard of the little imi in fine style.

The story which I shall tell you m this number is sad and tragical, but I hope it will interest you as the life of an illustrious patriot and a brave man.


Edward the First of England, a powerful and warlike monarch, as you may remember, after the death of King Alexander the Third, boldly usurped the government and conquered the kingdom of Scotland. He was in fact the sovereign, though he declared the weak John Baliol his “ vassal-king,” and had him crowned at Scone, under that inglorious title. He placed English garrisons in all the Scottish castles, and left the

28    GLASGOW.

entire management of the country in the hands of Englishmen, who proved themselves hard and insolent rulers,—burdening with taxes, insulting and tyrannizing over, the Scots, till that proud and stern people became thoroughly enraged against them. Yet for a long time they brooded over their wrongs in silence and inactivity, having no one popular leader under whose command they could hope to avenge them, and recover the lost liberties of their country.

At last the man for the times came forth,— not from the old Scottish nobility, but from the middle classes. William Wallace was the son of Sir Malcolm Wallace, of Ellerslie, Renfrewshire. While yet a boy, his father and elder brother were killed, in fighting against the English; and thus his heart was early embittered toward the usurpers and invaders.

At that time the Scots were a very rude people,— in many respects scarcely more than half civilized ; but they were brave, resolute, and hardy, and had been gifted by nature with a peculiar, passionate love of freedom. The men of mountainous countries are not the stuff that slaves are made of, -— being generally fierce,


determined, and indomitable, and seeming to possess something of the fixedness of “ the everlasting hills,” and the spirit of the wild winds uid the eagles that sweep about their summits, it had cost King Edward an immense amount of trouble, blood, and money to conquer Wales and Scotland; and, after all, he never could feel secure for a day that they would have the decency to stay conquered.

When matters in Scotland appeared to promise most favorably for the new English government, as the nation seemed finally crushed into submission, there was a certain young lad quietly pursuing his education in Stirlingshire, who was destined to give his Majesty no little annoyance. This was William Wallace.

As Wallace grew into manhood, he became remarkable fo'- his personal strength and beauty. He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, tall, straight, and athletic. His disposition was mild, generous, and amiable ; and it is probable that, had it not been . for his peculiar wrongs, and the wrongs and sufferings of the common people, — with whom he had deep sympathy,— he might have led always a quiet and peaceable life.

30    GLASGOW.

While he was yet very young, he was insulted and attacked by an English officer in Dundee, and, in self-defence, killed his antagonist. He was then proscribed, and took refuge in Ayrshire; where, collecting a force of brave coun trymen about him, he waged an irregular warfare against all the English who came in his way, punishing them summarily for every act of rapine and cruelty toward the poor and defenceless. He soon rendered himself notorious by his bold exploits, not only in Ayr, but throughout the neighboring shires; and many high-spirited men joined him, thinking it better to live the perilous life of an outlaw than the shameful life of a slave.

He afterwards retired to the forest recesses of Clydesdale, where he made himself more and more formidable to the English,—-more and more beloved by the poor Scots. At any time, the sound of his bugle could summon recruits from the hamlets around him, and his band of regular followers daily increased. These were all called “ Bobbers ” by their enemies ; but, instead of being so, they were mostly gentlemen of respectable old Scottish families, who had


oeen robbed and outraged by the shameless invaders.

At length William Wallace became so powerful and renowned that the English tried in many ways to buy him over to their interest. They offered him wealth, high position, and titles, if he would follow the example of most of the nobles and gentry of Scotland, and swear allegiance to Edward. But he proudly answered, that no money could buy his honor; that for no position at the court of a tyrant would he exchange his life of hardship and peril in the free forest-land; that no title was so noble as that of an honest man.

A cruel sorrow and wrong finally determined Wallace to take a yet more decided and prominent part against the merciless enemies of his country. On one of his venturous visits to Lanark he met a beautiful young orphan girl, by the name of Marion Bradfute. When he went home he found he could not forget her,—that her sweet face was always before him, and that he was no longer happy in his wild, lonely life. After a good deal of doubt and hesitation, — for the generous hero felt that he ought to devote himself en-

32    GLASGOW.

tirely to his country, and not think of the peaceful joys of love and home, — he sought the lovely orphan, and left the matter with her to decide. She thought that he might be soldier, patriot, and husband at the same time, and, being a brave girl, she loved him for his heroic resistance to oppression, and, though he was proscribed as an outlaw, was' not afraid to become his wife. They were married, but privately, and Wallace, was obliged to use great caution in visiting his bride, as it. would endanger his life to be recognized at Lanark. Another reason for secrecy lay in the fact that the English governor, a hard, brutal man, by the name of Hazlerigg, had fixed upon Marion as a wife for his son, — because of her wealth; she being an heiress to considerable property, — thus the knowledge of her marriage with Wallace would doubly enrage him.

One fatal day Wallace was recognized and attacked by some English soldiers, in the street near his own house. He fought bravely, but was about to be overpowered by numbers, when his door opened and a fair hand beckoned him to a temporary shelter. He dashed into his house, and escaped through a back door into the woods


behind. It did not occur to liis own tender, manly heart, that liis devoted wife would be called to pay for his life with her own ; yet so it was. Hazlerigg arrested Marion, and, having ascertained that she was the wife of Wallace, put her to death.

This savage deed filled all hearts with indignation and horror. The fearful tidings were carried to poor Wallace, who, half distracted by grief and anger, collected his band, marched to Lanark, killed the monster Hazlerigg, and drove the English from the town.

From this time Wallace devoted himself yet more entirely and solemnly to the great work of redeeming his oppressed country, and I fear — for Wallace, with all his pure and lofty spirit, was but human, and lived in bloody times — swore a fearful oath to avenge, to the utmost, his own terrible wrongs.

At length the whole country became thoroughly aroused,—there were revolts occurring in all directions, and so many nobles and other men of note flocked to the standard of Wallace, that King Edward sent a large army to put the rebels down again. The first great battle of Wallace

2 *    C

34    GLASGOW.

was fought at Cambuskennetli, near the bridge of Stirling, where the English were completely defeated and routed.

Soon after this, the Scots conferred upon Wallace the title of “ Guardian of Scotland, in the name of King John Baliol.” This was a sort of regency, and excited some enmity among the Scottish nobility; but Wallace bore himself with much prudence and modesty, and never sought to be anything more than the servant of the people he so much loved. But he remained in prosperity and power, and the nation in peace, but about a year. It seemed that the Scots were not yet worthy of freedom, at least the nobles were not. They felt, or affected to feel, a mean contempt for Sir William Wallace, because he was not a man of high rank, and insolently rebelled against his authority. At the battle of Falkirk, they who formed the cavalry fled at the first onset of the English, and, through their cowardly defection and the great superiority of the enemy, Wallace and his gallant infantry were defeated.

This was a terrible reverse of fortune; but the Scots did not give up the struggle for several


years, gaining some advantages against tremendous odds, but not succeeding as they would have done had they unanimously placed Wallace at the head of affairs, r.eposing perfect confidence in his judgment and patriotism.

At length King Edward, by force or bribery, reconquered one after another of the leaders, and band after band of the dispirited army, till Sir William Wallace and his followers were the only true freemen in Scotland, — they alone having refused to take the oath of allegiance, and servilely submit themselves to the hated usurper. The hero, saddened and disappointed, but not broken in spirit, or quite despairing, retired to his old haunts among the forests and mountains, and his old outlaw life, — again summoning his faithful adherents, again alarming his enemies with his bold bugle-blast. Thus he lived for more than seven years, laying plans for his country’s deliverance, and patiently waiting for an opportunity to carry them out.

But the same God who inspires patriots and martyrs, in his mysterious providence permits the existence of traitors and betrayers. A soldier and a Scotchman was at last found mean

36    GLASGOW.

and miserable enough to betray Sir William Wallace, and sell himself to eternal infamy, for the reward offered by the English. This was one Sir John Monteith, who treacherously got pos session of him and delivered him up to his en emies, on the 5th of August, 1305.

After a short imprisonment in Dumbarton Oas tie, Wallace was conveyed to London, and was tried in Westminster Hall, charged with High treason. To this charge he simply replied, “ I could not be a traitor to Edward, for I nevei was his subject.”

During this trial the noble prisoner was, like his Divine Master, crowned in mockery,—being compelled to wear a garland of green leaves, as the king of robbers and outlaws.

He was condemned to death, — drawn in a sledge to the scaffold, and beheaded. His body was then divided into four quarters, and stuck upon pikes on London bridge.

Little is known of the last hours of Wallace, except that he died bravely, yet meekly, — protesting that he had done nothing for his country of which he repented, and that he only regretted not having accomplished more.


Edward the First doubtless thought that he had struck down the spirit of Scottish freedom, with the life of its noblest champion. But free dom is an immortal principle, planted by God in the heart of man, and nothing can utterly uproot and destroy it. The rich blood of Wallace seemed to water and nourish it into a new growth, — his name became doubly dear, as that of a martyr to liberty, and grew to be the sacred watchword of his struggling countrymen. To this day it is more honored and beloved than that of any monarch — with the exception, perhaps, of Robert Bruce — that ever sat on the throne of Scotland.

I have not, like the historians, given you the details of the fierce skirmishes and bloody battles in which Wallace was engaged, — for my heart is not in such things. It seems to long more and more, day by day, for that blessed time of “ peace and good-will ” promised to us, when atlie nations shall learn war no more,” but dwell on the quiet, happy earth like one great family, — like the children of God, as they are. But because Sir William Wallace did the best and noblest he knew how, in the dark and

38    GLASGOW.

troublous times in which he lived,—because lie was generous, brave, true, and self-sacrificing, even to death, — I deeply reverence his memory, and have had a heart-felt pleasure in writing out his story.

fnrjia %mml atiii Latrine.


KOB ROY.    41

OCH LOMOND is considered the finest of all the Scottish lakes. It is twenty-three miles in length, and five in breadth at the widest, and contains a multitude of the most lovely and fairy-like islands you can imagine. The scenery of its shores is wonderfully beautiful and grand, — now filling the heart with delight, now thrilling it with awe, or lifting it in loving gratitude to God, who has placed us in



a world of so much beauty and sublimity, and gifted us with souls to enjoy and reverence the works of his hands.

The day of our trip up this lake was delightful. A soft autumnal sun goldened all the landscape, and the blue waves danced in a light, pleasant wind, while the atmosphere was so clear that we could see to a great distance. To the northward, the dark, lofty mountains; to the southward, a fair, fertile country; on either side, shady and flowery islands, or noble shores, with rocks, crags, and caves; smooth, grassy slopes, or abrupt, heathery heights.

I remember a little incident of this trip, trifling enough, but which struck me -at the time. I observed a large hawk hovering in the ah’, near our boat, and circling lower and lower. Suddenly, he darted downward, and caught a fish from the water. He then began to ascend rather slowly, impeded by the weight of his prey. It happened that there was on board a Scotch duke, who had been sporting in the Highlands, and who now, having his fowling-piece loaded, took a shot at the bold marauder, and, it seemed, slightly wounded him, for a few feathers floated

KOB ROY.    43

lightly down the air; he gave a hoarse scream, and, in his pain or fright, dropped the fish, which fell, apparently lifeless, into the lake. Scarcely, however, had it touched the water, when the indomitable hawk was after it again ! He caught it in his talons, and bore it off in triumph, screaming down a democratic defiance to the duke. I remember saying, that none but a Highland hawk would .be so courageous and persevering.

We landed at Inversnaid, on the east shore of the lake, and drove through a rough, narrow glen, about five miles long, to Loch Katrine. On our way we passed the ruins of Inversnaid fort, erected to check the famous outlaw-chief Rob Roy Macgregor, and a forlorn Highland cabin, in which his wife, Helen Macgregor, was born.

Loch Katrine is most famous as the principal scene of Scott’s charming poem, “ The Lady of the Lake; ” but its beauty would alone distinguish it above nearly all other lakes. It is only about ten miles long, and at no place more than two broad. A mere pond, compared with our great inland seas, it is surely not grand, yet the scenery which surrounds it is some of the grandest, as well as the most enchanting, in the world.


We descended Loch Katrine by the tiniest steamer I ever voyaged upon; whose speed was proportional to her size. She passed over the little waves with little nervous jumps, puffed out a little column of smoke, and left an exceedingly little wake behind her. Yet we reached the most beautiful and romantic part of the lake at a very favorable time,—just at sunset, when mountain, stream, island, rock, and green winding shore were bathed and glorified in gorgeous lights of purple and gold.

i\ear the eastern shore is “ Ellen’s Isle,” a charming spot, particularly interesting to the admirers of “ The Lady of the Lake.” A little way beyond Loch Katrine lie “ The Trosachs,” or “ bristled territory,” a wild, mountainous country, through which winds the dark defile of “ Beal-an-Duine. ” the place where, according to the poem, the “ gallant gray ” of Fitz-Jamey sunk down and died.

Loch Lomond, Loch Katrine, and the countrj around, are closely associated with the melancholy and romantic history of the Macgregorsf of whom I will try to give you a clear though brief account.

ROB ROY.    45


The Highlands of Scotland have been, for many centuries, inhabited by a remarkable race of people, called Celts; naturally hardy, proud, and warlike, and descended from the ancient Britons, who took refuge in that almost unknown country at the time when the Bomans invaded and conquered Great Britain. To this day they have a distinct language, the Gaelic, utterly unlike the English or the Scotch dialect of the Lowlands. Their dress is very peculiar and picturesque; but, as you have all doubtless some idea of this from pictures, I will not stop to describe it.

The Highlanders, in old times, were divided into distinct tribes, or “ clans.” Now-a-days they keep up the names of these, but the old system of clanship, with its distinguishing cus« toms and prejudices, has almost utterly passed away.

All the members of each of these clans believe themselves descended from one great ancestor,


and were generally called by his name, with the addition of Mac, which signifies sons. Each clan had its chief, supposed to be a descendant, in the most direct line, of the founder of the family. This chief they all implicitly obeyed, even when to do so was to go against their own wishes and rebel against the king.

These different clans occupied distinct mountain districts, and were far enough, I am sorry to say, from dwelling in peace with each other or their common enemy, the Lowlanders. In deed, they were such a bold, belligerent people, that it might be said of them, that they were never happy, except when in trouble and tumult, — never content, except when fighting and marauding. Yet they had their own good qualities. They were brave, enduring, liberty-loving, trustworthy, hospitable, and unrivalled in their loyal devotion to their hereditary chiefs, and those they recognized as their rightful sovereigns, especially (which was noblest of all) when those sovereigns were in difficulty.

The most remarkable of the Highland clans, in character and history, were the Macgregors, descendants of Gregor, son of Kenneth Mac-

KOB ROY.    47

Alpine, King of the Scots and Piets. This takes them back a long way; and, indeed, the Mac-gregors made a great boast of their antiquity, saying, that “ Hills, waters, and MacAIpines were the oldest things in Albion.”

They were a proud, powerful, and wealthy clan down to the time of King Robert Bruce, when their reverses and persecutions began. That monarch, whom they had not favored, undertook, in the height of his power, to check and humble them, by depriving them of a large portion of their possessions. From that time, misfortunes and wrongs thickened upon their heads, but without dismaying or subduing them. All the other clans submitted to the king, and received from him charters for their lands, but the Macgregors scorned to secure themselves by such concessions.

In the fifteenth century it was proclaimed that their territory had all been bestowed upon their enemies, the Campbells. But they stood sturdily upon their lands, and bade the new owners come and take possession if they dared' They were too powerful to be driven off; yet, having lost their legal rights, they were regarded as aliens


and outlaws, and persecuted by all their neighbors. They obstinately refused to' recognize their new landlords, desperately opposed all the forces sent against them, and made frequent and destructive incursions into the territory of their foes. They divided into two separate bands, one on the banks of Loch Rannoch, the other living in the neighborhood of Loch Lomond; there firmly planting themselves, and standing, like hunted wild animals, at bay.

Through reign after reign, and century after century, they continued to be a doomed, persecuted, and suffering, but unconquerable people, — clinging to their old homes, fighting and harassing their old enemies, the Campbells and Men-zies, till the chiefs of those clans began to think that, but for the name of the thing, they might as well not have such an unruly and profitless set of tenants.

The reign of James the Sixth was perhaps their darkest, time. Then, for the slaughter of the Colquhouns and Buchanans at Glenfruin, or the Glen of Sorrow, a royal decree was passed abolishing forever the n.ame and clan of Mac-gregor.

ROB ROY.    49

All that bore that surname were commanded to exchange it for some other, or suffer death, and every man was forbidden to wear arms. Those who rebelled against these severe laws were hunted down like beasts, by their old enemies, now in the employ of the king, and assisted by the royal troops. Through a long series of years, law after law was passed, bearing harder and harder upon them, till it was a wonder their very souls were not crushed out of them by oppression. The most brutal of all, was one commanding their women to be branded with the mark of a key in the face; but I believe that no one was ever found bold or cruel enough to execute this law.

During the civil wars of Cromwell, the Mac-gregors rallied and fought bravely for Kyig Charles, notwithstanding all the wrongs inflicted 011 them by his father, James the Sixth. On the restoration of Charles the Second, they were allowed to reassume their ancient name, and were again recognized as an independent clan. After the English Revolution, the hard laws against them were revived, but never very strictly carried out, — and as the civil wars of the two countries

o    D


came to an end, the persecutions of this unfortunate clan gradually ceased.

The story of Rob Roy is told in full, in Scott’s Novel by that name, and in the introduction to that work. I can only give you a slight sketch of the character and life of this last hero of the Macgregors.

Rob Roy Macgregor Campbell, as he was obliged to call himself, was descended from one of the ancient chiefs of the proscribed clan, who lived at Glengyle, on Loch Lomond. He was born in comparatively peaceful times, received a good education, and was bred to a respectable calling. He married Helen Macgregor, of Inver-snaid, and for several years led an industrious and blameless life, never dreaming of being any tiling but an honest and peaceable man. His occupation was that of cattle-dealer, — collecting cattle in the Highlands and driving them to markets in the Lowlands, or to England.

It happened, unluckily, that Rob once entered into a partnership with the Duke of Montrose, in a great cattle speculation, which turned out very badly. Rob came home from England almost ruined, as he had invested his all; and

KOB ROY.    51

when lie went to settle with the Duke, that ignoble nobleman insisted on having back every penny of the money he had risked, with the interest! This, of course, could not be; Rob offered him his share of the little that was left, which he would not accept, but advertised the unfortunate drover as a swindler and a thief, and offered a reward for his apprehension as a culprit.

This finished the ruin of the Macg'regor; he fled to his native hills and glens, and took up the life of an outlaw and freebooter.

The Duke of Montrose seized upon Rob’s property of Craigroyston; his men sold all the stock and furniture, and even insulted and abused Helen Macgregor,a proud and passionate woman, who, with her husband, from that day swore vengeance against Montrose and his party.

Rob Roy soon found himself at the head of a formidable band of Macgregors, who had their own wrongs to avenge, and their own living to get, by desperate means. Their robberies were principally of cattle, and they were called cear-nachsy or “ cattle-lifters.” Rob said that he was


only carrying on his old business in a new way.

Rob himself was a generous and benevolent freebooter, — if such a thing can be, — and very like the English Robin Hood, — often taking from the abundance of the rich to supply the needs of the poor. He believed that he had been cruelly driven into his lawless life, and often declared that he would much prefer a more, honorable and peaceable career. In the Rebellion of 1715 he took the side of the Stuarts, and had a commission in the rebel army. But when that rash enterprise failed, he was obliged to return to his old haunts, when he again devoted himself to the great business of his life, — tormenting the Duke of Montrose. Two or three times the Duke made out to capture the outlaw; but just as he was rejoicing over his good luck, Rob slipped, eel-like, out of his hands. Once lie built a fort at Inver-snaid, to protect the country against the bold robber, and distributed arms among his tenants; but Rob very soon routed the garrison, and got possession of every one of the Duke’s muskets.

KOB ROY.    53

As Rob Roy grew to be an old man, lie felt a stronger desire to return to an honest way of living. He had an idea of resuming cattle-dealing, and redeeming his reputation! He even addressed a petition to one of King George’s officers for pardon and permission to take his forfeited place in society, without danger of arrest and death. This touching request was taken no notice of, and poor Rob was obliged to die an outlaw. He died in the year 1738, a very old man, professing the Christian’s hope. Just before he breathed his last, he requested his piper to play the mournful Gaelic dirge, — Ha til mi tulidh,— “We return no more.”

He was buried in the old churchyard of Bal-quidder. No name is on the tombstone, but a broadsword is carved upon it, as a sign of his fierce spirit and lawless life. Yet he seems to rest as tranquilly as any innocent babe in all the churchyard ; the birds are not afraid to sing above his grave, nor the grass and flowers to creep over it ; neither do dews and sunbeams refuse to descend upon it.

So, as the bold robber-chief seemed subdued and humble at the last, may we not hope that


he yielded liimself, like an erring hut repentant child, to his God, and that Divine peace and forgiveness rested on his soul.

The lesson, dear children, which I would draw from these old stories of wars, tumults, wrongs, and oppressions, is a grateful trust in the steady advanoe of the world toward a time of peace, justice, and brotherhood. True, there are wars now,—sad, terrible wars,—but they are between rival nations., not bitter, bloody strifes between clan and clan, family and family. The clans of Scotland now dwell in perfect peace, indeed are almost merged together, and it would now be as impossible for any one of them to be unjustly persecuted, as that any man should be driven to the life of an outlaw because of a failure in a business undertaking. When you hear unhappy, croaking people say, “ Ah me! the world is getting worse and worse! ” don’t believe them. It is constantly growing better, and the nations are slowly drawing nearer to each other, and so, to God. Yet, there is room enough for improvement, and it is not for us to be puffed up with our civilization and righteousness.

We look back with pity and horror to the

EOB EOY.    55

hunted and half-barbarous Macgregors of two or three hundred years ago; but they had some noble qualities, which would put to the blush too many in our enlightened times. In proof of this, T will relate


One morning a young Macgregor, the son of an old chieftain residing at Clenurchy, went out, with a party of his clansmen, to shoot on the moors. During the day they fell in with a young gentleman by the name of Lamont, and toward night invited him to go with them to an inn, for some refreshment. All went very pleasantly and merrily for some time, and then a quarrel arose, about some trifle, between young Macgregor and the stranger, over their wine. In a moment, swords were drawn, and at the first pass Macgregor fell dead! • Lamont made his escape and fled, but was fiercely pursued by the friends of the man he had slain. All night long he ran through the wild Highland country, and in the morning sought refuge at the first house


he saw. An old man was standing at the door. “ Save my life ! ” panted out Lamont; “ I am pursued by enemies.”

“ Whoever you are, you are safe here,” replied the old man, taking him in, and commending him to his wife and daughters. But presently the Macgregors came up, and told the generous host that his only son had fallen in a quarrel, and that he was harboring the murderer! For a moment, the poor old father bowed his face in his hands,'crying out bitterly, “O my son! my son ! ” His wife and daughters burst into sobs and shrieks ; the clansmen pressed forward, with curses and threats, toward Lamont, who gave himself up for lost, when the chieftain sternly waved them back, saying: “ Be quiet; let no man touch the youth ! He has the Macgregor’s word for his safety, and, as God lives, he .shall be safe while he is in my house.”

He faithfully kept his word; and even accompanied Lamont to Inverary, with a guard, and having landed him on the other side of Loch Fyne, said: “ Lamont, you are now safe, if you keep out of the way of my clan. I can no longer protect you. Farewell, and may God forgive you.”

ROB ROY.    57

The happiest part of this story is, that when a new persecution of the Macgregors broke out, and the old chief of Clenurchy was driven from his property, he and his family were offered a home in the house of Lamont, who ever after devoted himself to the work of atoning to the poor exiles for the wrong he had done them.

Dear children, let us bless the good God who, in all ages and in all countries, has implanted such generous and beautiful sentiments in the human heart.

Stirling Castlt.



E TRAVELLED from tlie Tro-sachs to Stirling by the stagecoach, taking outside seats, so as to have better views of the lovely and noble country through which we passed.

The most interesting object on our way was the ruined castle of Doune, on the banks of the Teith, once one of the proudest strongholds in



all Scotland. It was built by Murdock, Duke oi Albany, who was afterwards, with his two sons, beheaded upon Stirling Castle-hill, from which he could see “ the bannered towers ” of his princely residence.

The old town of Stirling is grandly situated on an eminence, near the river Forth, — but contains nothing of remarkable interest, except the castle, which stands on the highest point, overlooking the country for a great distance, in every direction. Within sight from its walls are no less than three of the most celebrated of Scotland’s battle-fields, — Cambuskenneth, Falkirk, and Bannockburn.

Stirling Castle is now only kept up as a fortress, but throughout the reigns of the Stuarts it was a favorite and important royal residence. Among the interesting objects and places which were pointed out to us by the soldier who conducted us through the old palace and castle, was the room in which King James the Second killed, with his own hand, the Earl of Douglas, — an unprincely and most inhospitable act; though this Earl, like the greater portion of his family, was ambitious, unscrupulous, cruel, and rebellious.


We were also shown a narrow road, descending the precipice behind the castle, and called Bal-langeich, which signifies in Gaelic,“ windy pass.”

James the Fifth used to pass out of the Castle by this way, when he went on secret expeditions, in disguise, as he was very fond of doing, — and he took a name from it, calling himself, “ the Guidman of Ballangeich* He was a merry, daring prince, a sort of Scotch Haroun Alraschid, and had many amusing adventures under his assumed character, — one or two of which I will relate

One time, when the king had distinguished foreign guests, and was feasting them with great state and jollity at Stirling, he was informed by his steward that provisions were running rather low, and sent off in haste to the hills for venison. The hunters were successful in killing a fine lot of fat deer, which they slung upon the backs of horses, and set out for Stirling.

It happened, unluckily for them, that they were obliged to pass the Castle of Arnpryor, in the district of Kippen, the seat of one of the Buchanans,— a rude, independent, and care-for-naught

* “ Guidmnn" signifies farmer.


Highland chief. It happened, also, that this laird was entertaining a large company, and, like the king, had found himself short of provisions, though what he lacked in meat he made up in liquor, which flowed without stint, I assure you. In this predicament, when he was told that so much good venison was passing his castle, he did not hesitate to sally out at the head of a baiid of his wild Highlanders, and seize upon it. The royal keepers remonstrated against this bold act, which they called “ high treason,” warning him that he and his clan would have to pay dearly for the stolen deer, — perhaps head for head.

But Buchanan laughed right saucily, saying, that if James Stuart was king in Scotland, he was king in Kippen, and, flinging the fattest buck over his shoulders, he strode into the Castle, followed by his men, bearing the remainder of the prey; while the royal keepers rode on to Stirling, with lightened horses, but hearts heavy with disappointment and chagrin.

Now, kings are quite as easily touched through their stomachs as through their sense of honor and dignity; —in this case, you see, James might justly consider himself wronged and insulted in


both ways. He was liot-tempered as well as fearless, so lie instantly ordered his horse and set ont alone to the castle of Buchanan. He arrived just as several huge haunches of his venison were set upon the table, and the feasting was about to recommence. He found a tall, broad-chested, long-bearded warder at the door, who, not recognizing the new guest, threateningly presented his battle-axe to him, saying gruffly that the high and mighty Laird of Arnpryor was at dinner, and must not be disturbed by such as he. But the king slyly slipped into his hand a piece of gold, — which somehow seemed to toueh his heart at once, — and said, “ Go up into the ban-queting-hall, my friend, and tell your master that the Guidman of Ballangeich has come to dine with the King of Kippen.”

The warder grumbled a little, but went to the laird, and told him that there was a troublesome fellow at the door, with a red beard, who called himself “ the Guidman of Ballangeich,’’ and insisted on coming in to dine with the King of Kippen.

When the bold Buchanan heard this, he turned pale, left the table in great haste, and running


to the door, fell at the king’s feet, and begged his pardon for making free with the royal venison, and sending such a saucy message to his sovereign. Now, much of the king’s anger had evaporated in his gallop from Stirling; he was tired and hungry, he smelt the smoking hot venison, and he heard within the hall the merry jingling of wine-cups and the pleasant laughter of ladies, — so, instead of taking the laird’s head, which would have done him no good, or confiscating his lands, which he did not need, he very sensibly concluded to show mercy to his rash subject, — told him to get up from his knees, assured him that he had only meant to give him a little fright, that he had really ridden up from Stirling to dine with him in a neighborly way, and begged that lie might have that pleasure, before the venison should get cold. So the two went in together, and the feast went on, without further interruption.

After this, the Laird of Arnpryor mended his manners, and was a faithful and humble subject, though he was a little apt to boast to strangers, of “His Majesty’s visit to my poor castle.” By the way, he never could get rid of the title^'of “ King of Kippen.”


At another time, when King James was out on one of his secret and solitary excursions, he was attacked by four or five ruffians, on the narrow bridge of Cramond. Being very strong and a good swordsman, he was able to defend himself for some time against all his enemies, but he received several slight wounds, and his strength was about failing him, when a peasant came running out of a barn near by, and seeing one man beset by such an unfair number, generously took his part. This peasant was armed only with a flail, but with that he boldly attacked the assailants, beat upon their heads and shoulders so sturdily, — in short, gave them such a sound thrashing, that they were soon glad to take to their heels. He then took the king into his barn, gave him water and a towel to wash the blood from his hands and face, and, afterwards walked with him homeward to protect him from another attack.

Without letting out the secret of his own rank, the king asked his preserver who he was. The peasant answered that his name was John HoWie-son,-—that he was a poor bondsman on the farm of Braehead, which belonged to his Majesty.


James then asked if there was any wish which he had particularly at heart.

“ 0 yes ! ” replied John; a if I could own the farm I labor on, I should be the happiest man in the world, — happier even than the king, with all his riches and glory ; for it is n’t likely that I would be bothered with so many cares, or beset with so many enemies as he.”

The king sighed at this, and honest John continued : “ And now, if I may be so bold, please tell me who you are.”

“ (J, I’m the Guidman of BaUangeich, —just a poor man who has a small office in the king’s palace; but if you will come to see me, next Sunday, I will try to recompense you for your assistance to-day, — at least I can show you the royal apartments.”

John thanked him heartily, and so they parted. The king did not fail to give orders that his country friend should be admitted, when he should ask at the palace-gate for “ the Guidman of Bal-langeicli.”

The peasant came at the time appointed, dressed in his “ Sunday’s best,” and found the Guidman in the same disguise ho had worn in his adventure on the bridge of Cramond.


James conducted his visitor through the state apartments, and was not a little amused by his simple-hearted astonishment at their splendor and grandeur. At length he asked if he would like to get a peep at the king.

“ By all means! — if I can do so without offending his Majesty,” replied John.

“ 0, no fear of that,” said James. ‘({A cat may look at a king,’ you know.”

“ But how shall I know his Grace from all the great nobles around him. Will he wear his crown ? ”

“ No, but he will wear a hat, or bonnet, — all the rest will be bareheaded.”

He then led his friend into a great hall, filled with noblemen and officers of the court. John looked curiously about him for a moment, and then whispered : u Where is he ? — where is he ? 1 can’t see him.”.

“ Did n’t I tell you,” said James, “ that you vould know him by his hat ? ”

“ I’ faith then,” exclaimed John, “it must be either you or I, — for they are all bareheaded but us two.”

The king and courtiers laughed heartily at this ;


and when John Howieson left the palace, it was as the owner of the farm of Braehead, which he and his descendants were always to possess, on condition that the proprietor should be ever ready to present an ewer, basin of water, and a napkin for the king to wash his hands, whenever he should pass the bridge of Cramond, or visit Holyrood Palace. This form, in remembrance of the service done his king by John Howieson, was observed by him and his family down to the time of George the Fourth of England.

King James-did not always show himself so kind and merciful as in these adventures. Though in general, and for those times, a just, wise, and generous monarch, he was in some cases very stern, stubborn, and revengeful. In his early youth he had been wronged and really oppressed by the Douglases, the most powerful, rapacious, and unruly family in Scotland, and from the time when he made his escape from them, and set up as an independent king, he devoted himself with all his energies to humbling and subduing these formidable enemies. It was a great, good work for the people ; but it hardened his naturally kind heart, and in some instances left on his memoiiy


the reproach of injustice and cruelty. He seized upon the estates of all the Douglases, drove them out of the kingdom, and swore that he would never employ or show favor to any one of the hated name.

How well he kept his vow we shall see in the following story: —


Among the banished Douglases, there was one who had been a great favorite with the King, for his generous and manly qualities, his 'personal strength, and skill in all warlike exercises. This was Archibald Douglas of Kilspindie. The king used to make much of him on ,all occasions of hunts and tournaments, and called him his “ Greysteil,” after a famous champion in a romance of that time. On his part, Archibald was devotedly attached to the king, and never lent his honest countenance to any plot against him. However, when his great family was disgraced, not even he was excepted, but sternly driven into exile with the rest, — King James, in his implac-


able hatred against the haughty race which for centuries had ruled, not only the Scottish people, but their sovereigns, being resolved to spare not even the friend for whom his own heart secretly pleaded. So Archibald of Kilspindie was obliged to seek a refuge in England, where he remained several years.

At length, getting to be an old man, and pining to see his dear country once more, and the king whom, for all his harshness, he yet loved, he resolved to return to Scotland and make one last attempt to touch his sovereign’s heart. He went to Stirling, and one day, when the king was returning from the chase, threw himself in his way. James knew him at a distance, and said, with a smile, “ See, yonder is my brave Grey-steil! ” But the next moment, he remembered his vow, and hardened his heart, and when lie met his old servant, he pretended not to recognize him, but put spurs to his horse, and rode fast up a hill towards the castle. Poor old Archibald Douglas wore a heavy coat of .mail under his clothes, but his heart so yearned for a reconciliation with his king, that he would not let him pass, but ran along, by his side, and kept up with


him, looking into his face now and then, with a wistful, reproachful, heart-breaking expression.

But they soon reached the castle. James sprang from his horse and hurried in, leaving the Douglas without a kind word or look. The old man sunk down at the gate exhausted, and faintly asked for a glass of wine. But the warder, knowing the king’s hatred for the whole kith and kin of the Douglases, gruffly refused him this charitable courtesy, and sent him away. King James afterwards reprimanded his servant for this inhospitable treatment, — but I don’t see with what reason. “ Like master, like man.”

The king was the more angry at this attempt to soften his heart, for feeling conscious that he had done wrong in resisting it; and the next day he sent word to old Archibald that he must prepare to go again into exile, this time to Trance.

After this cruel act, he went out to amuse himself with hunting. He rode furiously all the afternoon, and said nothing pleasant to any one. Towards night, he got separated from his followers, and finally found himself lost in the deep forest, though in fact he was but a short distance from Stirling. In this strait, he was very glad to


meet a boy, some eleven or twelve years old, wbo was picking liis way on foot through a rocky glen.

“Hold, sirrah!” cried Ring James; “turn thee, and show me the way to Stirling Castle.” The lad paused, and looked up, showing a proud, handsome face, though it now wore a lialf-sorrowful, half-sullen expression.

“ Thou speakest in a lordly style enough, Sir Huntsman,” he replied; “ an’ thou wert the king himself, thou mightest be a little more courteous,— though, i’ faith, ’t is hardly likely thou wouldst be. However, I will guide thee to a spot whence thou canst see the towers of Stirling: ’t is but a little way from here.”

“ Thanks, my brave lad. And now, wilt thou tell me who thou art ? Thou hast gentle blood, surely.”

“I am called young Archie of Kilspindie, or the little Douglas,” answered the boy, proudly.

The king frowned as he rejoined: “Knowest thou not that that is a dangerous name to own hi Scotland ? What dost thou here ? ”

“ I came from England with my grandfather, Archibald of Kilspindie, who came to solicit the


king’s grace, and is banished to France for his pains. I go with him.”

King James liked the fearless frankness of the lad, and, smiling, asked: “ Hast thou ever seen the king thou speakest of ? ”

“No, Sir Knight, nor care I to see him. I like him not.”

“ Why, prithee

“ Because he is a churlish, unprincely fellow. When my grandfather, who had done him no harm, but good service, humbled himself to come in his way, he forgot that

'A king’s face Should give grace,’

and made him — a brave old man,.— a Douglas! — run beside his horse, as I run beside thine ; and, when he fainted at his gate, would not let his servants give him a cup of wine.”

“Nay, nay, I—that is, he knew nothing of that!” exclaimed James. Then, after a moment, lie added : “ What wouldst thou say if I should tell thee that thou hadst been talking to the king himself ? ”

Archie had already begun to suspect as much,


but now he answered bravely, though with a deep blush: “ I should say that his Majesty had heard honest truth for once. But, see ! — there is thy castle. Farewell! ”

“ Stay,” said James ; “ I like thy spirit, albeit thy words are rather sharp and pert. Come with me to the castle for a little while ; surely tho'i fearest not to go with thy king ? ”

“ No, sire,” replied the little Douglas; “ though I have heard say an ancestor of thine invited an ancestor of mine into that same castle, and then slew him with his own hands. I do not fear thee; thou art not treacherous, — thou art only somewhat cruel. I will go with thee.”

When they arrived at the castle, the king led the way at once to the apartments of the queen, — the beautiful Mary of G-uise, a French princess, — and presented Archie to her, saying : “ See, I have brought your Grace a strange pet, — a saucy page, an unfledged eaglet, a lion’s cub, — a young Douglas ! ”

“A Douglas! — has not your Majesty vowed to show no favor to one of that name ? ” said the queen, casting an admiring glance on the handsome boy.


<eAy, but thou hast not,” replied James. “I give him to thee. He has done me a service, and I am willing that thou sliouldst make much of him, for his own and his grandfather’s sake. I loved Archibald of Kilspindie once.”

“ Wilt thou stay with me, my bonnie lad ? ” asked the queen, kindly laying her jewelled hand on the curly head of the boy.

Archie was softened to tears by her goodness, and his voice trembled as he answered: “ I would fain stay with your Grace, — not for your royal state, but for your sweet face and gentle voice, — but I must go with my grandfather. I am all he has in the world.”

“But,” said the queen, “ he is poor and old, and he must go away to France, which, though a brave, beautiful land, will seem strange and unlovely to thee. Here at my court thou wouldst be at home, — thou shouldst receive a knightly training, shouldst have money and servants at thy command, and my kind favor to count upon. Wilt thou stay?”

“ Alas, I cannot! — even if your Grace could make me prince of the realm. I could not forsake my grandfather,” replied the little Douglas,


with noble firmness. And he went out directly into the cold, dark night to seek him, •— out into a cold, dreary world with him. He stayed beside him faithfully till the exile died, less of age and infirmities than with home-sickness and a broken heart, and young Archie was left alone in a strange land, poor and friendless, — yet happier than the King of Scotland, who soon after died of a fever, brought on by disappointment and remorse, in the very prime of his life.






HAVE told you that within view from Stirling Castle is the memorable field of Bannockburn, — so called from the stream, or burn of Bannock, which runs through it. The great battle here fought, and the hero who here immortalized himself, had so much to do with the history and fate of Scotland, that I think I must go back a little, and briefly relate the story of



This great patriot was born in 1274, probably at Turnbury Castle, Ayrshire, where he spent his boyhood. At the age of sixteen, he became Earl of Carrick, on the death of his mother.

In his early manhood, Bruce was not so noble a character as Wallace. Though by blood, one of the most prominent candidates for the Scottish throne, he, like his father and grandfather, lived mostly in England, at the court of Edward the First, the enemy and master of his country.

But the patriotism, sufferings, and heroic death of Wallace made a deep impression on him; he began to grow restless and remorseful, and at last an incident occurred which was the means oi greatly changing his. life and character. Like the other Scottish nobles who had taken the oath of allegiance to Edward, Bruce was actually in his service, and more than once, I am sorry to say, fought against his own countrymen, struggling valiantly for their freedom. After one of those unequal skirmishes, inglorious for the English, and doubly so for the traitor Scots who fought


on their side, it happened that Bruce sat down to supper without washing his hands, which were somewhat stained with the blood that had dripped down from his battle-axe. This was observed by the nice English lords who sat near him, and they shrugged their shoulders, and whispered to one another, with sneers, “Look at that Scotsman, who is eating his own blood! ”

These words reached, not only the ear, but the heart of Bruce, and filled him with horror and disgust, — not at the ungrateful English who, in spite of all his services, despised and hated him for a traitor,— but for his own unnatural and cowardly conduct. The blood upon his hands might truly be called his own, for it was that of his countrymen, his brothers, and should have been as dear to him as that which flowed in his own veins. So guilty and sorrowful did he feel, that, instead of resenting the words of the English lords as insults, he rose up meekly from the table, and, going to a chapel near by, he flung himself on his knees, and, weeping bitterly, prayed God to forigve him for his great sin. His sudden and humble repentance seems much like that of the Apostle Peter, for denying his Lord ; and there


was almost as much reason for it; for next to the crime of forsaking and disowning our Divine Master, is treason to our fellow-men.

Bruce did not stop at repentance, as too many do, but made a solemn vow to. God to try to atone for his past life, by doing all that he could to regain the lost liberties of his country. So he left the English court and army forever, and joined his poor countrymen, resolved to conquer or die with them.

At this time he was about thirty years of age, a tall, powerful, grand-looking man, who, like Wallace, excelled in feats of arms and gallant exploits. He was usually remarkably just and generous, but he had a quick and passionate temper, and was sometimes cruel and remorseless in his resentments.

In his claims to the Scottish crown, Robert Bruce had a rival in Sir John Comyn, called “ the Red Comyn,” to distinguish him from another of the family, who, from his dark complexion, was named “ the Black Comyn; ” and when he resolved to make a brave effort to drive the English back where they belonged, he thought he had better see this rival, and try to come to some


amicable agreement with him about their mutual pretensions to power. So he requested an interview with Sir John Comyn, who met him in a church, before the high altar. During their talk, they unhappily came to high and abusive words. I hope the Red Comyn was the first to use them; and, finally, Bruce, getting greatly provoked, drew his dagger, and stabbed his rival. He then rushed out of the church, and called for his horse. Some friends, who were with him, seeing him look pale, asked what was the matter. “ I am afraid I have killed the Red Comyn,” he replied. “ It will not do to leave such a matter in doubt,” said one of them. “We will make it certain! ” So they ran in and despatched the wounded man with their daggers.

I think tins was the most cruel and dastardly deed ever committed by Robert Bruce. He had invited Sir John Comyn to meet him, as a friend, and at a place where the lives of all men were considered sacred, and where nothing should have tempted him to strike even his worst enemy. But, as through all his life he never ceased to grieve and suffer for that sinful and unmanly act, — as he spoke of it with tears on Ins death-


bed, and as God and liis murdered rival have doubtless forgiven him, long, long ago, I think we may as well try to judge him charitably; -— at least, we ’11 drop the matter here.

Bruce now publicly threw off all allegiance to the King of England, and, with a small army of devoted adherents, marched through the South of Scotland, took several fortified towns, and drove away the English invaders. His friends then insisted on his being crowned at Scone, the place where the Scots made their kings, in those days. There have been few men ever found great enough to decline kingly honors, when they could get a chance at them, — but in this case, it was really a brave and patriotic thing in Bruce to accept them, as they increased tenfold the perils of his position. Now, Edward had made off with the Scottish regalia some time before,— so a crown had to be manufactured for this occasion, — a plain, slender rim of gold, but it answered quite as well, and was as becoming to a rude soldier, as though it had dazzled the beholders with marvellous carbuncles, diamonds, and pearls.

The honor of crowning Scottish monarchs be-


longed, by ancient right, to the family of Macduff, Earl of Fife. The Earl at that time was one of the renegade nobles in the service of Edward, and scornfully refused to perform his duty. But he had a sister who it seems was made of better stuff; — this was Isabella, Countess of Buchan, who, though married to another minion of the English, bravely declared for Bruce. Hearing of his present dilemma, she took possession of her husband’s horses, and posted off to Scone, vowing that King Robert should be crowned by a Macduff, after all! She actually placed the crown on his head with her own fair hands,— and it answered just as well, and was doubtless quite as agreeable to the Bruce, as though her haughty brother, the Earl, or a venerable archbishop, with a beard a yard long, had performed the rite.

In the mean time, intelligence of the new rising under the new leader had reached old King Edward, in London, and thrown him into a terrible rage. He set about raising an army at once, and hurried it off to Scotland, under the command of Aymer de Vallance, Earl of Pembroke. Then he sat down and wrote to the Pope, telling him


all about the killing of the Red Comyn, — not dwelling on the murder, — that was a small, every-day affair, hut on the sacrilege of shedding blood in so holy a place as a church, — and the Pope being duly horrified, laid upon Bruce the awful curse of excommunication.

Then King Edward set out himself with another army for the North,—vowing that he would never return till he had put down the rebellion and slaughtered all the rebels. But before he had reached the borders of Scotland, a mightier monarch called him hence, — and he went with as little delay as any common man.

When he found that he was really dying, he gave directions that his dead body should be boiled in a cauldron, till the flesh all came off of the bones, — and then that the bones should be sewed up in a bull’s hide, and carried in front of the army, against his foes, the Scots. But Edward the Second thought best to disregard this strange last request of his father, and had him decently buried in Westminster Abbey, with this inscription on his tomb: “ Edward The Hammer of the Scotch; ” — a very good epitaph, for he was always hammering away at that people,


— knocking them down as fast as they got up. But they were rid of him at last, — even his poor old bones never went against them, and I doubt if they would have frightened them much if they had. It was only live Edwards they cared for.

Luckily for them, the new king was much inferior to the old, and after making a feeble attempt to carry out his father’s plans, returned with his army to England.

Before this, however, Bruce had suffered severe defeats from the English under Pembroke. Disaster followed disaster, till he was driven with his family and adherents into the mountains, where they were exposed to great hardships and perils. He was even obliged at last to part from his queen, whom, with the Countess of Buchan and others of her ladies, he left under his brother Nigel’s care, in the castle of Kildrummie, Aberdeenshire, while he and his men took refuge in the island of Bachin, off the coast of Ireland. Here he soon received the sad news that the castle of Kildrummie had been taken, his brother killed, and the queen with her ladies carried into captivity.

This was a very dark, discouraging time with


Robert Bruce, and it is not strange that he felt almost ready to give up his brave undertaking. But, it is said, a slight incident renewed his resolution and decided his and Scotland’s fate. One morning, as he was lying on his miserable couch, he noticed a spider trying to fix a web to a beam over his head. Three, four, five, six times he tried, and failed; and then Bruce remembered that he had fought just six battles against the English, without success, and he said to himself: “If the spider succeeds this seventh time, I ’11 take it as a lucky omen, and will try once more.”

The spider did succeed, and Bruce took courage, never to lose it again.

I have always had full faith in this interesting little tradition, because I believe that God often influences the hearts of men in such unexpected ways and through such humble means, and because it teaches us that in his providence not even spiders are to be despised.

Soon after tliis incident, Robert Bruce returned to Scotland, to renew his struggle with the English, and his unworthy countrymen allied with them. I cannot begin to relate here all the ad-


ventures lie met with, all the dangers he braved, all the hardships he endured, from that time to the battle of Bannockburn.

There are many thrilling stories in Scottish history told of him and his adherents, especially of his brave and faithful followers, James Douglas, familiarly called “ the Good Lord James,” — a beautiful title, which I hope he deserved, — and Sir Thomas Bandolph, a nephew of Bruce’s, and worthy of his blood. Some of the accounts of their prodigious exploits and hair-breadth escapes it really strains one’s faith a little to believe; but it is certain that they struggled long and bravely, and suffered much for freedom’s dear sake, and that Bruce nobly redeemed himself from the reproach of his early life. He was beset by perils and foes,—wronged, hated, persecuted, outlawed, and hunted by bloodhounds, — but he kept up his heart and the hearts of his followers, — was always prompt and fearless in action, yet patient in waiting, trusting in God. And this, remember, was not for a few months alone, but weary years, as the great struggle he engaged in lasted somewhat longer than our Bevolutionary war.

At length the decisive battle of Bannockburn


was fought on the 24th of June, 1314. Bruce had chosen his position, and had time to prepare the field,-by strewing a portion of it with sharp points of iron called calthorps, and bj having pits dug, which were concealed by heather and brushwood, — a clever, though hardly fair plan for laming and entrapping the war-horses of the English. But King Edward’s army was greatly superior to Bruce’s in number, and far better armed and equipped; so the Scots may be pardoned for resorting to some stratagems.

The English host came up with great pomp and parade, resolved to spare not a soul of all the rebel army, but to crush at once and forever the last hope of Scottish freedom.

The battle began in the morning, and soon became one of the most desperate and terrible engagements ever fought. Before rushing to the encounter, however, the Scots fell on their knees in prayer, imploring the aid of the Almighty arm; in their cause. All Christian armies have chaplains, who pray against each other as soldiers fight; but, of course, nobody can suppose that God is ever on both sides.


For my part, I do not believe that He is . ever present, helping one band or nation of his children to slaughter another ; but I do believe that He always favors freedom and justice, by inspiring the hearts of patriots with a sense of right. Men are braver and stronger fighters for a good conscience; and it is better to go praying than cursing even into battle.

So, though the English fought well, and seemed much the stronger, they were beaten, and driven, out of Scotland, which thenceforth belonged to the Scots.

True, other efforts were made, under both Edward the Second and Third, to reconquer the country, but Bruce and his good generals were too strong for them; and finally the latter English king was glad to renounce all pretensions to the Scottish throne* and to give his sister Joanna in marriage to Robert Bruce’s son David. True, after Bruce’s death, the Scots had a great deal of trouble and strife; but the fighting was among themselves, — a succession of family quarrels and civil brawls, — they had, at least, that comfort.

Robert Bruce reigned for several years, wise-


ly and prosperously, and died peacefully, at his favorite residence on the banks of the Clyde, in his fifty-seventh year. In his last moments, he requested his beloved Douglas to have his heart embalmed, and to bear it to Jerusalem, —: fighting his way, if necessary, through the hostile Saracens who held the Holy Land. The Good Douglas promised with many tears ; and when his royal master was dead, he collected a gallant train, and set out for Palestine, bearing the heart in a silver casket.

But, on his way, he stopped for a while in Spain, where it happened he found King Al-plionso at war with the Moors; and, thinking that Saracens were Saracens wherever they could be met with, he plunged into the fight, and was killed. His body was found lying over the silver casket containing the Bruce’s heart, as though he had thought of it last. This was carried back to Scotland, and buried under the high altar of Melrose Abbey,—which was as well for the heart, and no worse for the soul of the hero, which was, and is, safe in the keeping of God.

The character of Robert Bruce was by no means perfect; but his faults belonged mostly


to his time, — his virtues were all his own. He had a bad early training, — he began life wrong; but he proved himself a true man at last, arid left to his country not only a great fame, but a memory beloved and blessed forever.

In conclusion, I will relate a little incident, which I consider the most beautiful thing recorded of Robert Bruce. I have called him Robert Bruce all along, because I think that simple name sounds nobler than his formal title of “ King Robert the Eirst.” Don’t it strike you so ?


Not long after Robert Bruce had put down his enemies, and fixed himself firmly on the throne of Scotland, his brother, Edward Bruce, a gallant and courageous man, was invited by the Irish, who were in the midst of one of their countless rebellions against England, to come over and be theii leader and king.

Robert, who loved his brave brother veiy dearly, not only gave him an army, but went


himself to assist in the noble undertaking. The two Bruces gained several battles at first; but the English forces, which were very strong, were led by excellent generals, and the Irish, who, it seems, never did know what was good for themselves, or who were their best friends, joined their old oppressors in great numbers, from jealousy of their new allies. So things took an unfortunate turn, and the little army of the Scots was obliged to give way and retreat before the multitude of their opponents. At last the generous Edward Bruce was killed, and his followers went home, wishing the Irish joy of the rulers they had preferred to him.

Some time before this, however, Hing Robert had been recalled to Scotland by pressing duties; but he went, fearing the worst, disappointed and sorrowful.

The incident which I promised to relate is this: —

One morning, when the Bruces were about to commence a hasty retreat, before a large army of English and Irish, whom it would be imprudent to meet, and just as King Robert was about to mount his horse, he heard wild and piteous


cries, which seemed to come from some woman in great distress.

“ What is the matter ? ” he asked of one of his guard.

Oj nothing, your Majesty, but a poor woman, a laundress, who has a new-born babe, and is not well enough to go on with us. She is crying with fear that she shall be killed by the enemy, and I do not doubt she will, if we leave her behind.”

What was to be done ? They had no carriages or carts, and there was not time to construct a litter to carry the poor woman and her baby. Most generals would not have given a second thought to them, knowing the great danger of a halt just then; but Robert Bruce, looking round on liis men, said, with a generous glow on his cheek, and manly tears springing to his eyes : “All, fellow-soldiers, let it not be said that a man who has once himself been a helpless babe, and nursed by a mother’s tenderness, should leave a woman and her infant at the mercy of barbarians. In the name of God, let the odds and the risk be what they may, I will fight, rather than leave these poor creatures behind me! So


let the army draw up in line of battle, instead of retreating.”

He was cheerfully obeyed by his officers and men, — for, thank Heaven! nothing is so catching as a genuine spirit of heroism and humanity, — but, to the surprise of all, their enemies sheered off, and refused to fight. Sir Edmond Butler, the English general, thought from Bruce’s halting and offering battle, that he had received a large reinforcement, and judged it not safe to hazard an engagement.

So the Scottish leader suffered no harm for his heroic delay; and yet, had the result been less fortunate, I do not believe he would ever have repented of that generous and merciful deed, which I am sure you will now agree with me is the best and kingliest act related of Robeit Bruce.




royal residences of Scotland. It stands high on the margin of a lovely lake, and, though in ruins, has still a great deal of architectural

beauty and stateliness.

Linlithgow was at first little more than a fort,


built by Edward I., and afterwards occupied by his troops. It was taken by some of Robert Bruce’s men in the following clever and daring way.

The English garrison was supplied with hay by a farmer in the neighborhood, of the name of Binnock, who secretly favored Bruce. The Scots of old were famous for stratagems; and so, when one day the English governor peremptorily commanded this Binnock to furnish a large quantity of hay, the farmer laid a plan for making him pay rather more than the market price for that article. He concealed a large band of liberty-loving Scots near the gate of the fort, and charged them to be still, until they should hear the signal-cry, which was to be “ Call all! call all! ” Then he placed in the cart several strong, brave men, some half-dozen of whom were his own sons, — all well armed and lying on their breasts, — and these he covered completely with hay. The driver was a faithful, stout-hearted fellow, who carried in his hand a small axe, or hatchet. Binnock himself walked behind the cart, humming a merry tune. The warders, seeing only the farmers with the load of hay, which they expected,


opened the gates and raised the portcullis, to let them into the courtyard. But as soon as they got well under the gateway, Binnock gave a sign to the driver, who instantly cut the oxen free from the cart and started them onward, — which of course left the cart standing right under the arch of the gateway. At this very moment, Bin-nock shouted out his signal, “ Call all! call all! ” and drawing a sword, which until then he had kept hid under his farmer’s frock, he laid about him famously, like the vigorous, half-barbarous Scot he was. The armed men leaped up from under the hay and rushed upon the English guard, who tried in vain to close the gates, or drop the portcullis with that cumbersome ox-cart in the way. Then the men in ambush outside came pouring in, and the castle was soon taken, and all the English garrison killed, or taken prisoners.

Robert Bruce, when he became king, rewarded Binnock by the gift of a fine estate, which his family long enjoyed. I once visited at the house of one of the descendants of this patriotic farmer, Mr. Francis Bennoch, a Scottish gentleman, who, though living in England, still dearly loves his


brave fatherland. I well remember how one day, when I happened to notice his armorial crest, — the device a cart and the figure of an ox, I think, — my friend told me this story of the taking of Linlithgow, in liis own pleasant way.

The palace was at its highest point of splendor during the reigns of James IV. and V. and Mary Queen of Scots. This famous- princess, the daughter of James V. and Mary of Guise, was born in an apartment on the western side of the palace, which is yet standing.

Doubtless many of you have read the story of this unhappy queen, but I trust none of you will be unwilling to refresh your memories with a brief review of her sad, eventful life here.


When James V. died, there was a great deal of scheming and quarrelling between two rival parties for the regency, — for the privilege of wielding the supreme power during the long minority of his infant daughter. The two candidates were the queen-mother, and the Earl of


Arran, the nearest male relative of the princess. So there were disputes, battles, and troubles of all sorts, before Mary of G-uise, a clever and high-spirited woman, succeeded in placing herself in the chair of state, — about the most uncomfortable seat in the world. I cannot believe that the poor woman thought herself happy after all, surrounded as she was by enemies, and oppressed by the great cares of government; but it is to be hoped that she felt she was in the way of her duty to her daughter and the country.

But happily all this time the pretty little Queen Mary knew nothing of these great political strifes and intrigues. Safe and quiet in her nursery at Linlithgow, she slept and ate, smiled and crowed, cut her teeth, and learned to walk and talk as care-free and happy as any peasant child in all her kingdom. Her dark time was not yet come.

When Mary Stuart was six years of age, she was sent to the French court, to be educated under the care of her mother’s relatives. She was accompanied by four little ladies of rank about her own age, and all bearing her own name. These remained with her for many years, and were called “ the Queen’s Marys.”



It must have been a pretty and touching sight to see the little queen and her little maids taking leave of their mammas, and setting sail for a far, strange land. How they must have cried and struggled and begged, titled ladies though they were, to go back on shore with those dear mammas ! What a dismal, damp, unsteady place the ship must have seemed to them, and how dark and deep and awful the sea must have looked to them, the poor little girls ! But their tears have all been wiped away, long, long ago, in the land where there is “ no more sea,” nor parting, nor grieving; — it is pleasant to think of that.

Mary Stuart soon became quite contented in her new home, and grew in beauty and accomplishments, — as did her Marys, though in an inferior degree, of course. They would almost have thought it disloyal to equal their mistress,— high treason to surpass her.

When Mary was about fifteen she married Francis, the Dauphin, who soon after became King of France. But not long did Mary enjoy the glory of being queen of two kingdoms; her husband, Francis II., died after a very.brief reign, and finding herself neglected and unkindly


treated at the court of his brother, Charles IX., and his mother, Catherine de Medicis, as thoroughly wicked a woman as ever lived, she resolved to return to her own country, where she was now needed, — her brave mother having died of disappointments and very weariness, glad it seemed to rest, even in the grave, from the trouble and turmoil of her delegated sovereignty.

When Mary left France she was just eighteen,

— an elegant, accomplished, and clever princess,

— graceful, winning, and marvellously beautiful, if we may trust the poets and historians of her time. I cannot describe her, as it has never been exactly settled, I believe, which of the many pictures of her yet in existence is the true one. If any of you ever visit the great palace of Versailles, you may see as many as half a dozen different portraits of her, as different as can be; so you can have your choice. Some prefer one, some another.

Scotland seemed but a poor and dismal country to the young queen, coming from the rich, sunny land and gay court of France. Her Marys had loving mothers and kindred to welcome them home; but her mother was in the grave, and she


had .no kindred on whose love she could depend, no home but gloomy castles and formal palaces. Ah, what a glorious tiling it is to be a queen !

The Scottish people, however, were very glad to get their legitimate sovereign back, — were proud of her grace and beauty, and rejoiced over her in their own rude, simple way. Sir Walter Scott relates, that, on the evening of her arrival at Holyrood Palace, no less than three hundred of the citizens of Edinburgh appeared under her window, and serenaded her all night long, “ each doing his best on a three-stringed fiddle.” This terrific serenade has not been set down by historians among poor Mary Stuart’s great trials, but I doubt not she found it hard enough to bear at the time of it.

Queen Mary’s misfortunes were of three different kinds, — religious, domestic, and political. Her first misfortune was in being a Catholic, when the larger number of her people were Protestants ; her second was in marrying a handsome simpleton; and her third grew out of these two. Her being a Papist was an enormous sin in the eyes of many of her Protestant subjects, which not all her loveliness, graciousness, and accom*


plishments could atone for. There was a celebrated Protestant preacher of that time, named John Knox, who used to thunder away at the court and queen, — sometimes rebuking her to her face in 110 very respectful terms, — little thinking, poor man ! how full his own stern heart was of bigotry and intolerance. She may have deserved all he said; for she was fond of pleasure, and devotedly attached to her own church, for all its wickedness. I do not know but that, had she had the power, she would have burned heretics in her zeal, like her cousin, Mary of England, — though I doubt it much, for she was not naturally cruel; but I do not much doubt that Mr. Knox would have used gentler language in her presence, if-she had had that power. As it was, his party was too strong to be put down, and he spoke his mind bravely, and made a clean breast of it.

The husband which Mary Stuart chose, principally for his beauty and showy accomplishments, was her kinsman, Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley. He was young, rash, self-willed, ambitious ; and, with little sense and less heart, was a very poor husband for any woman, — and the proudest


queen is, after all, a woman, with a heart to love and suffer. I think that Mary Stuart, with all her wit and spirit, would have regretted her roolish choice after a while, if her husband had been ever so good and faithful; but she might have made the best of it, and gone on loving him in a dull sort of a way, and been tolerably happy, as the world goes. But as it was, she not only tired of the spoiled, passionate, faithless young man, but grew to hating him bitterly. This is how it came about: She had in her suite, as private secretary, a handsome Italian youth, by the name of David Rizzio, who was a great favorite with her, and whom she treated with rather unqueenlike familiarity. Many of the courtiers were enraged at this, and hated Rizzio with a fierce, scornful hatred, —not for any crime of his,—not out of envy or jealousy,—0 no! but because, forsooth, he was a foreigner, poor and low-born. But no jealous noble of them all hated as Darnley hated. He saw the society of the clever and agreeable Italian preferred to his by Mary, who no longer tried to conceal her contempt and dislike of her husband, and he vowed to destroy her favorite. Now this David, like


David of old, was skilled in music, and Mary, like King Saul, loved to be soothed by his playing and singing, when she was vexed or sorrowful. But the time came when he sang no more sweet songs for her delight and consolation. One night, as he sat at supper with the queen and her ladies, in a small cabinet, Darnley and several other noblemen suddenly burst upon the merry little party, and murdered the Italian before the eyes of his mistress. Poor Eizzio clung to the dress of the queen, and implored her to save him, and she begged for his life with prayers and tears, — but all in vain! The conspirators dragged him through her bedchamber and the anteroom to the head of the stairs, where they despatched him with no less than fifty-six wounds. So the poor youth paid dearly for the queen’s favor, and so it was that the queen grew to hate her miserable husband.

Two months after this, Queen Mary gave birth to a little prince, who was afterwards James VI., and who inherited his father’s heartlessness, his mother’s irresoluteness, and the beauty of neither.

The next favorite of Mary was a very different


man from the gentle, song-singing Italian, — the Earl of Bothwell, a dark, stern, bloody-handed profligate. Again the virtuous courtiers were indignant, — again the preachers thundered away at her for her misplaced fondness ; for the wicked earl had a wife, and she had a husband of her own,—such as he was. It was this .Bothwell who brought about the next domestic misfortune, or crime of the queen, — the murder of her husband. This took place at a religious house, called “Kirk of the Field,” just beyond the city walls, where Darnley was lodged for a time, being ill with the small-pox. One dark winter night, the house in which he lay was blown up by gunpowder, deposited under his chamber by the hirelings of Bothwell. The earl himself was present, and saw the awful deed accomplished. Darnley was found in a neighboring field, not much disfigured, but dead, of course. So he paid dearly for being a king-consort.

It has always been a great question with historians whether Mary was, or was not accessory to the murder of her husband, and it remains a question which I do not think will ever be decided beyond all dispute. It is one of those


secrets of human history which rest with God ; but, as it is pleasanter to think well than ill of our fellow-beings, let us hope that she was wholly innocent of so dreadful a crime.- We can safely do that.

The worst thing against Mary was her weak, suspicious conduct in regard to Bothwell, after the murder. She did not bring him to a fair trial, but continued to treat him with apparent favor. Perhaps she was afraid him, for he was very bold and powerful. But . such cowardice is a crime in itself ; and certain it is, that most of her subjects believed her not only weak, but wicked, and began to murmur against her, and declare that they would no longer be ruled by the profligate murderess; and when she suffered Bothwell to divorce his wife, and actually married him herself, the people broke out in open rebellion.    ,

To her great mortification, Mary found that her army would not fight for her and her detested husband, but began to disband and go over to their foes. Bothwell, who, like all bullies and assassins, was cowardly and treacherous, forsook his wife, and ran awav from the first battle,—


ran till he got to the sea, where he took up the life of a pirate, a very proper career for him.

Queen Mary surrendered to the confederated Scottish lords, who took her in triumph to Edinburgh, where the people insulted her most grossly as she rode through the streets, accusing her of murder and all sorts of crimes, which conduct to a humbled and defenceless woman, however erring, does not speak very well for the humanity of the people, or the magnanimity of the victors who conducted her. But I am afraid that many who were most noisy in crying out against her in her hour of misfortune, would have fawned at her feet if she had still been in power, — even if she had made way with as many husbands as Bluebeard did wives.

Queen Mary was then imprisoned in Lochleven Castle, on a small island, where, with a few faithful attendants, she was strictly guarded by stern jailers, while her half-brother, the Earl of Murray, assumed the regency and the guardianship of the young Prince James. At Lochleven Castle, Mary spent nearly a year in sorrowful captivity, — walking sometimes in a little mouldy garden, embroidering with her maids, or looking


out, from her lonely tower, across the lake, for deliverers that never came. At length, by her beauty, her smiles and tears, she so moved the kind heart of a young lad in the service of the Laird of Lochleven, one William Douglas, that he got possession of the keys of the castle, and at night let out the queen and one of her maids, and rowed them to the shore, where several of Mary’s friends, some of them powerful Catholic nobles, were awaiting her.

When William Douglas left the castle he locked the gates and flung the keys into the lake,— where, strange to say, they were found by a fish erman, only a few years ago.

. Queen Mary soon rallied a considerable army of adherents, which met the regent’s forces at Langside, and were defeated. Mary beheld the battle from a hill near by, and at its close, mounted her palfrey, her heart wild with grief and despair, and rode sixty miles before she stopped.

She took shelter in the Abbey of Dundrennan, where she made up her mind to seek refuge in England, and place herself under the protection of her cousin, Queen Elizabeth. This was the


most fatal step in a life that was full of fatal steps. Queen Elizabeth hated her beautiful rival, and from the first treated her, not as an unfortunate sister sovereign, but as a captive and a criminal. For nineteen years she kept her a close prisoner, — only removing her from one gloomy castle to another more gloomy,—till at last she caused her to be tried for various crimes, and then, when the judges had pronounced her guilty, signed the warrant for her execution, ?— with a few strokes of the pen, condemned her to death. Mary Stuart was beheaded at Fotherin-gay on the 8th of February, 158T.

It takes but a little time and few words to say that Elizabeth imprisoned her cousin Mary nineteen years before beheading her,—but it was a long time for one woman to hold a deadly spite against another. It is an awful thing to think of!

Wearily, lonesomely, sorrowfully must those long, dark years have passed to poor Mary Stuart. — so that when death came at last, even though armed with the headsman’s axe, he was as welcome to her as was to the apostle the angel who delivered him from prison.

Mary died very heroically and like a Christian,


forgiving and praying for her enemies. She left some faithful friends, who wept for her such tears as all the riches of the English queen could not purchase, — all her power could not wring from any human eye. She had also a pretty pet spaniel, who was greatly attached to her, and had to be taken by force from her bleeding body, — and now, through nearly three hundred years, the dumb grief of that poor little dog seems to plead with our hearts for his mistress.

Elizabeth Tudor lived without love, and so “ without God in the world.” Mary Stuart may have been as erring as that other beautiful Mary who poured precious ointment on the feet of our Lord Jesus, — but she also “loved much,” and so we may hope was forgiven.



it, those few days were unpleasant. We happened there in the beginning of the wet season, early in October, and the sun scarcely shone upon us during our stay. He came out quite bravely once in a while, but seemed scared at the black, ugly clouds driving 6


up against him, and went in directly. We were obliged to go about sight-seeing under a big, dripping umbrella, or trying desperately to peer through a drizzling “ Scotch mist,” which is a lazy, sullen sort of a rain; so you will not wonder if I seem to have rather a dim, uncertain recollection of the grand old town.

Edinburgh has a very beautiful and imposing site, “upon a cluster of eminences, at the distance of a mile and a half from the Eirth of Forth,” which you know is an arm of the sea. It is surrounded by a picturesque country, with noble wooded hills and flowery valleys, — plains and rivers and wild waterfalls, — parks, gardens, castles, and ivied ruins, — lovely and wonderful to see.

Upon the loftiest eminence stands Edinburgh Castle, on the site where, twelve hundred years ago, Edwin, a Northumbrian king, first built a fort, around which eventually sprung up a town, called, in his honor, Edwinsburgh, or Edinburgh. In the Celtic language, this town is still called Dunedin, or “ the Hill of Edwin.” In this way the king carved his name and founded his fame on a rock, though he was probably a rude, war-


like prince, who could neither read nor write. The present castle is a very old building, and, from its position, so strong that it has never been taken by assault, though several times by siege, and once by surprise.

Randolph, Earl of Moray, — Bruce’s Randolph, — was one of the brave Scots who took it by surprise in a very bold and singular way. A Scot tish gentleman by the name of Francis came to him in private, and told him that, when he was a young man, he lived in the castle, where his father was keeper, and that he knew a way of scaling the crags and wall, unknown to any other soul. It seems that his father, the keeper, had kept him a little too strictly, shutting him up within the dreary fortress, as though he had been a prisoner, or a criminal, till he rebelled, and, being a brave, adventurous fellow, contrived a plan of 'nightly escape to the pleasant town below. He made use of a small ladder for descending the wall, and then boldly slid, or swung himself down the face of the steep rock, where a slight misstep, or a moment’s giddiness, might have cost him his life. He always returned before daylight, by the same way, clambering


up tlie rocks, and scaling the wall ; and he was careful to choose dark nights for his expeditions, as there was great danger of his being discovered bj the sentinels. Yet he had gone and returned safely many times,for, “to tell the honest truth,” he said, “ there was then a bonnie lassie living down in the GrasSmarket, who was glad to see me when I came, and sorry to have me go.” When the brave soldier said this, he blushed through his grizzly beard and the bronze of fifty summers; but his broad chest heaved with a great sigh when he added: “ She was my wife afterwards; she is dead now, and it will be, I confess, a sad thing for me to climb again the steep path I used to leap down with so light a heart; yet, for my country’s sake, I ’11 do it. I am ready to lead any who are brave enough to follow.”

Randolph gladly accepted his offer, and one dark night, with a party of thirty picked men, undertook the ascent of the rock, led: by Francis. They were obliged to scramble up the steepest portion of the way; to swing themselves from cliff to cliff, where the breaking of the least point of the rock, or the loosening of


a stone, would have been a fatal accident.. Their greatest danger was of being discovered by the watchmen of. the fortress, as they could all have been destroyed by a few large stones rolled down the rock. While they , were on their perilous way, and before they had reached the shelter of the wall, they heard the guard going its round, to see that all was well. The Scots crouched down against the dark, rock, and the stoutest heart among them beat fast with anxiety; but what was their dismay when a stone came rattling down upon them, and a sentinel shouted from the wall: .“ Aha ! I see : you well! ” Of course they thought themselves discovered ; but as they could gain nothing but broken limbs and necks, by a precipitate flight, they wisely concluded to lie down and keep still in the friendly darkness. Arid it proved that the soldier’s cry was only a trick played upon his comrades, who, however, laughed and passed oii, saying: “No, no, man; you can’t befool us with such silly false alarms. Your dirty Scots must be cats Or; foxes, to clamber up such rocks as those yonder.” But they found out their own mistake, to their cost, a


half-hour later, when Francis, Randolph, and their men leaped over the wall, and killed or took captive the entire English garrison.

Edinburgh is divided into the Old Town and the New Town, which are so totally unlike as to seem like two different cities. The Old Town is that built within the limits of the ancient walls. For several centuries, citizens did not think it safe to live without these bounds, and, as the town grew in wealth and importance, it became very much crowded in population, and, being cramped for room, the buildings seemed to shoot up like trees in a thick forest, to a great height. They could afford room but for a single thoroughfare of any width, — High Street, extending from the Castle to Holyrood Palace, — the houses being divided by closes, or narrow alleys, so narrow, damp, and dark, that they looked like clefts in some bleak mountain’s sides, in which cold, hideous shadows lurk day and night, driving back the light and warmth,

■—into which, it would seem, the cheery little sunbeams dare not drop, for fear of losing themselves and being forgotten, and not able to answer for themselves when the father-sun calls home his children at nicht.


These queer old monster houses look dismal enough now-a-days, — gray, and almost tottering with age, and nearly blind, with their narrow windows dim with dirt, and half-unglazed ; but they were more cheerful, as well as grander edifices, in their time. Each house was built to accommodate several families, — as many as there were stories, or flats, which ranged from five to ten or twelve, — all reached by a common staircase. It was more like a pile of houses, layer on layer, than a single building. The first floor was considered the most honorable ; after passing that, the higher you went in flats, the lower you sunk in gentility, till, strange to say, when you reached the attic, you were set down among the lower classes. Now, all the rich and titled and learned people have emigrated to modern houses in New Town, and there is not such a difference between families who inhabit those crazy, gigantic houses in Old Town; they are all dignified and dirty, ragged and respectable alike. The New Town lies to the northward of the Old, and is very neatly and elegantly built, — its handsome edifices looking all the more beautiful and comfortable in


contrast with the grand but gloomy old piles which frown above. — many of them packed full of poverty and wretchedness.

Our first visit was to the Castle, from whose walls we should have enjoyed a wide, magnificent view, had it not been for that provoking mist. In the old palace of Queen Mary, a part of the Castle, we were shown the room in which King James the Sixth was born. It is very small, — scarcely more than a closet, and is only lighted by one little window, which opens directly on the dizzy, jagged precipice. This was a dismal asylum for the. poor young queen in her sorrow, and a dark, prison-like place for the royal babe to open his eyes upon for the first time ; yet I doubt if he minded it.

In another apartment is kept the Scottish regalia, which consists of a crown, a sceptre, a sword of state, and a treasurer’s mace. These are splendid mementos of dead royalty. The crown sparkles and glows with many precious stones. It is not known how old this is, so we cannot tell how many royal brows have ached under it. Those costly stones really seem alive, — they twinkle and quiver so, — and yet they


are cold, hard, unfeeling things, living on and on, and gayly sparkling, while their great and lovely wearers decay and die. Mary Stuart once wore that crown, and in her rich royal robes, with courtiers kneeling at her feet, and music swelling around her, and those brilliant gems making a glory about her head, she must have seemed more like a goddess than a mortal woman. Now, it is very sad to look on the red glow of those rubies, and on the keen flash of those diamonds, and think how soon the rose of life faded from her fair cheek, and the light went out in her beautiful eyes.

Prom the Castle, we walked down High Street, through the Canongate, — once the Court end of the town, but now one of its most dismal and dilapidated quarters, —to the Palace of Holyrood. On our way we stopped to see the old house of John Knox, Queen Mary’s stern reprover. It is a quaint, brown edifice, moss-grown and mouldy. As you approach it, you see before you the rough old Reformer himself, in the act of preaching the very longest of his long sermons, —that: is, a stone effigy of him, which seems to be haranguing the passers-by.    \


We also passed Moray House, the ancient town mansion of the earls of that name, and the Scottish head-quarters of Cromwell; and Queens-bury House, in old times the residence of the dukes of Queensbury, but in these days actually an almshouse. I wonder if the paupers are any happier for being in such an aristocratic asylum, and I wonder if they ever play at gentility among themselves, and make believe they are dukes and duchesses ?

Holyrood Palace was added to an Abbey by that name, founded by David the First. It was nearly all destroyed by Cromwell, but was rebuilt in the old style, by Charles the Second. Fortunately the portion of the palace spared was the northwestern angle, which contained the apartments of Queen Mary. We ascended to these by a stone staircase, very unlike the grand marble stairways of modern palaces, and came first to a vestibule, where the guide showed us some spots upon the floor, which he said in a solemn whisper were poor Rizzio’s blood. We did not dispute him, but I am afraid we did not look quite as awestruck as he expected, for in that dark place it was extremely difficult to make out any spots


at all in the floor, though some folks have seen them very plainly, and of quite a lively red, — so they say.

Next we were shown the queen’s presence chamber, — a large, handsome apartment, out of which opens the queen’s bedchamber, which is yet very much as Mary Stuart left it, except that the paintings are faded and the hangings decayed. It gives one a strange feeling to look upon the very bed on which she slept, and the silk counterpane that covered her, so many, many years ago. That old counterpane,—how often it must have been heaved up by the proud and indignant beatings of her passionate heart, or shaken by wild sobs, in lonely nights, when her sorrows came upon her! Then there was an ancient mirror which she had used, and 0, how I longed to have it show me, but for one instant, the beautiful face it had reflected a thousand times! This is a pleasant chamber, and though by no means very splendid, it is, to all readers of Scottish history, one of the most interesting apartments in the world. Opening out of it is the small cabinet, in which the queen, one or two of her ladies, and David Rizzio, once sat at supper, — the last

132    ^DINBTJEGH.

supper of the poor Italian, when Darnley and the other assassins burst in upon them. The private staircase by which they ascended from the apartments of the king-consort was shown to us, — a dark, ugly passage, — just such a one as you would expect murderers to make use of, in stealing on their prey.

We afterwards walked through the picture gallery, where we were shown more than a hundred portraits of Scottish monarchs, which nobody believes in. It is said they were painted but a few years ago, for country visitors to gape at, and that a burly palace porter sat for many of them. I think it likely, for the daubs are quite fresh, and there is a strong family likeness running through them.

We visited also the beautiful ruins of the chapel in which Mary Stuart was married to Darnley, and where he was buried, after having been blown up by his enemies.

Back of Holyrood Palace lie the open grounds called “ the queen’s park,” — the queen’s pastures, would be a truer name, as they are nearly destitute of trees. These include the height called Arthur’s Seat, and Salisbury Crags, —


which we did not visit, but advise you to, if you ever get a chance. We did ascend Calton Hill, however, — a noble eminence in the town, beautifully laid out with walks, and crowned with a monument to Lord Nelson, — a great idol, a sort of sea-god of the British nation, who, with the Duke of Wellington, is sculptured and painted, and pillared and' carved, and busted and monu-mented, all over the three kingdoms. Near this shaft is what is called “ The National Monument,” — the beginning of a splendid temple in honor of the Scotsmen killed in the last war with France, — thirteen white marble pillars, which cost a thousand pounds apiece. The people’s patriotism or purses gave out, and the temple will probably never be finished, but it will make a fine little ruin for travellers to admire, and learned men to dispute about a thousand years hence.

There is also on this hill a tasteful monument to the poet-ploughman, Robert Burns, whom the Scottish people do well to honor. But the chief pride and beauty of Edinburgh New Town, is the monument to Sir Walter Scott, a gothio tower, noble and imposing, yet very graceful and


beautiful, like his great and wonderful genius, the glory of his native land, and the delight of the world.

I have not space here to touch upon half of the interesting sights and peculiarities of Edinburgh, nor to tell you how charmed I was (in spite of the weather) with that quaint, romantic, and most singular place ; but, in other chapters, I will tell you somewhat more. Though this dear old town does not contain such splendid cathedrals and palaces as many foreign cities can boast, I am happy to say that it has a great number of noble institutions, — palaces of learning, and hospitals for the sick and unfortunate, asylums for the old and destitute, — God’s houses, if he has any on earth.

I do not mean to give you the history of any king, queen, or great personage whatever in this chapter, —I am merely going to amuse you with a simple, true little story, which I have laughed over more than once. I shall tell it in my own way, and if any of you think, from the title, it will be more foolish than profitable, why, just skip it.



In the good old days, wlien the Scottish people had a parliament of their own, and the Scottish nobility and gentry had not thought of forsaking Old Town, in one of those immense High Street houses which seemed to contain a little world in themselves, there lived an advocate by the name of Ramsay.

Now, the Ramsays were of very good family indeed, —they occupied the second flat, and looked down with some contempt, I fear, upon the occupants of the stories above them, whenever they met them on the wide common stairway, which went up and up, and dwindled off and off, like Jack’s beanstalk, till it ended, not in a wicked giant’s palace, but at the door of the topmost attic room, where lived a funny little dwarf, who made toys for good children. On the first flat lived Lord Glenalbin, a celebrated judge, to whom the advocate and his family looked up with great reverence, especially when they met him on the stairs, dressed in his flowing black robes and big white wig, on his way to court.


Then there was something grand, almost awful, m his appearance, — in his solemn way of taking snuff, in his stern gait, every footstep falling as though it decided the fate of some poor criminal.

The Ramsays had two daughters, Phemie and Margery, — both very pretty, but very unlike. Phemie was a wild, mischievous girl, who dearly loved a frolic, and would not deny herself a joke, or a bit of sport, even if it must be at the expense; of her best friend, or of a harmless, defenceless dumb creature. I never heartily like such children, though they sometimes amuse me. They don’t wear well at home, —they are too like India sweetmeats, too spicy for every-day use. Very different was her younger sister, Margery, — a sweet, gentle, tender-hearted little girl, who loved fun well enough, but loved love better. Margery was her father’s darling, but her mother, who was a tall, red-haired, mettlesome woman, liked Phemie best, for she said: “ She is a lassie o’ spirit, and no sic a saft, timorous, wee thing (not such a soft, timid, little thing) as the bairnie, Margery,—-the Lord care for her, for she is one of his ain puir bleeting lammies!” (one of his own bleating lambkins).


Margery was very fond of pets. She had caged birds within doors, who sung their very sweetest for her, and tame pigeons without, who came daily to feed from her hands at the window; and, finally, her good father brought her home the dearest pet of all, — a pretty, gentle, playful kitten.

These were friends and playfellows for Margery, but Phemie only took delight in teasing them, and they in return feared and disliked her. The birds ruffled up their feathers and scolded at her from their cages, and even the meek young kitten, at sight of her, allowed an unbecoming anger to bristle in her whiskers, hump up her back, and swell out her taper little tail.

But we must return to Lord G-lenalbin. It happened that the close which divided this house from its neighbor was very narrow, — not over six feet wide, and that across the way lived another lordship, a friend to the judge. On fine mornings, before going to Court or Parliament, these two noblemen often enjoyed what the Scotch call “ a crack,” that is, a chat, together, each leaning out of his chamber window.

One morning, when they were very earnestly


engaged discussing some great political matter, the little girls, Phemia and Margery, were looking down upon them from the window above. Suddenly, Phemie ran away, but came back soon, laughing roguishly, and bringing Margery’s kitten with a long silk cord tied about its middle, and in spite of the tearful entreaties of the little girl, who dared not openly resist any whim of her giddy and headstrong sister, she swung the poor scared creature over the window-seat, and let her down, down, and dropped her right on to his lordship’s big white wig! Then, a little frightened at her trick, she began to pull in; but pussy, frantic with fright, fixed her sharp claws into the wig, and hung on desperately, so when she rose, the wig rose with her. Just imagine his lordship’s surprise and horror, on feeling his wig lifted from his head, and seeing it go whirling up into the air, as though carried by invisible hobgoblins, — for at first he could not see the kitten and cord. But his friend over the way had seen the whole affair, and laughed uproariously at his ridiculous plight, — which did not help him take it good-humoredly. But his lordship was not, after all, very stern and haughty, though he felt it his duty,


as a judge and a, nobleman, to appear so, — and though justly shocked and indignant at the saucy trick that had been played upon him, when Mrs. Ramsay herself came hurrying down, all a-trem-ble with terror, and made a humble apology for her giddy-brained little girl, lie was good enough to unbend and cool down, and to say, as he readjusted the wig on his noble head: “ Weel, weel, my guid woman, dinna fash yoursel’, — there ’s na muckle harm done, — bairns will be bairns.” (Well, well, my good woman, — don’t trouble yourself, — there ’s not much harm done, — children will be children.)

When Mrs. Ramsay came back from this interview she rated her wild daughter soundly.

“ What will you be aboot neixt ? — ye ne’er do weel! Can ye no turn your hand to something mair (more) respectable than dangling cats oot o’ the window to catch honest men’s wigs ! — and will naething (nothing) content ye, but a judge's wig, a laird’s wig, ye saucy hizzie ! As for the wee bit baudrons (the little cat), I ’11 tell ould Davie to gie her a toss into the loch, wi’ a stane aboot her neck.” (I ’11 tell old David to give her a toss into the lake, with a stone about her neck.)


Poor Margery was filled with grief and horror at these words. She did not try to plead with her angry mother, but, folding her kitten close in her pinafore, she stole out of the room, ran down to the first floor, and asked the porter if she might see Lord Grlenalbin. He was gone to the Parliament House. Would you believe it, this timid little girl, brave now for her dear pet’s sake, followed the judge even to that awful place ! The Court was not yet opened ; and, without much difficulty, Margery found his Lordship, in the midst of a group of members of Parliament and advocates, amusing them with an account of his being so strangely unwigged that morning.

You see, he thought he would tell the story first, and laugh with the others, for he knew his friend would not keep such a good joke to himself. Little Margery crept up to his Lordship, and pulling at his long black robe, raising her soft, sad, appealing eyes to his face, and lifting up her kitten, who had just then given a piteous mew, she said: “ Please, my laird, forgive my wee kitten, for lifting your lairdship’s wig off your lairdship’s head! She did na ken (did


not know) whose wig it was. Mither is sae sair fashed aboot it (is so troubled about it) that she says auld Davie shall drown my pet. ,Oh ! will you no forgive the puir beastie, for I canna see her gang awa to dee! — it gars me greet to think o’ it ” (I cannot see her go away to die!—it makes me cry to think of it). And the poor child burst into tears.

“ Hush, hush, my bonnie bairnie,” said Lord' Glenalbin, “ they shall na kill your pet. Here, ’ I ’11 write her pardon; tak’ it to your mither, and, I ’11 answer for it, she will na harm a single hair o’ the wee baudron’s head. But mind, lassie, ye must na do it again, — you are ower young (too young) to angle for big wigs.”

Margery did not tell him that she: was not the saucy angler, — she thought that would not be generous to her sister; she took the paper, humbly thanked his Lordship, and ran home.

When Mrs. Bamsay read the lines her little daughter brought from Lord Glenalbin, she not only forgave pussy, but took her into great favor, though she never could abide cats before. She continued to befriend her, and nursed her in her old age,;—for she considered that cat as


having been the making of her family, by bringing them into some connection with the nobility. And so she had, for Lord Glenalbin took a great fancy to his little petitioner, Margery, which lasted all his life; and I have either heard, or dreamed, that his noble young son, who inherited his title and estates, inherited this fancy also, and that Margery finally became Lady Glenalbin, and made one of the prettiest Ladyships in all Scotland.




some time in the fourteenth century, and named after the patron saint of this town; for it is a Catholic belief that saints not only act as guardians and mediators for individuals, but often take whole cities and countries under their protection.

St. Giles’s Cathedral, or the High Church, as 7    j


it is now called, is not a very beautiful building, but it has a venerable look, and bas many interesting historical associations. It was here that James the Sixth took leave of his Scottish sub-' jects, as he was about to proceed to England, to succeed Elizabeth; and it is recorded that the people actually “ luept ” at losing him. But in St. Giles’s Cathedral occurred a yet more important event than this royal farewell. Here, on the 13th of October, 1'643, was sworn to and subscribed by the Committee of Estates in Parliament, the Commission of the Church, and the English Commission, the Solemn League and Covenant between the English Puritans and the Scottish Presbyterians. Another league, called the National Covenant, had six years before been adopted by the Scottish people alone, as a defence against the encroachments of Prelacy, or Episcopacy. Now, in this chapter, and the one which will follow, I shall try to give you a clear, though brief account of these Covenants and the Covenanters, as no one can have a good idea of the history of Scotland without fully understanding the religious questions about which the people and their rulers differed so long and bitterly. You


mil not find this account amusing, but I hope I know you too well, dear children, to fear that you will turn away dissatisfied from the serious records of history, or the plain words of instruction.

The reformation in Scotland was much more thorough and hearty than in England. Some of the reformers were too stern, hard, and uncharitable ; but they had a stern, hard work to do, and so much persecution to endure, that it is little wonder they could not keep themselves in a very amiable frame of mind. Most of them were honest and earnest men, who had the good of their country and the glory of God at heart. The forms and titles of the English Church were not very different from those of the Church of Rome, though the king was declared its head, instead of the Pope. But the Kirk of Scotland was as opposite as possible to the Church of Rome, in its forms and government. The Presbyterian system was simple and strictly republican. The affairs of the kirk were administered by representatives, meeting in assemblies, and elected by votes, and no great head of the Church was acknowledged, except Christ himself. The Scottish people went out in a great body from the Church of Rome,


because tlieir consciences condemned its corruptions, and their proud spirits rebelled against its tyranny. The English people were mostly driven out, by their hot-headed king, Henry the Eighth, who had taken a spite against the Pope ; and for many years they secretly longed to get backhand clung for dear life to as many of the Romish forms and ceremonies as their Pope-ldngs would allow them. So it could hardly be expected that there would be much sympathy between the English and Scotch Protestants, though there was really very little difference between the doctrines they professed. King James the Sixth, who was never more than half a man, showed no affection or gratitude toward the Protestant clergy, through whose power he had been placed on his poor mother’s throne. The stern old Presbyterian preachers were little to his taste. : They refused to flatter him, but bolted out their disagreeable truths, and thundered forth their rough reproofs and admonitions to his face. On one occasion, when an uncommonly free-spoken divine was preaching before him, the storm of pious rebuke came so hot and heavy that the king, jumping to his feet, called out, angrily: “ Speak sense, inon, or come down fra the pulpit! ”


The minister grew very red in the face, but answered, with becoming spirit: “I tell thee, mon, I will neither speak sense nor come down fra the pulpit.” .

When, in 1008, James was called to the English throne, he determined to unite the religions as well as the governments of the two nations; and disliking Presbyterianism, he resolved that it should be made to yield to Episcopacy, and that Scotland should “conform” to England. His first tyrannical act was to punish by banishment, and in other ways, six clergymen, for holding a general assembly without his leave. He next caused measures to be passed by the Parliament at Perth, restoring the order of Bishops, which the Kirk had abolished. Then, by threats and bribery,, he effected , the passage of laws introducing the rites and ceremonies of the English Service into the Scottish Church. The day when Parliament ratified these new laws, called the Five Articles of Perth, was long after spoken of as “ the black Saturday.” Alas ! Scotland had many such black days! The larger part of the clergy and laity refused to accept the new forms of worship, and were cruelly punished for nonconformity.


In 1625 James tlie Sixth died, and was succeeded by his son, Charles the First, who, you will recollect, was put to death by Cromwell and his party, in 1649. He had some amiable, manly qualities, — he was a good husband and father, which is more than could be said of many of the Stuart family,—but he was not a good king, and he has been pitied more than lie deserved, I think, — chiefly because he was an elegant, accomplished prince, — dignified, melancholy, handsome, and wore his hair in long, glossy curls over his shoulders. It is very hard to lose one’s head, even if it has never been anointed and worn a crown; but Charles put his to no good use, and by his foolish acts seemed bent upon getting rid of it. He was rash, obstinate, unreliable, and despotic. One of his most foolish and fatal undertakings was to carry out his father’s plan of making the Scots conform to Episcopacy. He ordered his English bishops to prepare a Liturgy, or Book of Common Prayer, for the Scottish Church, and sent, down his most royal commands that it should be universally adopted by the clergy and people.

Sunday, July 23d, 1687, was the day appointed


for tlio introduction of the new service-book into the churches of Edinburgh. A multitude of people, including all the great lords and magistrates of the city, assembled at the High Church of St. Giles. The Dean of Edinburgh was to officiate, and at the time set for the service, he came out of the vestry, dressed in his surplice, and trying to look solemn and priest-like, but evidently feeling not a little nervous and awkward. He passed to the reading-desk, and began reading the service, in a loud, but rather unsteady voice, while the people looked on silently, — some curious and wondering, as though at a show, but the greater part sullen and indignant. Among those who showed most horror and anger was an old woman by the name of Jenny Geddes. She was not learned, nor great, — she was only the keeper of a green-grocer’s stall in High Street,—but she was a dame of spirit, and a stanch Presbyterian, who hated Episcopacy next to Romanism, and Romanism next to the Evil One himself. This morning she sat on a little stool, near the desk, — but sat very uneasily from the first, — boiling over with indignation. When the Dean came out in his robes, she tossed her nose in the air


with disgust, and muttered something about “ Po* pish rags.” Then she drummed impatiently with her foot, fidgeted, and frowned, and took snuff, and glowered at him with her twinkling black eyes. At length, when he came to announce the “ Collect ” for the day, it seemed she could contain herself no longer, but springing to her feet, she caught up her stool and flung it at the poor Dean’s head, calling out at the top of her shrill voice : “ Deil colick the wame o’ thee, thou fause thief! dost thou say the mass at my lug ? ” winch, translated into plain English, means, I am sorry to say, something very like this: “ The Evil One give thee the colic, thou false thief! dost thou dare to say the mass in my ears ? ” A very unkind and impolite wish, certainly; but those were rude times you know, and Dame Janet was very much excited. The throwing of her stool was the signal for a general uproar. All the women of the congregation rushed towards the desk, threatening to tear the surplice from the Dean’s shoulders ; but he very prudently slipped it off, and while they were ripping and rending it to pieces, made his escape, and ran like a frightened hare till he reached his covert, the Deanery.


Then the Bishop of Edinburgh mounted the pulpit to call the people to order; but he soon dismounted, for he was not only saluted by cries of “ a Pope! a Pope! ” and other hard names, but by a regular storm of stools, and even stones! for the men, grown as courageous and excited as the women, were all up in arms, and chose rather to fight than to pray in the new way.

This riot was the beginning of a stout and universal resistance to the introduction of the service-book. The king was as obstinate as his subjects, and sent commands to the magistrates to punish the rioters severely, and enforce the reading of the Liturgy. Then the people banded together, and drew up and signed the great National Covenant, by which they bound themselves to oppose Episcopacy and defend Presbyterianism with their lives. Hundreds of thousands eagerly signed this covenant, though they knew it might expose them to persecution, and even to martyrdom. Some signed it with one hand raised to heaven and tears streaming down their cheeks, — and some drew blood from their arms and dipped their pens in it, to make their oaths more solemn. Such a people as this were a match for any tyrant, as 7*


King Charles found to his cost. After declar ing war against his rebellious Scottish subjects, and fighting several battles with the Covenanters, he was obliged to abandon his purpose, and make to them some important concessions. It was to a Scottish army that he finally surrendered himself, and, I regret to say, it was a Scottish army that sold him to the English Parliament.

When Charles the First was put to death, the Parliament of Scotland resolved to support his son, Charles the Second, provided he would sign the Covenant. This he did, though he hated Presbyterianism even more than his father and grandfather had done. He said it was not “the religion for a gentleman,” — a singular objection for a prince to make, who, it seemed, did not think any folly or vice ungentlemanly.

Charles signed the Covenant for nothing; his Scottish army was not strong enough to contend, with the English forces, and he was obliged to retire to the Continent, and there remain till after the death of the great Protector, Cromwell. That old lion out of the way, he came back to England, and ascended the throne; and


the people rejoiced as though this had been a happy event, and not, what it proved, a heavy misfortune.

One of the most marked men of the time of which I have written was the Marquis of Montrose, of whose eventful history I will give you a brief sketch. ;


In the more prosperous part of the reign of the first Charles, there appeared at his court a young nobleman, who; eclipsed all the courtiers in graceful accomplishments, all tlie wits in genius, all the scholars; in learning, and the king himself in beauty and dignity. : This was the Marquis of Montrose, a brave soldier, and, what is = better, a noble poet. He not ; only wrote poetry himself, but lias been the innocent cause of a great deal of poetry in others, for there was much that was splendid in his character and romantic in his career. He had a rash, fiery spirit; he was too ambitious, and sometimes too unscrupulous and unforgiving ; but


lie wap never mean or cruel, and never sought to advance himself by false, underhanded means.

The young Marquis was not favored or distinguished by King Charles as he felt that he deserved to be, and, in his proud resentment, retired to Scotland and declared for the Covenant. It was a great pity that he was not actuated by principle, instead of pique, in taking this step. However, the Covenanters received him with open arms, and the king soon had cause to repent having turned the cold shoulder to him. The Lords of the Covenant employed him in several important undertakings. At the battle of Newburn, he performed a very gallant exploit. He forded the Tyne alone, under a hot fire of the English, to ascertain the depth of the water, before leading over his regiment.

But, for all his brave deeds and valuable services, the Lords of the Covenant were envious or stupid enough to slight him, and advance above him the Duke of Argyle, a cunning, crafty man, who pretended great devotion to his country, but in his close, dark heart was selfish, scheming, and revengeful.

The families of Argyle and Montrose had been


at enmity for centuries. The present Duke was the personal foe of the Marquis ; so Montrose was doubly angered and mortified at his being pre • ferred to him. He grew sullen and dissatisfied. He had never really liked Presbyterianism: it was too strict and solemn for him, a gay young nobleman, who loved pomp and pleasure, and magnificent dress ; and now he felt only contempt and aversion for both Covenant and Covenanters. In this state of mind, the king had little trouble in winning him over to the royal cause, to which he ever after remained faithful. He became the leader of the Scottish cavaliers, the most popular, gallant, and splendid of them all. He suffered some severe defeats at first; but he kept up his great heart and persevered, till finally the praise and the fear of him filled the kingdom. He took town after town, and won battle after battle. The king sent him a commission, naming him Captain-General and Lieutenant-Governor of Scotland; then, just as he was flushed with the generous hope of being able to march into England and put down all King Charles’s enemies there, his reverses came upon him. He lost the battle of Philiphaugh, upon the borders, and was


obliged to retreat to tlie Highlands, when so many of his followers basely deserted him that the king commanded him to save himself by leaving the kingdom. He reluctantly obeyed, and in disguise escaped to Norway. He remained abroad until after the beheading of the king, when he transferred his allegiance to ' Charles the Second, and, with a small army of Germans and Scotch exiles, landed in Scotland, to strike for the rights of the prince. It was a rash enterprise, and speedily failed. In their first engagement with their powerful enemies, the royalists were defeated, and Montrose himself was obliged to assume a mean disguise to make his escape. He wandered about till he was exhausted by hunger and fatigue, when he allowed himself to be taken prisoner by a Scotch laird, one MacLeod, — feeling sure, in his noble, unsuspecting heart, of protection, as MacLeod had once been a follower of his. If any of that man’s blood ran in my veins, I should blush to own the truth, that he delivered up his old friend and chief for a miserable reward.

The Covenanter leaders were mean enough to treat their unfortunate captive with cruelty and


insult. They took him from town to town, exhibiting him in his humble disguise, — mocking him and railing at him. The people of the town of Dundee alone, though they had once suffered severely from the excesses of his troops, showed themselves forgiving and magnanimous. They supplied him with money and clothing suited to his rank, and refused to treat him like a common criminal.

Before Montrose reached Edinburgh, he had been condemned to death, as a traitor, by the Parliament, without a trial. He was sentenced to be hanged by the common hangman, on a gibbet thirty feet high, —his head to be placed on the Tolbootli (the prison), his body to be quartered, and placed on the gates of the principal towns of Scotland. By the order of that same vindictive Parliament, lie was met at the gates by the hangman, dressed for the time in the Montrose livery, and conducted to jail on a cart, bound and bareheaded. It was expected that he would be overcome by this humiliation and the insults of the; populace; but he bore himself so grandly, and looked about him with such noble dignity and calmness, that the rude rabble, instead of


jeering, were awed into silence or moved to tears. When he appeared before Parliament to hear his sentence, he conducted himself in the same calm, heroic way, and defended himself with great eloquence.

In reply to the Chancellor’s charge of breaking the Covenants, he said he had indeed taken the National Covenant, and stood by it, until it was used more in assailing the royal rights of the king than in defending the religious rights of the people; but as for The Solemn League and Covenant, he had never signed it, and was not bound by it.

When his hard sentence was read to him, lie did not flinch, but remarked that he would be more honored by having his head placed on the Tolbooth than his portrait in the king’s bed-chamber ; and as for his body being quartered, lie wished he had flesh enough to send some to every city of Europe, to testify of the cause for which he died.

That night he wrote a poem, expressing these same heroic sentiments. 0, the pity of it, that the king and the king’s father were so utterly undeserving of the devoted loyalty, the noble


blood, of such a man as Montrose! /hit never a Stuart of them all was worthy of such a sacrifice.

The Presbyterian clergy labored with the Marquis to obtain from him a confession of political crimes. He meekly acknowledged that, as a man, he had many sins to repent of; but he declared that towards his country and his king he had “ a conscience void of offence.”

One Johnstone, a famous Covenanter preacher, intruded upon him as he was dressing, the day before his execution. Seeing the prisoner combing and curling his long, beautiful hair, Johnstone gruffly remarked that he might be more profitably engaged at so solemn a time.

“May it please you,” replied the Marquis, with a haughty smile, “ I will arrange my head as I fancy, to-day, for it is still my own; to-morrow it will be yours, and you can do with it as you please.”

Montrose walked from the prison to the place of execution in the Grassmarket, where the terrible gibbet stood black and high. Here the Presbyterian preachers came about him again, like a flock of ravens, prophesying misery and wrath, if he died without acknowledging his guilt. He


answered them gently, but turned from them to the hangman, as though lie had been a friend. As a last insult, a book containing a history of his life was hung about his neck by the executioner; but again Montrose defeated the spite of his enemies, by saying that he felt as much honored by such a record of brave deeds and loyal services as he had been by the badge of the Order of the Garter, which the king had bestowed upon him. At last he submitted himself to the hangman so calmly, and died so courageously, that a great shudder ran through the crowd, and sobs and groans arose on the air; and when some of his bitter enemies looked up and saw his noble form slowly swinging above them, they felt that it would always be between them and heaven, and must bar them away from God forever.

This sad execution happened on the 21st of May, 1650. Some writers say that Argyle exulted over the death of his rival, and others, that he was shocked by it,: even to tears. Now,' though I do not admire the character of the duke, I prefer to believe that the latter account is the true one.




THE Presbyterians of Scotland had very little confidence in Charles the Second, though he had 3-ned the Covenants with the utmost solemnity. I they sent one of their number to London to ■tend the meetings held there to arrange for ie recall of the king, to stand up for the in-wests of Presbyterianism. This was a

166    EDINBUßGH.

Janies Sharp, a minister in the Presbytery of St. Andrews, who in the end proved too sharp for his employers altogether, — for when he reached London, and found which way the wind blew at court (decidedly in favor of Episcopacy), lie made a secret agreement with Charles to do all in his power to forward the royal plans, provided he could receive the Archbishopric of St. Andrews and the Primacy of Scotland.

Two other traitors to the Covenant, and tools of the king, were the Earls of Middleton and Lauderdale, — one the Royal Commissioner in Parliament, the other the Secretary of State, and both hard, coarse, unprincipled men. One of their boldest proceedings was to call a parliament and pass acts doing away with all the laws passed during the preceding twenty-two years, declaring the Covenants illegal, and prohibiting their renewal. These tyrannical enactments were not passed without threats and bribery, and only, it is said, after “ a drunken bout,” — a shameful way of legislating, which unfortunately has not quite gone out of fashion. We Americans need not go back two hundred years, into the history of a foreign country, to know that such things have been.


The people were greatly outraged by these high-handed proceedings, but did not rise in revolt till they were driven to it by actual persecution. Middleton and Lauderdale singled out several prominent Presbyterians, and brought them to the scaffold. Among these were the Marquis of Argyle, a minister by the name of Guthrie, and a Captain Go van. Guthrie suffered for writing a book against the course of the king, and Govan for having brought the tidings of Charles the First’s execution to Edinburgh, and spoken of it as “good news.” I am sorry to say that there is little, if any, more liberty to print or speak unpleasant truths, in several of the kingdoms of Europe, at this day.

The Argyle they executed was the old enemy of Montrose. His bleeding head now replaced on the Tolbooth that of the Marquis, whose almost flesliless skull and limbs were brought together and buried, with immense pomp, in the Cathedral of St. Giles. And so matters went, in those dreadful times, — heads up, and heads down, like a horrible game of see-saw: heads on, heads off — but, unhappily, never on again.


Middleton, Lauderdale, and their crew next passed an act for ejecting from their parishes all clergymen who would not conform to Episcopacy. This, also, was one of “the. drunken acts ” of the depraved king’s councillors. To their immortal honor, hundreds of clergymen refused to conform to a church government which their consciences could not accept, and were deprived at once of their means of living, and, with their families, driven from their homes, and thrown upon the charities of a poor and distracted country.

They were succeeded by a miserable set of curates, — for the most part ignorant and unprincipled men, — whose bad hearts despised the holy Word of God they dared to utter, and whose dissolute lives were a blasphemy against Him they professed to serve. It was little wonder that the moral and devout people of Scotland refused to attend upon religious services administered by such men. Some were weak and worldly enough to conform; but by far the greater part, of the peasantry at least, stood bravely by the Covenants. They followed their banished ministers to tbeir retreats among the


hills, and would have none others to instruct and guide them. Everywhere they held secret meetings for preaching and prayer, — but especially in the south and west of the kingdom. They met in private houses, in barns, or in the open air. These unlawful assemblies were called Conventicles and Field-meetings. Lauderdale and company took severe measures to punish the Non-conformists, and compel them to attend upon the services of the curates. They passed another act, commanding all the Covenanter ministers to remove twenty miles from their parishes, and forbidding them, on pain of death, ever to come within that distance of their old homes. They posted troops throughout the districts where there was most of the Covenanter spirit, to awe and oppress the people, and drive them to church, as sheep are driven into a pen. These lawless soldiers committed all sorts of outrages upon the common people, while their ferocious leaders took in hand the Presbyterians of better condition. They robbed and destroyed, — they fined and imprisoned, — and, too often, shot down their unarmed victims without legal arrest or trial. But no injustice or cru-


elty could daunt or subdue tlie feailess and faithful. Covenanters. Meeting after meeting was violently broken up ; yet still they were held in the shadowy glens and on the heathery hills, and more and more numerously attended.. Sir Walter Scott describes one of these, and I will quote his fine description, to give you an idea of the singular and impressive scene presented at such gatherings.

“ The meeting in question was held on the Eildon Hills, in the hollow betwixt two of the three conical tops which form the crest of the mountain. Trusty sentinels were placed on advanced posts all around, so as to command a view of the country below, and give the earliest notice of the approach of any unfriendly party. The clergyman occupied an elevated temporary pulpit, with his back to the wind. There were few or no gentlemen of property-or quality,— for such persons could not escape detection, and ware liable to ruin from the consequences. But many women of good condition, and holding the rank of ladies, ventured to attend the forbidden meeting, and were allowed to sit in front of the assembly.- Their side-saddles were placed


on the ground, to serve for seats; and tlieir horses were tethered in the rear of the congregation. Before the females, and in the space between them and the pulpit, the arms of the men present —- pikes, swords, and muskets — were regularly piled in such order as is used by soldiers, so that each man might, in an instant, assume his own weapons.”

Sometimes those weapons had to be used. A sentinel would give the alarm, and a troop of dragoons or a regiment of foot-soldiers would come dashing down from the hills, or stealing up from the glens, to attack the worshippers. Then the Covenanters, with the minister at their head, would grasp their arms, and fight manfully for the protection of their wives, mothers, sisters, and children. Sometimes there were terrible scenes of cruelty and slaughter, and the rocks of the mountain or the flowers of the glen were reddened with the blood of the martyrs.

But, when all went peacefully, how strength-' ening and comforting it must have been for those poor persecuted ones to meet thus, — to listen to a beloved pastor’s voice, and pray and 6ing together. And how grand their solemn psalms


must have sounded, pealing up among the hills, and echoing from peak to peak! — and how sweet their hymns, swelling on the fitful breeze, mingled with the songs of birds and the murmur of distant waterfalls ! What a sublime place to worship God in !— mightier and more beautiful than any temple ever built by men.

Perhaps the good, earnest-hearted Covenanters often imagined that God’s angels were listening to their voices, — standing but a little way above them, — veiled from their sight by the mists of the mountain-tops. And doubtless they were.

In 1666 the Covenanters had an unsuccessful revolt, called “ The Pentland Rising.” Many of those engaged in this were captured, and put to death, — some with frightful tortures. They all died nobly.

The chief military leaders of the persecuting party were Sir James Turner, General Dalziel, and John Graham of Claverhouse. These three remorseless men have been execrated and despised ever since, — and they deserve all the blame and shame they have received; yet they were not so guilty as the statesmen and prelates who urged them on to such horrible excesses of barbarity.


At length the persecutors themselves grew weary,— even the king expressed himself “shocked ” by the accounts from Scotland; so for a while milder measures were adopted. But the stern old Covenanters could no more be coaxed than driven into conformity, — they stood out as stoutly as ever ; and their persecutors, when they had taken a little breath, began again, more furious and ferocious than before. They raked up some barbarous old laws, long out of use, and brought them to bear against the Covenanters. The king (the same who had been so shocked) published what were called “ Letters of Inter-communing,” by which “his majesty commanded all his dutiful subjects not to intercommime with any of the rebels, nor furnish them with meat, drink, house, or harbor, nor to have any in belli' gence with any of them by word, writ, or message, under pain of being considered guilty of the same crimes as the persons intercommuned.” By this cruel command more than 17,000 persons were made homeless outlaws, reduced to dreadful privations, and many suffered death. Another wicked measure of the persecutors was to invite several thousand wild Highlanders to


ravage and plunder the Lowlands, where the Covenanters were the strongest. I am sorry to say that the mountaineers performed their task mercilessly, — stripping whole provinces of everything valuable which could be carried away.

In 1679, the traitor, Archbishop Sharpe, was assassinated by John Balfour of Burley, who wrongly imagined he was doing God’s service; and shortly after Claverhouse was defeated at the battle of Drumclog. The Covenanters took courage, and raised an army of six or seven thousand men. The king sent against them a greater force, commanded by the Duke of Monmouth, and attacked them by Botliwell Bridge, on the River Clyde. The Covenanters might have been victorious, if they had been prepared and united among themselves. But they had been indulging in violent political and theological discussions for more than a fortnight, and were so exhausted, out of temper, and out of heart, that they could not stand against the enemy. They were defeated, and left four hundred of their best men on the field. Bothwell Bridge was piled with the fallen, so that when Claverhouse charged across it, his terrible black war-horse went plunging and


leaping over great heaps of the dying and the dead. 0, it was an awful day!

After this, all the Covenanter survivors of the battle were hunted out and killed, with especial ferocity; and when Claverhouse and his men were balked in their pursuit of one of them, they seized upon the first Presbyterian they could find, and put him to death, — so strangely bloodthirsty were they.

A very touching story I find in the history of this time, of the murder of one John Brown, a carrier, a brave and good man, — and of the Christian heroism of his wife, Marion. These two were married at a field-meeting, by a Mr. Peden, a celebrated preacher, who seems to have had the gift of prophecy ; for, after the ceremony, he said to Marion, solemnly: “You have got a good husband, — value him highly. Keep linen for a winding-sheet beside you; for in a day when you least expect it he may be taken from you! ”

Three years after, this minister visited the carrier at his home, on the Farm of Priesthill, Ayrshire, and spent the night. The next day, when he was taking leave of Marion, he looked very


sad, .and said: “ Poor woman, — a fearful morning ! A dark and misty morning! ”

When he was gone, John Brown took his spade and went out to his work, near the house. There was a thick mist, and the first the poor man knew he was surrounded by dragoons, with Cla-verhouse at their head. They began to question him sternly, and he answered readily and distinctly, which was strange, as always before he had been troubled with a painful stammer. Cla-verhouse then called out to him: “Go to your prayers now, for the last time, — for you must die at once.” John Brown knelt down, and prayed very fervently for himself and all men. Claverhouse interrupted him, impatiently, several times, and, when he closed, said: “ Now say good night to your wife and children.” John Brown turned to his wife, who stood near, with a baby in her arms and a little girl at her side, and said : “ Now, Marion, the day is come that I told you might come, when I first spake to you of marrying me.” She looked tenderly in his eyes, and answered: “ Indeed, John, in this cause I am willing to part with you.” Then he kissed her and the babies, and blessed them.


Claverhouse commanded six soldiers to shoot him. Most of the bullets struck his head, and killed him instantly.

Marion had never before been able to see blood without fainting; but she did not faint at this fearful sight. Her eyes were only a little dazzled by the flash of the muskets. When all was over, Claverhouse said to her: “ What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman ? ” She replied: “ I always thought meikle (much) of him, and now more than ever.”

When the cruel persecutors were gone, she set her baby down on the ground, tied up her husband’s head with her kerchief, straightened his body, covered him over with her plaid, and then sat down and wept beside him.

The death of Charles the Second did not help the cause of the Covenanters much. They suffered persecution during the brief reign of his bigoted brother, James the Second of England.

This king was a Catholic, and bent upon bringing both England and Scotland again under the yoke of the Pope. In the struggle with his rebellious subjects he lost his crown, and was forced to fly from his kingdom, while his daughter Mary


and her husband (William, Prince of Orange), both Protestants, were called to the throne. These sovereigns wisely resolved to give full religious liberty^ to Scotland. In July, 1689, Prelacy was abolished in that country, and Pres-byterianism restored. So, after a long, stormy night of trouble and oppression, the sun of peace and toleration arose upon poor Scotland.

: The persecutions had lasted nearly a century, during which time no less than eighteen thousand people had suffered death, banishment, or long imprisonment; but the tears of anguish that were shed, and the hearts that were broken, only God can number. Let us thank him that such things can never be, again, in a country calling itself Christian.


- In May, 1685, during the reign of James the Seventh, two women, one named Margaret Mac-lauglilin, and the other Margaret Wilson, were arrested for attending a field-meeting, and, refusing to conform, were sentenced to death. The


first was an aged woman, weary of a world in wliich she had seen a great deal of trouble, and longing to depart and be with Christ. But the other, Margaret Wilson, was young, — only eighteen, and very fair. She had many to love her, for she loved many, and: to her this earth seemed very beautiful. Yet she loved God better than life, — and went bravely, even cheerfully, to death for his sake.

The form of execution fixed upon for these two was singular, as well as very cruel. They were sentenced to be bound to stakes,.driven down into the sea-beach, when the tide was coming in,— there to stand until the waters should overwhelm and drown them.

The morning when the people and the troops assembled on the searshore to see this sentence carried into execution was very bright and balmy. The blackbirds and thrushes, in the dark fir-trees, sang as gayly as ever, out of their glad, innocent hearts; and the wild sea-birds, whirling in the pleasant air, screamed out their shrill delight, — while God’s beautiful sunlight fell, as his rain and dew descend, “ on the just, and on the unjust.”


The two Margarets came down to the beach, escorted by a troop of rude soldiers, and followed by a crowd of weeping friends. They both walked firmly and were very calm, though their faces were deadly pale, and their lips moved in prayer. Before they were fastened to the stakes, they were told that their lives would be spared, if they would, even then, renounce the Covenant. But again they firmly refused. Then they took a last leave of their friends.

Margaret Maclaughlin had children and grandchildren present. She kissed them and blessed them all, very tenderly and solemnly. One little grandson she took in her aged arms, and pressed to her bosom. He twined his chubby arms around her neck and cried, though he did not know why, only that he saw tears on her dear old cheeks. When she was led away to the stake, he struggled in his father’s arms, and cried out : “ Come back, grandmither! Dinna gang awa’ into the black sea,— come back to Johnny!” This drew tears from many eyes in the crowd, and even touched the hard hearts of such of the soldiers as had children or grandchildren of their own.


Margaret Wilson had to part with a father and mother, brothers and sisters. She was the calmest of them all, though she wept very much, especially when she parted from her mother, who was a sickly woman, and needed her help. This poor mother fainted in her husband’s arms when their beloved daughter was led away by the soldiers. One of Margaret’s brothers, a little boy, clung longest to her, sobbing and shrieking with passionate grief.

“ Hush! hush! Jamie,” said the young martyr ; “ it breaks my heart to hear you; and if you fill my ears wi’ yer loud greeting (weeping), I canna hear the whispers o’ the angels wlia come to strengthen me! ”

Then Jamie grew still, let go her dress, and turned his face away. But when he saw her bound to the stake, and the waves rising around her, his wild grief broke out afresh, and he rushed into the water, crying: “ I am a Covenanter, too, — I will go drown wi’ my dear sister Maggie.” He had to be brought back by force, and the incident so affected the spectators that many shouted, “ Rescue the women ! Save them ! save them! ” The military force was too strong for a res


cue ; but the people had hopes that they might bo saved, for the magistrate seemed to relent for a moment, and said that if the women would say, “ God save the King! ” they might go free. Then the people shouted to them to yield this much. “Consider,” they said, “it is your duty to pray even for the greatest sinner ! ” “ Ay, but not at the bidding of every profligate,” replied brave old Margaret Maclaughlin. But as sweet Margaret Wilson said that she “ wished not that any should perish, but that all should have everlasting life,” they cried out that she had prayed for the king, and rushing into the water, brought her out. Then the magistrate, growing hard again, asked her sternly if she was ready now to renounce the Covenant. “ No,” she answered, with gentle firmness, “I have signed the Covenant, and I will abide by it for aye, wi’ the help o’the God o’ the Covenant.” Then the magistrate grew very angry, and commanded that “ the obstinate lass ” should be taken back to the stake.

Then the two Margarets spoke cheering words to one another, and for a while looked towards the shore, smiling and waving their hands in


loving farewell; but as the tide came in strong and stronger, they clasped their hands on their breasts, raised their eyes, and gave themselves up wholly to prayer.

The foaming waves rose to Margaret Wilson’s slender waist, — over her gentle, noble heart, — above her white, praying hands; and they rose above Margaret Maclaughlin’s strong, faithful heart, — over her shrivelled, praying hands, trembling with cold; then, only two faces were seen,— one young and fair, the other old and wrinkled, — but both beaming with saintly glory ; and last, two heads of long hair — one gray, and the other golden — floated for a moment on the crest of a wave, and then sunk out of sight. The golden hair remained visible a little longer than the other ; for, to the last, Margaret Wilson kept her face turned towards Heaven, as though to welcome the angels coming to receive her soul; but old Margaret Maclaughlin closed her eyes, and let her head sink on her breast, as though she wished to t be carried sleeping- to her Father’s mansion, in the arms of angels, like a wearied child.

When all was over, it happened that a little


wave brought to Jamie Wilson’s feet the snood, or white ribbon, which had confined his sister’s beautiful hair. He caught it up, kissed it, wept over it, hid it next his heart, and ever after treasured it as the relic of a saint.




BEFORE quitting altogether the subject of the unhappy religious strife which so long desolated Scotland, I will relate two charming stories, from history, which may show you how nobly heroic gentle-hearted women, even young girls, may be, in times of war and persecution.

It happens that both of my heroines were


called Grizel,— not a very pretty name, certainly, but I think you will grow to liking it, after reading of them. I will begin with


A short time before the death of Charles the Second, there was an enterprise formed by several eminent English and Scottish lords and gentlemen, to prevent the Duke of York, afterwards James the Second, of England, from ascending the throne. . Through treachery and rashness this enterprise failed, and many of those engaged in it were arrested and put to death. Among the few leaders who escaped the vengeance of the government was the good and brave Sir Patrick Hume, of Polwarth. It happened that the party of soldiers sent to arrest him stopped for refreshment at the house of a nobleman known to be loyal. Here they inquired the way to Polwarth Castle, and their hostess, being a friend to Sir Patrick, resolved to give him warning. She did not dare to write, nor even to trust one of her servants to carry a plain message to her neighbor;


but, being very ingenious, she took an eagle’s feather, and wrapping it in a piece of blank paper, sent it by a fleet-footed Highland boy across the hills to Polwarth. She then put wines and rich meats before her guests, and made them all feel so extremely comfortable that they lingered at her house as long as possible.

Sir Patrick understood at once, from the token she sent, that he was in danger, and must fly or secrete himself. He resolved upon the latter course as the least hazardous, and could think of no safer hiding-place than a vault in, Polwarth churchyard, where his ancestors were buried. It was a dismal place enough, — damp, dark, and cold,-—with dead men and women and children lying all about in mouldering coffins, covered with itattered , black palls ; but it was better than a prison/ cell, chains, and a scaffold.. Scarcely had he secreted himself before the soldiers arrived. They searched for him high and low, far and wide,— everywhere but in the old vault. Then they separated and went off in various directions, still searching, inquiring, and swearing at their ill luck. At night, a faithful domestic carried a bed and some blankets to the church-


yard, flung them down into' the vault, and then ran home, his heart beating loud, and his teeth chattering for fear of ghosts and hobgoblins.

But there was one who was not frightened from her duty by any such wild fancies, so full was her heart of that “ perfect love which casteth out fear.” This was Sir Patrick’s daughter, Grizel, a beautiful young lady, only eighteen, but thoughtful, courageous, and prudent beyond her years. She was the only one who could be trusted to carry her father his food, which must always be taken to him at midnight. Her mother, who was rather afflicted with cowardice, — “ nervousness ” she called it, —waited for her return in dreadful anxiety, and when she came, took her in her arms, blessed her and rejoiced over her as though she had risen from the dead. “ But did it no fright you, lassie, to pass through the kirk-yard at such an awful time o’ night ? ” she asked. “ No, no, mother,” said Grizel, smiling; “ I knew God could take care of me as well at midnight as at noonday, and I felt that every star above was a kind angel’s face, watching over me. I feared nothing, mother, but the minister’s dogs, lest their barking should rouse the people at the


uanse, and dear father’s hiding-place he discovered.”

The next day Lady Hume sent for the minister, and complaining of a fear of mad dogs (I am afraid she stretched a point there), persuaded him to shut up his dogs for a time.

Grizel had a good deal of trouble in obtaining food for her father without the knowledge of the servants, whom it was thought not best to trust with her secret. She used to watch her chance and take pieces of meat and bread from the table, when the family were at dinner. One day, when they had sheep’s head,, a good old Scotch dish, Grizel took a larger portion than usual off the platter, and hid it in her napkin. Scarcely had she done so when one of her brothers, a little boy, and, like other little boys, apt to blunder out the wrong thing at the wrong time and place, bawled out indignantly, “ 0 mamma, see Grizzy! while we were supping the broth, she has eaten up almost all the sheep’s head.” The poor girl feared that her secret would be discovered then, but the servants present only wondered what had come over Miss Grizel, to be so greedy.

Sir Patrick remained in the funeral vault, with


no light by day but what came through a little hole at one end, and no amusement but reading and reciting psalms, for several weeks; then he ventured to return for a little while to his house, and from there he made his escape in safety to Holland, where he remained till after the death of Charles the Second.


Sir John Cochrane, of Ochiltree, a son of the Earl of Dundonald, and a most heroic gentleman, was engaged with Sir Patrick Hume in the conspiracy against the Duke of York. He also made his escape to Holland, and, with his friend and other patriotic refugees, returned to join a rebellion, headed by the Duke of Argyle, against James the Second. This, like the other plot, was unsuccessful. The Duke, as you have seen, suffered death; and Sir John Cochrane was arrested, tried, and condemned to die, though great efforts were made to save him by his father, the Earl of Dundonald, who had never conspired against the government.    _    ■


No friend or relative was allowed to see the prisoner until after his condemnation, when he was informed by his surly jailer, that, during the time which must pass before the arrival of the death-warrant from London, he might see his family. Sir John, however, not being willing to bring upon his sons the suspicion of sharing his treason, sent them his positive commands to refrain from visiting him until the night before his execution; but he said his beloved only daughter, Grizel, a fair girl of eighteen, might visit him at once, if she would ; and she came. Her beautiful, loving face seemed almost to bring the dearness and peace of home, the brightness and sweetness of liberty into his dreary cell, though it was pale and worn with sorrow, and overflowed with tears. Grizel flung herself upon her father’s breast and sobbed bitterly; but when she felt the tears of that strong, brave man falling on her hand, she hushed her sobs, and strove to comfort him.

She told him her grandfather, the Earl, had petitioned the king for a pardon, and would make a strong effort to obtain the favor of his Majesty’s confessor, the powerful Father Peters. But Sir


John shook his head despondingly, saying that even if the king could be persuaded to forgive such a notorious rebel, the pardon would not probably arrive at Edinburgh till several days after the death-warrant had come and all was over.

Every day Grizel visited her father, and talked with him about these matters, and every night she spent many waking hours in striving to contrive some plan for his deliverance. The only thing to be done, it seemed to her, was to intercept or delay the death-warrant, so that the friends who were working for him in London could have time to effect their, good purpose. But how to do this was the question. At last, a few days before the warrant was expected by the council in Edinburgh, she fixed upon a bold plan for getting possession of it. She did not confide this plan to any, not even to her father. She only told him very quietly that some important business would prevent her from visiting him for a day or two. Yet he was somewhat alarmed, and replied: “ Don’t, my dear daughter, undertake any plan to save me, for which your age and sex unfit you.”


“I am a Cochrane, my father,” she replied; “ do not fear for me.” Still, for all her heroism, her heart sunk, and her tears fell fast, when the prison-door closed on that poor father. What if she had taken her last look of his beloved face!

The next morning early Grizel assumed a humble disguise, mounted a favorite palfrey, and rode out of Edinburgh towards the borders. She stopped only at country cottages, where she passed herself off as a housemaid taking a journey to visit her friends. On the second day, she reached the house of her old nurse, who lived just over the Tweed, near the town of Berwick. To this woman she revealed her secret, and the good dame promised to aid her all in her power, though she shook her head sadly, and said it was an awful undertaking. And so it was ; for Grizel’s purpose was no other than to waylay and rob the postman of the mail! hoping thus to get possession of the warrant. She had brought with her a brace of pistols and a horseman’s cloak ; and her nurse lent her a suit of clothes belonging to her son, Grizel’s foster-brother, which luckily fitted the brave girl very well.


In those times, the mail was brought from London to Edinburgh on horseback, — the bags containing it being strapped on to the saddle before the postman, who was always armed. The journey took full eight days; so Grizel calculated that if she could carry out her plan, it would be at least sixteen or seventeen days before a second death-warrant could be received, which, she hoped,- would afford her father’s friends a fair opportunity to obtain his pardon. She had somehow ascertained that the postman was in the habit of stopping at a little inn kept by a widow, near Bedford, on a certain day, to take a few hours’ rest. He usually reached this place in the early morning, and Grizel contrived to arrive a short <ime after he had breakfasted and laid down to sleep. She put up her horse, and, going into the house, asked for some refreshment.

“ "Well, sit down at that table, my bonnie lad,” replied the landlady, “ and I will serve you; but please be. as quiet as possible, for there is the London postman asleep in that bed, and I would not have him disturbed.”

After making a slight meal, Grizel asked for


some fresli water, offering to pay for it the price of good beer; and, while the dame was gone to the well, she rose, and stole on tip-toe to the bed on which the postman was sleeping. To her disappointment, he was lying with the mail-bags under his head and shoulders; and she saw that she could not take them away without waking him. By his side, lay his pistols. She had just time to draw the loading from these, and put them back into the holsters, before the landlady returned. Then she paid liberally for her breakfast, and, having carelessly asked how long the postman would be likely to sleep, she mounted her horse and rode away in a direction opposite to the one she came from. She took a circuit, however, and came out on the high road, when she ambled along slowly until the postman came up. Then she checked her horse, and fell into a conversation with him. He was a large, burly man, but with a good-natured face, and, Grizel was glad to see, not a very brave or determined-looking fellow.

Miss Cochrane watched her opportunity, and when they came to a lonely place, near a wood, with no house or traveller in sight, she rode


close to her companion, and said, sternly: “ Friend, I have taken a fancy to those mailbags, and I must have them, at all hazards. I am armed, well mounted, and determined So have my will. So, take my advice, give up tie mail-bags, and go back the way you came ; and, if you value your life, don’t come near yonder wood for at least two hours.”

The stout postman only burst into a hearty fit of laughter at this. “ 0 ho, my pretty youth! ” he said, “you.are disposed to make yourself merry at my expense! Deliver up his Majesty’s mails to one like you, forsooth! Go, to! you look more fit to rob birds’ nests and orchards. If I were churlish enough to take offence at a boy’s foolish jest, I could teach you a hard lesson, Master Smooth-face.” As he said this, he saw something in Grizel’s eye which did not look like jesting, — so, taking a pistol from the holster and cocking it, he added : “ But if you are mad enough to be in earnest, I am ready for you, you see, — so put spurs to your horse and be off with you, while you have a whole skin.”

It was a perilous moment for Grizel. She knew it was possible that the man had discovered her


trick at the inn, and had reloaded his pistols; but she thought of her father, and did not flinch. “ I don’t like to shed blood,” she said, “ but I am also ready; ” and, drawing a pistol and presenting it, “ that mail I must and will have ! So, take your choice, — deliver it, or die I ”

“ Well, then, you hair-brained stripling, your blood be on your own head ! ” cried the postman, firing his pistol, which only flashed in the pan. He flung it down, seized the other, fired, — and again there was only a flash! Then, in a rage, he leaped to the ground, and tried to seize her horse by the reins,—but, by the quick use of the spur, she escaped from his grasp, and, before lie was aware of her purpose, she. caught his own horse, and was galloping off with it, mail-bags and all! She looked back once, to point her pistol at him, and warn him not to follow her, — then she put both horses to their utmost speed, till she reached the wood, — when she left the highway, and rode into the deepest part of the forest. Here she tied the postman’s horse to a tree, unstrapped the mail-bags, cut them open with her penknife, and took out the Government despatches, which she knew by their great seals. Among these she


found not only her father’s death-warrant, but several others, all of ■which she tore into small pieces and hid in her bosom. She then replaced the other papers in the mail-bags (where they were afterwards found), mounted her horse, returned to the house of her nurse, burned the fragments of the warrants, resumed her female dress, and journeyed back to Edinburgh, all in perfect safety.

Her heroic act did indeed save the life of her father. It gave the Earl of Dundonald time to persuade Father Peters (with the help of five thousand pounds) to persuade the king that it would be for the good of his royal soul to pardon his enemy, Sir John Cochrane, — and he did it.

This is the only instance I remember to have ever heard of, where robbing the mail was justifiable. Yet I hardly think it a piece of heroism which would bear repeating.

I hope that Miss Hume and Miss Cochrane, the two Grizels, were good friends. They ough! ' have been.



There are many places in the vicinity of Edinburgh which travellers should visit, not only for their beauty, but because their names are familiar to all readers of Scottish history, poetry, romance. A few miles from the city, on the river Esk, in the green depths of a lovely dell, stands the G-othic Chapel of Koslin, built several centuries ago, by the St. Clairs, Earls of Caithness and Orkney, and Lords of Roslin,— who dwelt near by, in a stately castle.

The castle is now but a grand old ruin, — the proud and warlike lords who once inhabited it lie beneath the Chapel, each clad in a complete suit of armor, an iron shroud, — the strong arm, the bloody hand, the fiery heart, the haughty voice, still and silent forever; but the Chapel, the best of all their works, lives after them,— remains yet beautiful, august, and solemn,— seeming almost to consecrate their stern memo-rieS> — to atone for many sins, to rise over their poor dust like a perpetual intercession for their souls.


The architecture of the chapel is of different styles, representing the tastes and art of the different ages in which it was built. The ornamental portions are of wonderful variety and beauty, — displaying a thousand forms of curious and graceful sculpture. Among the columns which support the stately arches, is one so beautiful in form and so perfect in finish, that all tourists pause before it in surprise, and linger long to admire^ it, — marvelling at the genius which created such a joy for the eye out of the dull, rude rock, — which carved such a poem in stone. This pillar is completely wreathed with foliage, so delicately modelled, so exquisitely wrought, that, hard and colorless as it is, you almost fancy it can stir and rustle, and send out faint fragrance on the air.

But there is something beside its beauty to make one remember this pillar. It is a legend, dark and sorrowful, which clings about it as closely as its lovely sculptures, and will cling as long.



The master-builder of Roslin Chapel was a hard, ambitious man, who thought only of the fame and fortune his work would win for him, - • not of the glory of the Holy One to whom the edifice would be dedicated, or of the sacred joy which devout souls would have in worshipping within it. He did not even love the grand arches and pillars, the figures of saints and angels, and the sweet little cherub faces he planned and sculptured, •— save as he counted up how much gold and renown they would bring him, — so that it seemed that, while turning stones into beauty and worship, he had turned his heart into stone. When erecting the high altar itself, he wrought more for the honor of his own name than for that of his heavenly Lord, — and if he had dared, he would have set up his own scowling effigy in some lofty niche, in place of the statue of a meek-browed saint or angel, for the people to bend before in solemn reverence.

This man was Lot only thus arrogant and selfish, but bitterly jealous of the talent and fame of


other architects, treating them all as though they were his natural enemies, whose very presence, even while he made use of their labor, was a wrong and an offence.

There was among his apprentices one whom he especially hated, because he could not help seeing that the youth had great genius for his art, and was likely to be very famous. This young sculptor was of a nature gentle, generous, and devout, and bore himself quietly and meekly under his hard master’s taunts and reproofs. He consoled himself for all such little trials, by the delight he took in his art. He loved to reproduce, in imperishable marble, the fading forms of earthly beauty, — flowers, and foliage, and lovely childish faces, and he loved best of all to labor for the adornment of noble edifices, dedicated to Him who inspired worship and created all beautiful things. He thought he saw in nature the types of great cathedrals, — in the solemn arches of dim forests, in the mighty boles of ancient oaks, in the rocky towers of mountain-steeps, in gorgeous sunset clouds — the stained windows of heaven.

. It happened that the master-builder found him-


self unable to make a certain pillar, after a plan which had been brought from Rome, without going all the way to that city, to examine the model. The journey was a tedious and perilous one in those days, yet the ambitious artisan undertook' it, — saying nothing of his purpose to any one.

During his absence, the young apprentice came across the plans which his master had not understood, but which were clear to his keen, beauty-loving eyes, and, thinking no harm, began to work them out. Every morning, before he commenced his work, he prayed that good angels might guide his chisel; every evening he walked alone in the fields and woods, and reverently studied the foliage of trees and vines, that he might be able to copy them exactly, to the curl of a tendril, or the most delicate veining of a leaf. Every flower bore for his eyes traces of the hand of the Divine Artist, — every smallest spray conveyed a lesson from the great Master-Builder of the universe.

All alone he toiled, till a magic summer began to bud and blossom out of the cold, hard stone, — fair, white forms of flower and foliage, which one


might fancy lovely ghosts of old-world bloom and verdure, that perished by flood or fire, and wore embedded or fused in the fluid rock, — came forth, day by day, and seemed to climb and wreathe themselves around the graceful pillar.

At last it was finished and raised to its place, to the sound of a hymn, sung by the pious young artisan; and while everybody was wondering and admiring, the master-builder came home, full of his project for delighting the Lord of Roslin and all Scotland, by the marvellous pillar he was about to execute.

It happened that the first of his workmen whom he met was the young apprentice.

“ Well, sirrah,” said he, scornfully, “ what have you been about while I have been away? Anything better than idle dreaming ? ”

“ Yes, my master,” replied the youth, modestly, “ I have executed a pillar, from some plans I found in your study; and I hope my work will please you.”

A pillar! Show it to me. I'warrant it must come down right speedily. A pillar, forsooth! and after my plans. How dare you meddle with matters above your condition ? ”


The apprentice did not reply, but quietly led liis master to the pillar, and stood by,.longing, yet hardly daring to hope for his approval. For some moments, the master-builder stood still, overwhelmed with amazement. Here was that difficult design which he had travelled so far, and braved so many dangers to study, wrought out more admirably than he could have executed it,— a finer work even than the model at Rome, — and all this done by a mere apprentice, whom he had rated and flouted a thousand times! Then he was seized with a mad fit of jealous rage at having lost the fame he had taken such pains to secure, and, catching up a heavy mallet that lay near, he struck the apprentice to the ground.

It was the poor youth’s death-blow. He lay quite still, the blood gushing from a ghastly wound in his broad, white forehead, and darkly staining the rich golden curls of his hair. But he revived for a moment, feebly turned his head, fixed his eyes mournfully, yet fondly, upon his last beautiful work, and murmured: “ I meant it for Grod’s glory, master, and your gain ; ” and so died.

Those were days of lawless violence; and the


legend does not go on to tell that a coroner’s inquest was held over the body of the poor appren tice, or that the master-builder was arrested, tried, and executed for his untimely taking off. Per* haps the man had friends, rich and respectable, who hushed up the unpleasant little matter ; perhaps he was wanted to build more churches. Doubtless he would have liked to remove that pillar, but dared not, as it was now not only a beautiful part of the sacred edifice, but a monument to the innocent dead. .

But the place where it stood must ever have been for him a sad and haunted spot. It is not likely that lie fancied much passing near it after dark. If his duties ever compelled him to visit the chapel at night, though he entered with ever so bold a brow and defiant a spirit, there entered with him Remorse, like an avenging angel, and everything he beheld seemed to speak of his crime. The beautiful stained windows changed the mild moonlight into ghastly gleams. The shadows under the great arches seemed full of threatening and horror. The little cherub-faces above the pillars seemed to put on looks of affright at beholding him, and Madonna to draw the holy child


nearer to her protecting bosom. The pale saints in their niches, by the stillness of their eternal calm, seemed to reprove him for his unholy passions, and the piteous figure of the Lord himself, by its mute agony on the cross, to reproach him for his cruelty. Surely, the marble of that memorial pillar, gleaming in the dim light, recalled to him the death whiteness of a face, which neither coffin-lid, nor earth, nor stone could long shut away from the eyes of his soul. Though fearing and hating that stern, inexorable witness of his sin, he would perhaps linger long to gaze upon it, awe-struck by its silent, accusing beauty, till the snowy flowers immortally blossoming around it, would redden in his sight, and seem to drip with a dreadful dew, the blood his hand had shed in that holy place.

Near Roslin, is Hawthornden, one of the loveliest places in all Scotland, once the seat of Drummond, a poet of the time of Elizabeth. A little way down the river is the village of Lasswade, — so called after a stout lass, who once on a time used to carry travellers across the ford on her back. I think she must have been related to


210    ' EDINBURGH.

good St. Christopher, or to Strongbaek, the friend of Prince Fortunatns.

Other beautiful and interesting places in the vicinity of Edinburgh are Melville Castle, Dalkeith Palace, Newbattle Abbey, Dalhousie House, and Borthwick Castle ; a fine old fortress, famous as the place where Queen Mary and the Earl of Bothwell spent a part of their honeymoon, if so sweet a name can be given to the unhappy time they lived together. Mary escaped from this castle in the disguise of a page, and fled to Dunbar. Then there is Crichton Castle, on the Tyne, — which is described in Walter Scott’s poem of “Marmion— Oxenford Castle, and the ruins of Cragmillar Castle, once a favorite residence of Queen Mary.

Charming excursions can be made in every direction from Edinburgh; you cannot go amiss. First in interest are Abbotsford, Dryburgh, and Melrose; but I will speak of these in another chapter. At Jedburgh there is an old Abbey, thought to be the most magnificent ruin in Scotland ; at Kelso, there is another ruined abbey. Then there is battered old Norham Castle, and if you have enough of ruins, there are the lovely


vales of Yarrow and Ettrick and Teviotdale, that we read so much about in Scottish poetry and romance.

There is a fine old town, about twenty miles from Edinburgh, called Peebles, which I was sorry not to see. It is scarcely mentioned in history, except as a place sometimes visited by the king and court, because of its pleasant situation in a good -hunting country, on the road to the royal forest of Ettrick. It is the scene of a poem by James the First, and of a touching little tradition told by Walter Scott and other poets, far better than I can tell it; however I will do my best.


Many years ago, when Nidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earl of March, — a son of the Duke of Queensbury, — a young lady of that proud family became very tenderly attached to the Laird of Tushielaw in Ettrick Forest ; but when the lover waited on the Earl and Countess, to ask the hand of Lady Mary in marriage, it was refused with anger and scorn. A


daughter of their noble house, they said, must never descend to wed a simple Scotch Laird. The Countess, in whose veins there ran real royal blood, though considerably diluted, was particularly incensed at such presumption. She grew red and then white; she frowned and swelled and tossed her head in high-bred contempt. Even her rich silk robe seemed to rustle indignantly, and her lace ruff to bristle up at the young Laird,' while a bright red jewel which she wore on her forehead, set in a band of gold, seemed to glare at him angrily, like a little fiery eye. But Scott of Tushielaw stood his ground manfully. He said that, though not a noble, he was a gentleman, and the son of a gentleman, and held that an alliance with him would not disgrace the proudest family in the kingdom. Then he left them, declaring that he would only take his dismissal from Lady Mary herself. The angry parents next summoned their daughter, and sternly accused her of a great crime, in loving out of the nobility. She pleaded guilty, and prayed for their consent to marry young Scott, shocking them very much by saying that she would rather be happy with his love, than wretched with a title and a coronet. Of course


they refused, and set themselves, by commands, reproaches, and harsh treatment, to cause her to reject her lover. At last they got their Father Confessor to deal with her. Yery solemnly he argued, and warned her against the sin of disobedience ; for Heaven, he said, was always on the side of the parents in such cases,-—especially parents of the nobility. Yet nothing he said seemed to move her, till he declared that if she persisted in marrying Tushielaw, she would bring the curse, of , the Church upon him, and so put his soul in peril. Then Lady Mary, being young and superstitious, burst into tears, and sobbed out, “ 0 Father Ambrose, don’t say any more! I will give him up!”

So she wrote a sorrowful little letter of farewell to Scott of Tushielaw, while the priest stood over her and blessed her. The Countess of March sent her page in such haste with that letter, that the tears poor Lady Mary dropped on it were hardly dry when it reached the young Laird’s hands. It seemed to pierce his heart like a sharp dagger; yet he kissed it tenderly, and his own eyes grew dim over the words which had so wounded him. He treasured it up and took it


with him abroad, where he went to find what comfort he could in foreign travel.

From the day of-his going, Lady Mary drooped and faded, pining for the kind smile and the gentle words of the one she loved best of all the world. She lost her own gay smile, — her tones grew sad, her step slow, and the sweet red color went out from her cheeks and lips. Then there came a cough,—a very little cough, which scarcely shook the muslin kerchief on her neck, but which sounded of death as surely as a funeral knell. Nothing revived or comforted her, —not the coming of the spring, with leaves and flowers, — not balls, nor hunting, — not even the homage of a great noble, a real Duke, who offered her his coronet, his castle, and his heart.

At last she took to her couch, and the little cough went on, and wasted her day by day, till even the Earl and Countess saw that Death, and not the Duke, was coming for their daughter. They confessed to each other that there was but one hope for her, — the recall of her lover. It was a hard remedy for them, — next to death, but they submitted; for, after all, they loved their gentle child, in their way, — and they wrote to


the young Laird to come home, saying that they would now give him the hand of the Lady Mary.

Scott was as proud as they; hut his pride was of a nobler kind, and he did not refuse to come. He wrote to Lady Mary a glad, loving letter, and named the very day on which she might look for him at Nidpath Castle. When this letter came, the poor girl strove to rise from her couch and take into her heart the joy of life and love once more. But she was like a delicate lily, which, after its stem was broken, should try to lift its head towards the sun, and to catch the dew in its withered cup. It was too late!

On the afternoon of the day when her lover was to arrive, Lady Mary caused herself to be carried to a house belonging to her family, in the town of Peebles, through which the young Laird would pass on his way to the Castle. She could meet him so much the sooner, she said.

A softly cushioned chair was placed for her 011 a stone balcony, over the gateway of the mansion, and here she sat, with her mother and her maids, looking and listening, till the summer sun was setting, and the twilight shadows began to creep over the hills. She seemed to listen with her

216    EDINBURGI!.

heart, for long before the others could distinguish a sound, she heard the gallop of a steed, coming nearer and nearer ; and then, far in the distance, saw and knew the rider, and clasping her hands, she cried: “ It is he! It is he !    0 mother, God

is so good to me! ”

It seemed hours, though it was not many minutes, before the Laird reached the Queensbury house, and came riding along just beneath the balcony. Lady Mary now stood without support, and her glad heart sent a little glow of welcome to her wan cheeks. The traveller raised his head and looked full in her face, and she bent forward and smiled on him tenderly, like a sweet pale star out of heaven. But alas ! he had no thought of her being so changed by sorrow and illness. The face seemed like the shadow of one he had seen, or it was one he had dreamed of; he could not think it hers. His heart was so full of memories of the round, healthful form, and the bright, rosy face of his Mary, as he had loved her first, that ho did not know her now. So he only gave her a brief, cold, strange look, and galloped on. Lady Mary uttered a wild, mournful cry ; “ 0 mother,” she said, “ he has forerotten me! forgotten mo! ”


and sunk back into her chair, softly, but white and cold as marble.

“ Help ! ” cried the Countess of March, “ she has fainted.”

That wild, sad cry had reached the ear of her lover, and he knew her voice. Instantly he sprang from his horse and hurried to the balcony, where she still sat, with her weeping friends around her. He took her in his arms and kissed her, and called her “ Mary,” Still she did not stir or speak. “ Help! ” cried the Countess again, “ bring a doctor! ” But there was no help for her — she was dead !

When the young Laird saw that it was indeed so, he knelt by her side, and laid his face in her lap, and took one of her thin, white hands in his, and sorrowed over it.

So it was Death, and not the great Duke,— Death, and not the humble Laird, — who came for the lovely daughter of the Earl and Countess of March. Not with the whiteness and brightness of bridal robes and flowers, — not with the fast ringing of merry marriage-bells, pealing out louder and louder, and breaking in upon one another like a group of happy young villagers, 10


in haste to tell each other some joyful news, — hut with the black pomp of funeral ceremonies, and with the slow ringing of the solitary chapel bell, lengthening out each heavy toll, as though sorry and afraid to repeat its mournful story.

It was for Lady Mary’s sake I wished to visit Peebles and Nidpath Castle.

ÄJrt Cittj Crnss.



cross, 'which surmounted an eight-sided turret. It was demolished in 1756, and its destruction has always been thought a foolish act of bigotry. Sir Walter Scott was especially indignant about it.

From this cross, for several centuries, royal


edicts, new laws, and sovereigns were proclaimed, with blowing of trumpets. The last Scottish king here proclaimed was the Chevalier de St. George, — or “the Pretender,” as he was called by the English,—- under the title of James the Eighth of Scotland, and third of England, by order of his son, Charles Edward, acting as Prince Regent. In this chapter I will endeavor to give you a condensed history of these two remarkable royal personages, and so have done with the Stuarts.


You will recollect that after King James the Second was driven from his home and kingdom, he was succeeded by his daughter, Mary, and her husband, William of Orange, a Protestant Prince. On the death of King William, who survived his wife several years, Queen Mary’s sister, the Princess Anne, ascended the throne. Her father had died in exile, after bequeathing his rights to his eldest son, who bore the foreign title of the Chevalier de St. George. Queen Anne had no children at the time of her accession to the throne, and her


Protestant counsellors, who were anxious to bar out the Catholic Stuarts, advised her to have the succession fixed upon a distant relative, George, the Elector of Hanover, who'was a Protestant. Queen Anne long hesitated. Her heart secretly yearned towards her brother, and she sometimes felt cruel remorse for the' course she had taken towards her father, in turning against him, and accepting the crown which had been forcibly taken from his poor, obstinate old head. But she hardly had courage to propose to her Protestant subjects a Catholic king, and as the Chevalier was as fanatically devoted to his religion as his father had been, there was little hope of his coming round to the right point.

When James the Second escaped to Erance, lie was very courteously received by the great king, Louis the Fourteenth, who assigned him a palace at St. Germain, near Paris. Here he lived, in a sort of idle mimicry of royal state, plotting and intriguing, and always expecting that something would “ turn up ” to restore him the crown and kingdom which he had lost by his stupid tyranny. His court was composed of exiled nobles and their wives, — poor and proud, — mercenary soldiers,


reckless adventurers, and plenty of priests, I assure you. Here the young Prince James was brought up. He was constantly taught that he was the rightful heir to the British crown, and that he must regain it from the usurpers ; yet he was not well instructed in the duties of a king, or a revolutionary leader. He was a tall, handsome man, courteous and elegant in his manners, and naturally kind and amiable; but lie lacked boldness, energy, and a strong will. In short, he would have made a very nice, agreeable private gentleman, but there was little of the real kingly stuff about him.

When old King James was on his death-bed, and very near his end, he sent word to Louis the Fourteenth that he desired to see him. The “ Grand Monarque,” as he was called, came in great state, as he used to go everywhere, —- all in velvet, brocade, and gold, — high-heeled shoes, lace and diamonds, and in an enormous wig, that would have quite put out any other man, like an extinguisher. So he came to the dying king, and his flattering courtiers said that the sight of him was enough to awe Death himself, and drive him out of that chamber.


The old king partly raised himself in bed, to receive his magnificent visitor, whom he thanked for all his kindness; and when the French king graciously waved his hand, as much as to say, “ There is no occasion for gratitude, I have really done next to nothing,”—James, calling the young Prince to his side, continued : “Yet for all your kindness, my dear royal brother, I must leave you but a troublesome legacy, — my son and his fortunes. Show to him, I pray you, the same magnanimous friendship you have shown to me, discrowned and despoiled of my kingly rights. Promise me this, and receive the blessing of a dying man.”

“ I promise,” replied Louis. “ I will take him and his under my protection. I will recognize his right to the throne of Britain, — I will aid him in winning his crown. So, my brother, depart in peace, — if you really must go.”

On hearing this, James was affected to tears, though being a king, he ought to have known what king’s promises were worth; liis courtiers also wept, — the young Chevalier wept, and even the great Louis put his embroidered handkerchief lo his eyes, — when, as it was his courtiers’ duty

10*    o


to believe that he was weeping copiously, they entirely broke down, and abandoned themselves to tears of admiration and grief.

When King Louis had composed himself, he bade King James a solemn adieu, and swept from the chamber in all his glory and majesty, — and then it did seem as if Death had been waiting respectfully in the anteroom, and only came in when he went out; for King James began to sink immediately. He bade an affectionate farewell to his family and court, then turned to his confessor, and taking his crucifix, pressed it to his lips, and said prayer after prayer till he died.

This generous and solemn promise of Louis the Fourteenth gave great encouragement to the Jacobites, as the adherents of the Stuarts were called, from Jacobus, the Latin for James. After much delay and many secret negotiations, Louis actually furnished the Chevalier with an army of five thousand men, and despatched him to Dunkirk, where he was to sail for Scotland, in a fleet under the command of the Count de Forbin. Could they have sailed at once, the enterprise might have been successful, as a large party in Scotland were favorable to it, and England was


illy prepared to resist it, the greater part of her army being in Flanders. But, just then, the luckless Chevalier was taken down with the measles, — a bad enough disease under any circumstances, but in this case it may have lost the Prince a kingdom; for it gave the English time to prepare so well for the invasion, by land and sea, that, though the French fleet actually reached the Frith of Forth, the Count de Forbin refused to land the Chevalier and his troops, but took them all back to France as speedily as possible.

Louis seems to have thought that he had redeemed his promise, or his memory was remarkably short, for not long afterwards he signed a treaty, called u the treaty of Utrecht,” in which he acknowledged Queen Anne’s right to the throne, and actually agreed to expel her brother from his dominions. So poor James was obliged to seek another refuge. For some time he cherished hopes that his sister Anne would help to restore his rights to him; but, as I have said, though her heart favored him, she lacked courage to avow her wish, and she died without naming him as her successor. The English people imported their next sovereign, — the Elector of Hanover,


— who reigned under the title of George the First. After him came three other Georges, then William the Fourth, then Queen Victoria, the best and most beloved of the race. This change of royal families is what is meant by the “ Hanoverian succession.”

King George did not behave in a magnanimous or politic way towards the Scottish Jacobites. He even refused to receive a loyal address from several Highland chiefs, represented by the Earl of Mar. By so doing, he offended them all, and especially Mar, whom he afterwards found a very troublesome enemy.

In September, 1715, many Jacobite nobles and gentlemen assembled at Aboyne, and proclaimed the Chevalier de St. George King of England, Ireland, and their dependencies, under the title of James the Third, and of Scotland under that of James the Eighth. The leaders set about raising a revolutionary army at once. The Highland chiefs, as you know, were supreme rulers of their clans: they did not invite, but commanded them to rally and fight for their true prince.

After an ancient custom, they raised recruits by sending “the fiery cross” through the different

THE “ PRETENDERS.”    229.

clans. This cross was composed of two branches of wood, one partly burned with fire and the other stained with blood, —to signify that, if any Scot to whom it should be sent should fail to present himself at a certain place, which should be named to him, he would be punished by fire and sword. This symbol was sent from house to house, and man to man, and none dared to disregard it. Yet few of the Highlanders needed any threats at this time. Most of them were passionately attached to the cause of the Stuarts, were dissatisfied with the union with England, and disgusted with the new king.

The Jacobites took the town of Perth, which gave them great advantages,—but unfortunately, their leader, Mar, was a poor general, and most of the other chiefs were more brave and enthusiastic than skilful or prudent. There were useless delays, — there were mistakes and disagreements, and no decisive engagement took place till the battle of Sheriffmuir was fought in November. Both armies claimed the victory, but the Jacobites lost by far the mofet men, and were obliged to retreat, which surely was as like being beaten as possible.


About the same time fourteen hundred of the rebel forces were surrounded at Preston, and compelled to surrender. The leaders were conducted to London, bound like felons, and many of them put to death. They suffered brayely, for as a general thing these adherents of the Stuarts were grandly heroic men.

At last, in December, 1715, the Chevalier himself arrived. He had embarked at Dunkirk, in the disguise of a sailor, with only six followers, also disguised, on a small vessel loaded with a cargo of brandy. Yet he failed to impart spirits to the Jacobites. Things had been so badly managed,— all felt so discouraged by defeat, and weakened, as it were, by the loss of so much noble blood, shed in vain, — that not even the presence of him they believed their rightful king could give them hope and strengh. Moreover, the Chevalier himself was disheartened and ill. It was not the measles this time, but the ague, which seemed to have shaken all the courage and will out of him. After a few miserable attempts at royalty and, generalship, but without fighting a single battle, he abandoned the enterprise, and, with the Earl of Mar, escaped to the Continent, leaving his

*HE “ PRETENDEES.”    231

army, beset by a powerful force under the Duke of Argyle, to save themselves if they could.

So ended the rebellion of 1715 ; a humiliating termination, which one would suppose might have cured the Scots of their mad attachment to the Stuarts, but it did not.


Soon after the Chevalier returned to the Conti nent, he married the Princess Clementina Sobi-eski, of Poland, the heiress to an immense fortune, who thought, simple girl, that she was making a magnificent marriage, and doubtless looked forward to sharing the throne of Great Britain with her husband, now poor, powerless, crownless, and hunted from all the courts of Europe, the Pope’s excepted.

There were two children from this marriage. Charles Edward, born in 1720, to whom the Jacobites gave the title of Prince of Wales, — and, five years after, Benedict, Duke of York, who entered the Church, and was made a cardinal.

Charles Edward was bred up to win back the


lost crown of tlie Stuarts; and as soon as lie grew to manhood, he was urged on to his great work. Poor fellow, he was worthy of a better fate, ■— for he was by nature noble, brave, persevering, kind-hearted, and affable. He was tall, fair, and handsome, though his face had rather a melancholy expression. But he was not much better calculated to make a good king than his father. He knew little of the science of government, or the true character of the English people. Besides being a zealous Papist, he was a devout believer in the “ divine right of kings ” to do precisely as they pleased in all things, and at all times, — a false and foolish doctrine, which cost his father and grandfather a crown, and his greatgrandfather his head beside. He was haughty and extremely selfish, though always courteous, and sometimes very gentle and winning in his manner.

The king and the prince — or the Chevalier de St. George and the Chevalier Douglas, or the two Pretenders — kept up a secret correspondence with the English and Scottish Jacobites for several years, and on the first opportunity which seemed at all favorable, Charles Edward set out


on another rasli and romantic expedition, for the old cause. He acted as regent for his father. He landed in Scotland in July, 1745, and was warmly welcomed by a few devoted Jacobites,, who were ready to struggle and die, if need be, for the house of Stuart.

The prince was certainly not wanting in promptness. He at once caused his standard to be raised, and called on his countrymen, especially the Highlanders, to rally around their true prince. He marched rapidly from point to point, and kindled a wild flame of enthusiasm as he went. The Highlands resounded with loyal shouts, songs, and battle-cries, and the fierce mountaineers came rushing down from glens and forests and rocky fastnesses, in mad haste to offer themselves to “ Royal Charlie.” He received them all with gracious condescension, but he did not say or feel that they were doing anything more than simple duty in devoting to him their swords and their lives. He thought that all who acknowledged him as the rightful prince belonged to him, and he made as free with their blood and their money for his purposes, as with their wine and venison when they feasted him.


Success followed success, till all Scotland was roused and England in a terrible state of consternation. George the Second was now king. He, like liis father, was little calculated to win the affection or admiration of his subjects. The contrast between his majesty, who was a gross, dull man, and the elegant, handsome young Chevalier, was very great, and, for my part, I am afraid I should have gone with the Highlanders for “ Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

In September, the city of Edinburgh was taken by the Laird of Lockiel, the prince’s greatest leader, when Charles Edward took possession of the Palace of Holyrood. Here he established a court, which, in spite of the times, became very gay and brilliant. The prince and his nobles were, however, soon called to sterner scenes. They met the English at Preston, and won a famous victory. Their next undertaking was a march southward, with the bold purpose of driving King George from his own capital. But after reaching Derby, they were obliged to retreat, much to the rage and shame of the rash Chevalier. The next important event was the battle of Falkirk, which the prince won, but it did not


advantage him much, for he was soon after it obliged to retire to the Highlands with his forces.

I have not space to relate the history of the rebellion from this to the great closing battle of Culloden, which took place on the 16th of April, 1746. On this most terrible day, King George’s forces, regular soldiers, were commanded by the Duke of Cumberland, and were 9,000 strong, opposed to only about 5,000 undisciplined Highlanders. Yet the prince’s followers showed at first no signs of dismay at the odds against them. They shouted cheerily and sounded the wild Pibroch on their bagpipes, and rushed into battle with their old impetuosity. But they were met at all points with such steady, obstinate valor, and attacked with such overwhelming force, that they were soon disconcerted and driven back with dreadful loss. Some elans proved cowardly and treacherous, refusing to fight, and flying early from the field.

Though Prince Charles behaved gallantly enough while he had hope, he fled as fast and as far as any of them when he saw that the battle was lost. The Duke of Cumberland sent his dragoons in pursuit of the flying, command-


ing them to show no mercy, but to cut down all they could overtake. And they did it, — perhaps willingly, perhaps reluctantly; hut the shame and crime of the inhuman slaughter rested, and always will rest, with the Duke himself. The flower of the Jacobite nobility and gentry were slain in this battle, or executed for treason afterwards, and mourning and desolation were brought to thousands of happy Scottish homes.

It would take a volume to contain a faithful history of all Charles Edward’s wanderings, perils, and adventures, from the day of his defeat at Culloden to that of his escape to France, five months after; for during all that time he was a hunted fugitive. Of course I cannot relate them here at length.

The prince first sought refuge in the west Highlands, where he met some of his adherents, whom he told, in his old, hopeful, undaunted way, that he intended to run over to France, for supplies and reinforcements, and return speedily to strike another blow for the good cause, — to settle the affairs of the Guelphs of Hanover. Some, as rash and sanguine as he, were comforted by these words ; but some sighed and


shook their heads; none reproached him, except it was by the blood of their wounds, yet unwashed from their torn garments, and the deep despair in their eyes.

Prince Charles next embarked for the Long Island, near the Isle of Skye, on the western coast of Scotland, where he hoped to find some sort of a vessel to take him to France. He landed at South Uist, where he was met by Clanranald, a faithful follower, who, for safety, procured him a humble lodging in a forester’s hut. But even here he was not long secure. General Campbell, the MacDonalds of Skye, MacLeod of MacLeod, and other Scots to the number of two thousand, who might have been in better business than hunting their true prince, came down upon the island, and eagerly searched it from north to south and east to west. It was at this time that Prince Charles met with his most romantic adventure. It happened that a beautiful young lady, Mss Flora MacDonald, was once on a visit to the Clanranalds of Soutli Uist, and, hearing of the Chevalier’s peril, nobly undertook to rescue him. Her stepfather was in command of the MacDonalds, then on


the island in search of him, and all her clan were anti-Jacobites; but few Scottish women were in heart ever opposed to the gallant young prince, and Flora’s heart was now greatly touched by his misfortunes. She was not long in laying her plans, nor slow in carrying them out. She applied to her stepfather for a pass for herself, a man-servant, and a maid-servant, proposing to return to the Isle of Skye. She obtained the passport without difficulty, — Charles Edward disguising himself, and passing for the maidservant. Only think of it,—the splendid Chevalier assuming the dress and manner of a poor Scotch lass, and adding to his other appellations and titles the name of Betty Burke! But elegant as the prince was in his own dress, he was ungraceful enough in this. Indeed, he came very near betraying himself many times by his awkwardness. He would every now and then strike into a grand princely stride, and, when reminded of it, would curb himself down into little mincing steps that everybody laughed to see. He did not seem to know just what to do with his hands; and when he sat down he was afraid to get up, lest he should entangle his feet


in liis skirts. He did not dare to trust his voice; so lie concluded to say nothing to any one, which, of course,, excited suspicions that he was not a woman. Yes, there were those who suspected Miss Betty Burke to be no better than a Stuart in disguise ; but if they were tempted to betray their prince, and so win the reward, there was something in Flora MacDonald’s eye which made them afraid and ashamed to commit such a treacherous act. So the party all got safely to the Isle of Skye. But the prince was not yet in security, though hidden in a dark cave by the wild sea-shore. Sir Alexander MacDonald was making a rigid search over the island. In this extremity, Flora did what many men would call a very rash thing, — confided her secret to another woman, and that woman the wife of Sir Alexander. Lady Margaret was frightened ; but she was generous and true, and never once thought of betraying the unfortunate prince to her husband. She concluded to confide the fugitive to the care of MacDonald of Kingsburg. Flora accompanied her charge to the house of this MacDonald, who received him respectfully and promised him his protection; not only because


he was his prince, but a fellow-man in deadly peril; and not from fear, but love of Flora Mac-Donald, who had captivated him by her generous heroism.

From Kingsburg the prince went to the island of Rasa, where he suffered great privations, and from thence back to Scotland, where he wandered and wandered, in want and weariness and peril, — everywhere hunted, but everywhere finding friends, who, though poor and wretched like himself, were too proud and noble to win wealth by betraying him to his enemies. For several weeks, he took refuge in a cavern with seven other outlaws, who had taken to robbing “ as the only way of gaining an honest livelihood,” they said. Prince Charles was in no condition to be over-scrupulous, so he allowed them to procure him a change of clothes from the first well-dressed traveller they could waylay, and ate and drank what they set before him, “ asking no questions for conscience’ sake.”

Charles Edward owed his final escape to a singular piece of devotion and forethought. v There was a young officer of his army who was said to look remarkably like him, — one Roderick Mac-


Kinzie, now a fugitive like himself, who was one day overtaken by the King’s troops, and mortally wounded. As he lay in his last agonies, he looked up at his murderers and exclaimed, “ Ah villains, you have slain your prince ! ” This was a falsehood certainly, but there was something so noble about it that one can hardly condemn it, — at all events, it saved the prince’s life, for Roderick’s words were believed, and his head was taken off and sent to London. Here the mistake was discovered ; but in the mean time, the search for the prince was given over in Scotland, and he had time to make his escape. He sailed for France from Lochnannah with Lochiel and about an hundred others, on the 15th of September, and landed at Morlaix on the 29th; and so ended the last attempt of the Stuarts to regain the throne of their ancestors. Not that they ever wholly abandoned their pretensions and their plans,— they clung to them desperately for a long time. But they no longer found many others mad enough to sacrifice their all for a cause so hopeless. And the world went on, — the scaffold ceased to drip with the blood of their 'followers, and the prison to echo their groans. The grasr

11    r


sprang up long and rank on the battle-field of Culloden, — over the ashes of homes desolated in their wars, over the graves of men who had died broken-hearted for their sakes, of mothers and wives made childless and widowed by their ambition, — the pibroch was sounded no longer among the wild Highlands, —■ the fiery cross was borne no more from house to house, a portent of battle and death, — and the Stuarts were forgotten.

Once, as I was strolling about a damp, mouldy old church in Frascati, a little town among the Alban hills, near Rome, I suddenly came upon a marble slab in the wall, with a Latin inscription, which said that under it was buried Charles Edward, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland.. So here he lay, the gallant prince, the accomplished chevalier, the darling royal Charlie of the Scots.

He died at Rome in 1T88, but it seems was buried here, in his brother’s cathedral, though there is a great Stuart monument in St. Peter’s Church. *The latter part of his life was unhappy and discreditable. It seems it would have been


better if he had fallen in his noblest days on his last battle-field, and been buried there. There his royal blood might at least have nourished a daisy or a wild lily, and his memory would have haunted the spot like the pure air and the sunshine. Here is no light, no freshness, nothing but shadow and mould, and that pompous Latin epitaph, claiming for his poor dust the crown he vainly grasped after all his life.

Now a few words about Flora MacDonald. After the escape of Charles Edward, she and her brave lover were arrested and imprisoned in the Tower; but the king was soon obliged from very shame to pardon and release them. Then Flora became, as they say, “all the rage” in London. Everybody crowded to see her, honored and applauded her. Even the king’s eldest son, Prince Frederick, praised her generous heroism. Perhaps he thought in such revolutionary times, he might need such loyal devotion as well as the other Prince of Wales, and believed in encouraging such things.

The gifts bestowed upon Flora by her numerous admirers amounted to no less than fifteen hundred pounds, — quite a little fortune, which


she bestowed upon MacDonald of Kingsburg, with what was infinitely more precious, her love and her hand in marriage. These two noble MacDonalds resided for a while in America, but they returned to pass their last years in the Isle of Skye. Their graves are in the churchyard of Kilmuir. The tombstone of the heroine was once inlaid with a marble slab, but this has been broken and carried off bit by bit, by curious tourists. Yet she did not need it; her beautiful fame is better than a hundred epitaphs. Flora MacDonald, the fairest flower that ever bloomed in the rough path of her prince’s hard fortunes, giving a tender grace to his traffic story, and sweetening his memory in the heart of the world.

Mtlxmt - üliliotefarii. - Injhtirgli.



IT was on a cool and breezy autumn morning, now sunny, and now showery, that we bade adieu to dear old Edinburgh, and turned    our    faces    towards    England, intending to

visit    a    few    remarkable    places on our way. We

stopped first at Melrose, to see the ruined Abbey which Sir Walter Scott has made famous by his u Lay of the Last Minstrel.”


Melrose, about tliirty-seven miles from Edinburgh, is situated on the Tweed, a small but beautiful river, and above it rise the gray Eildon Hills, long famed in song and story. The Abbey, the most magnificent and perfect specimen of Gothic architecture existing in Scotland, was founded in 1136 by David the First, was destroyed by Edward the Second, and rebuilt by Robert Bruce. It was afterwards greatly injured at various times by the English, but finally made a complete ruin of by the Protestants, at the Reformation. Yet there is enough of it still remaining to give one an imposing idea of its beauty and grandeur. Its sculpture is still wonderful to see, and the ivy and wall-flowers which grow all about among the ruins are not more perfect and graceful than the stone vines, flowers, and foliage in the windows and arches, and around the mighty pillars,—-carved so many hundred years ago.

A host of noble knights, and a king or two, have been buried in Melrose Abbey. Many of the warlike family of Douglas sleep the long sleep in this desolate but lovely place. Robert Bruce’s heart, which travelled so far and went through so many adventures after it was out of his body, was


at last deposited liere under the high altar, where it long ago mingled with common dust. But his noble fame yet lives, and beats on, like a brave, strong heart, in the life of his country.

As I was standing opposite one of the great windows of the Abbey, admiring its exquisite sculptures, the old guide, pointing to a fallen pillar, said, “ That, madam, was the favorite seat o’ Sir Walter Scott. Mony ’s the time I hae seen him sitting there, leaning 011 his staff, wi’ his dogs at his feet, and the great thoughts glissting and glowering in his een.”

I sat down on this pillar for a moment, with more reverence than I had felt a few months before, while sitting in Westminster Abbey on the “ Stone of Scone,” on which so many Scottish and English monarclis had been crowned.

From Melrose we drove a few miles to Abbotsford, the seat of Sir Walter Scott. This is one of the most noble and beautiful residences in all Scotland. It is situated on the south bank of the Tweed, near its junction with the Gala, surrounded by a fine picturesque country, and in full sight of the Eildon Hills.

The delightful grounds of Abbotsford are now


as they were planned and planted by Sir Walter. The house is of the Gothic style, with a great many towers and gables, irregular and peculiar, but very stately and beautiful.

We entered by a handsome porch, ornamented with petrified stag-horns, into a lofty hall, paved with black and white marble, brought from the Hebrides, and panelled with richly carved oak, from the old royal palace of Dumfermline. The walls are hung with ancient arms, and decorated with the armorial crests of the great Scottish families of the borders. From this we passed into the armory, where, among many curious specimens of arms, we saw Montrose’s sword and Rob Roy’s gun, — two of Sir Walter’s greatest treasures.

At one end of the armory is the drawing-room, a very elegant apartment, lined with cedar-wood, and furnished with ebony, and containing several curious and costly carved cabinets. At the other end is the dining-room, a spacious and lofty saloon, with a ceiling of black oak. Here Sir Walter entertained not only his many friends, but countless strangers and foreign travellers, with a hospitality like that of the great-hearted barons


of old. This room contains several fine pictures, and interesting family portraits ; among the latter is a likeness of Sir Walter when he was a little boy. It represents a delicate, fair-haired child; but the expression is very thoughtful and earnest, and the head has a grand, prophetic look about it.

The next room I recollect is a charming little breakfast parlor, looking out upon the Tweed, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow. Then there is the library, the largest room in the house. It has a roof of oak, carved after beautiful models in Roslin Castle. The collection of books is a very rare one, and amounts to twenty thousand volumes. Out of the library opens the study, — a small, neat apartment, containing a few books, and furnished only with a plain writing-table and an arm-chair. Here Sir Walter used to write.

In a small closet, opening out of the study, are kept the clothes which Sir Walter last wore about the grounds of Abbotsford. It is a very plain country-suit, — a dark-blue coat, with large buttons, plaid trousers, a pair of thick shoes, a broad-brimmed hat, and a sturdy walking-stick. The sight of these, more than anything else in


that house, touched my heart. No costly royal robes, glittering with diamonds and pearls, could ever seem to me so worthy of reverence as these plain, homely garments, on which must have fallen many tears of tender love and sorrow, worth more than all the jewels in the world.

We went away from Abbotsford very thoughtful and sad, and did not say much to each other throughout our drive to Dryburgh Abbey. Here, in a lovely, lonely spot, in the midst of a noble old ruin, overgrown with ivy, wall-flowers, and sweet wild-roses, Sir Walter was buried beside his dear wife,— and here since his eldest son has been laid.

Sir Walter loved to visit this beautiful ruin, which was once the property of his ancestors, and it seems a fitting and grand place for him to rest in, after all the toils, cares, and sorrows of his hard, though splendid life.

I think, dear children, that I cannot make a better close to this volume of sketches and recollections of Scotland, than by relating a true and wonderful, though perhaps you will think rather a sad story : —



Walter Scott, the son of Walter Scott, was born in Edinburgh, in 1771. His father, a lawyer of some repute, who belonged to an old and highly respectable family, was a man of good mind and excellent heart; his mother, the daughter of an eminent physician, was an amiable and intellectual lady.

Mr. and Mrs. Scott had twelve children, but all, except four sons and one daughter, died in infancy. Walter was one of the youngest. He was a strong and healthy child, till he was about eighteen months old, when, after a little attack of fever, resulting from teething, he lost the use of his right leg.

The best physicians of Edinburgh were called to see him, and everything which they believed or imagined could help him was done; but all in vain. At last, the doctors gave up,—just in time to save his life, probably, and he was sent to his grandfather Scott’s, for the benefit of country air. Here he remained for several years, most kindly and tenderly cared for, and improving in health


and strength, but not wholly recovering from his lameness. Indeed, he suffered from it, more or less, to the day of his death.

There was an old shepherd on his grandfather’s farm of whom little Walter was very fond. This man, “ Anld Sandy Ormistoun,” used to take him on his shoulders, and carry him out to the hills where he was watching his flocks. Here the child would roll about on the soft, green turf, among the sheep and lambs, and watch the white fleecy clouds floating above him, — thinking, perhaps, that they looked like another flock of sheep, in the great fields of the sky, — and be quiet and good and happy, hour after hour. One day the shepherd left him alone, and went down to the house for something, and while he was gone a thunder-storm came up. Then his Aunt Jenny, remembering where he was, ran to the hills to bring him home. She expected to find him dreadfully frightened; but he was lying on his back, looking up at the flashes of lightning, and exclaiming: “ Bonnie! bonnie ! ”

When Walter was about six years old, he was taken to Bath, England, for the benefit of the waters; which, however, did not do him much


good. While here, he saw, for the first time, a play acted. There was a scene in this which represented a quarrel between two brothers, and the affectionate little fellow was so much shocked at it, that he cried out indignantly: “Ain’t they brothers ?

On returning from Bath, Walter, after a little visit to his home, went back to his grandfather’s, where he throve best. He was mostly under the care of his Aunt Jenny, a good and beautiful woman, but his grandparents and his kind Uncle Thomas were very fond of him. His grandfather used to tell him stories, and his grandmother would repeat ballads to him, and almost as soon as he could talk, he showed a remarkable fondness for such things.

By degrees, he grew strong enough to walk, then to run and climb among the rocks and crags. At last, he got quite above riding old Sandy Or-mistoun, but learned to canter about on a Shetland pony, no larger than a Newfoundland dog. Indeed, she was so small that he used to ride her into the house. He fed her with his own hands, and called her “ Marion.”

But though he grew to be a merry, sturdy,


manly boy, Walter was always gentle and good. As one of the old servants said, long afterwards: “ He was a sweet-tempered bairn ; a darling with all the house.”

When he was about eight years old, he returned home to live and go to school. He was not considered one of the first scholars in the institution he attended, — the Edinburgh High School, for he lacked ambition and diligence, — but he was always thought a remarkably able and quick witted boy. His memory was really wonderful. There was no end to the songs, ballads, and fairy tales which he had by heart. If anything struck his fancy, he could remember it without difficulty. His father rather discouraged his passion for po etry and romance, but his mother, who was also poetic in her tastes, used to read with him, and .listen to his fine recitations with delight. He was greatly beloved by his schoolmates, who eagerly crowded around him in play hours, to listen to his stories, and who were sure of his help and sympathy in all their boyish difficulties and sorrows.

He did not study as assiduously as he should aave done, and he afterwards regretted this ; but.


he read constantly, and so laid up, in liis own irregular way, a vast store of information. He could not be brought to love Greek and Latin, but he learned to read, mostly by himself, German, Spanish, and Italian, and he spoke French very well. He never let his lameness and awkward limp keep him from exercising with the other boys, and after a while he distinguished himself by feats of strength and daring. He grew tall and robust, and used to take long walks into the country, with his favorite schoolfellows, sometimes taking an arm of one of them, and always'making use of a cane.

At sixteen, he entered upon an apprenticeship to his father. He was faithful and diligent in business, but he still found time for reading and the manly sports in which he had such delight. During this apprenticeship he made several excursions into the Highlands, 011 business, and there acquired much information, which he afterwards made excellent use of. Indeed, wherever he went, through all his life, from everything he saw and heard, he learned something useful.

There are many interesting anecdotes told of


Walter Scott in his youth, but I have room for only one, which seems to me very beautiful.

One winter, while attending the lectures of the celebrated Dugald Stewart, upon Moral Philosophy, he used to sit beside a young man who seemed in humble circumstances, but who had an interesting and modest manner, and was evidently a diligent student. Scott liked him, and of course he liked Scott, — everybody did. Yet, though they became quite familiar friends, and often had long walks, and frank, cordial talks together, Walter noticed that his companion never said anything about his own home, or parentage. One day, as Scott was returning alone from a ramble, he was struck by the venerable appearance of a “ Bluegown,” a beggar of the most respectable class, who was standing by the way-side, leaning on his staff, and silently holding out his hat for alms. Scott gave him some money, and passed on. Several times after he found him in the same place and gave him alms, and once this happened when he was walking with the poor student. As he dropped his gift into the extended hat, he noticed a strange expression 011 the young man’s face, and, as the?


went on, lie asked: “Do you know anything to the old man’s discredit, Willie ? ”

His friend burst into tears, as he answered: “ 0 no, God forbid, but I am a poor wretch to be ashamed to speak to him,—he is my own father I He has enough laid by to serve him for his own old days, but he stands bleaching his head in the wind, that he may get the means to pay for my education.”

Scott felt deeply for the poor fellow’s mortifying situation; he soothed him, comforted him, kept his secret, and never once thought of dropping his acquaintance. He was too noble for that. If he had not been, I should not now be writing his life with so much love in my heart.

Some time after, when the lectures were over, Walter one day met the old “ Bluegown,” who, looking all round to see that nobody could overhear him, said: “ I find, sir, that you have been very kind to my Willie. He had often spoken of it before I saw you together. Will you pardon such a liberty, and give me the honor of seeing you under my poor roof? Willie has not been well, and it would do him good to see your face.”


Of course, Scott went. He found his humble friends living in a neat little cabin at St. Leon-; ard’s, near Edinburgh. Willie, very pale and thin, from his illness, was sitting on a stone bench by the door, looking for his coming, and was very glad and grateful when he saw him. During this visit, the old man talked of his plans and hopes for his darling son, and said: “Please God, I may live to see my bairn wag his head in a pulpit yet.”

When Scott returned home, he confided the story of Willie to his mother, and so much interested her in him that she exerted her influence and obtained for him the situation of tutor in a gentleman’s family, after which his poor old father gave up. begging and lived upon his savings.

So when Willie came to “ wag his head in a pulpit,” he had to tliank the friendship of. his fellow-student, then a great man. I hope he did not boast of him in public, but remembered him when he prayed alone.

When Walter Scott was about twenty-eight, an advocate of some distinction, and just becoming known as a poet, he visited the English lakes, and


while stopping at G-ilsland, he one morning saw a beautiful young lady on horseback. He was charmed both by her sweet face and her graceful riding,—he made her acquaintance, and liked her so well, that as soon as he could win her love, he married her. So Miss Charlotte Margaret Carpenter became Mrs. Walter Scott, to the satisfaction of all his friends. At this time, the poet is described as tall and handsome, with a glowing, kindly, honest face,—now playful as a child’s, now thoughtful and dreamy, but always sweet and gentle. He had an intense love for everything beautiful, high, and honorable, and a manly scorn of meanness, pretension, and coarseness. He had no vices, no follies, and no enemies. He was sincere, simple, and courteous to all; and, great as his intellect was, his heart was still greater.

- Shortly after his marriage, Scott was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, and some years later, Clerk of Session, — offices which he long filled with faithfulness and honor. He was thirty-four when he published his first long poem, “ The Lay of the Last Minstrel,” which at once made him a famous man. He was then living in a beautiful


country-place, called Ashestiel, and had four children,— Sophia,-Walter, Anne, and Charles. He never had any more, but God in his goodness spared all these till he was gone, and then let them follow him soon. Walter Scott was a careful and tender father. He loved the society of his children, and was never disturbed by their play and prattle. They sat at the same table with him, walked and rode with him, and came into his study at all times. He talked with them, told them stories and ballads, taught them to be truthful and courageous, and took part in all their pleasures and sorrows. And the children, though they* deeply honored and loved “ papa,” did not fear him, or have any uncomfortable awe in his presence. In the dreariest weather, they were content and merry if he were at home, and they could not enjoy the pleasantest excursion, if he were not along.

It was said of Scott, that “he was a gentleman, even to his dogs.” He was more, — a merciful Christian man to all dumb creatures. On Sunday he would not use his horses, for, he said, “ they also needed a day of rest,” but after church service, he would walk out with his family and his


dogs, and, when the weather would allow, dine with them in the open air. At these times he gave his children religious instruction, and told them Bible stories in such a simple, pleasant way, as to make them think Sunday the happiest day of the week.

There were always several fine dogs in Walter Scott’s family, who were pets and playfellows for the children, and almost companions for their master. The most famous of them were Camp, a terrier, and Maida, a stag-hound. These two were several times painted, by great artists; Maida grew so tired of being “ taken,” at last, that as soon as she saw any one preparing to make a sketch of her, she would get up and walk off in disgust.

Camp always accompanied his master in his rides and rambles, till he got too old and feeble, — but he never lost his affection or his intelligence. At Ashestiel he would go out every night to meet Scott, always taking the way indicated by the servant, who would say to him: “ Camp, the Sheriff is coming home by the ford,” or, u by the hill.”

Shortly after the family removed to Edinburgh,


Camp died, and was buried by moonlight, in a little garden, back of the house, and in sight of the window of his master’s study. The poet himself laid him in the grave, and sadly smoothed down the turf above him, while the whole family stood by in tears. Scott had engaged to dine out that day, but excused himself on account “ of the death of a dear old friend.” How I like that in him!

Maida, beautiful Maida ! lived and died at Abbotsford, where a monument was erected to her memory.

In 1808 and 1810, Scott published “ Mar-mion” and “The Lady of the Lake,” delightful poems, which made him idolized in his native land, and spread the circle of his fame till it had widened over the world. Soon after this, he purchased Abbotsford, then a lonely, uncultivated place, but which he saw could be made very beautiful. His first plan was to build a simple cottage ; but, as his means increased, he became ambitious for something grander, and, after several years, the present noble mansion was erected.

In 1814, Scott published “Waverley,” the first


of the most wonderful series of romances ever written, called the “ The Waverley Novels.” He did not give his name as the writer of this work; and for several years only his publishers and a few friends knew to a certainty that he was the sole author of this and the many splendid novels that rapidly followed it.

For a few bright years, Scott was one of the happiest as well as one of the greatest of men. His works brought him in large sums of money, which he spent in buying new lands, in planting and building at Abbotsford. He was successful in all he undertook. Men and women of genius, princes, and the highest nobility flocked to: see him. He was rich, he was honored, and, what was far better, he saw his beautiful children growing up around him, healthful, intelligent, and good. I am glad to be able to say that he bore his fame and fortune with a manly humility, and always found his greatest happiness in helping and pleasing others.

Scott had two friends at Abbotsford whom he especially loved and trusted,— Mr. Laidlaw, or “ Willie Laidlaw,” his steward, a very intelligent man, and a poet; and Tom Purdie, his forester,


the most faithful of servants, who loved his master with all his great, honest heart.

I have only space to mention a few of the principal events in the busy and splendid life of Scott. He was made a baronet by George the Fourth, in 1820. Shortly after, his eldest daughter, Sophia, was married to Mr. Lockhart. His son Walter was in the army ; Charles was a clerk in government office.

And now I come to the dark days. In consequence of some unwise speculations, his publishers, with whom he was in partnership, in a time of commercial difficulty and panic, became involved, failed, and Sir Walter was ruined!

He gave up all to his creditors, even his beloved books; and nobly resolved to devote the rest of his life, if necessary, to the payment of all demands against him, enormous as they were.

About this time, trouble after trouble came upon him. His little grandson', John Hugh Lockhart, or “ Hugh Littlejohn,” as he is called in the “ Tales of a Grandfather,” for whom, on account of a lameness like his own, he had always felt a peculiar tenderness, was given over by the physicians as an incurable invalid.


Then Lady Scott, his gentle and beloved wife, died at Abbotsford, after a painful illness. Yet, amid losses, embarrassments, anxieties, and bitter griefs, the brave and conscientious man labored on, allowing himself no time for rest or weeping. He finished liis great “ Life of Napoleon,” — he wrote novels, essays, reviews, biographies, poems, toiling so incessantly, so terribly hard, that at length his health, and, what was sadder still, his mind, began to give way. Within the first two years after his failure, he paid his creditors forty thousand pounds! — all made by his pen.

One evening, in 1829, “ honest Tom Purdie,” after a hard day’s work, leaned his head on his table and fell asleep. As he had seemed perfectly well, his family did not try to wake him for some time, but went softly about, and spoke low, for they knew he was tired. When supper was ready, they called him. He did not answer. They lifted his head from the table, and found that he was dead! This was another shock to the affectionate heart and broken spirit of Sir Walter.

A few months after, he had a paralytic stroke, —was extremely ill and speechless for some time,


but rallied, and very soon went to work again. It was in vain his children and friends entreated him to give himself a little rest. He could not rest, he said, he could not live under such a load of debt. In 1830, he had another attack of paralysis, yet rallied again, and that same year paid his creditors another large sum. They, in gratitude for his exertions, gave back to him the library, museum, plate, furniture, and paintings at Abbotsford,—where he was allowed to reside when he wished. This generous kindness cheered him very much, and he went on with his labors. But alas, he could not write any more in his old strong, clear style! There seemed a mist over his mind, and his thoughts grew weak and wandering. Yet, every now and then, his genius flashed out as bright as ever, and as his daily talk and habits were little changed, those around him hardly dared to say to one another, “He is failing.”

In the spring of 1881, he had a stroke of paral ysis which not only injured his memory and his speech, but somewhat distorted his face. He also suffered greatly from rheumatism, cramps, and increased lameness. From every attack he


rose up feebler, and more bewildered, but still strong in will. He was like some noble animal, struck down by repeated blows, but still struggling up and staggering on, weak and blinded. Jn the fall, he went to Italy, with a little hope of getting better. He was accompanied by his son Walter and his daughter Anne. They visited many places which would have deeply interested the poet in his happier days,—but now they gave him little pleasure. He was ill, weary, melancholy, and homesick. His great fame was now a real affliction, for it caused people to press upon him in a way that was almost cruel. His chief comfort was in a strange delusion. He imagined that all his debts were paid, and he was a free man, with ample means once more. At times, this happy hallucination left him, and he would go to work harder than ever, and bring on another attack. While at Naples, he wrote in his diary : “ Poor Johnny Lockhart! The boy is gone whom we made so much of.” Yes, his darling grandson was dead.

Sir Walter grew alarmingly worse, and begged to be taken home, that he might die at Abbotsford ; so, early in the summer his party returned 12 *


to England. At the hotel in London he lay for some weeks in a state of utter exhaustion and stupor. Yet he knew his children, and would rouse up now and then and speak to them in the old loving way, and tell them how his heart yearned for Abbotsford. As soon as it was thought safe for him to travel farther, he was taken home. He did not seem to take notice of anything till they came in sight of Melrose, and other familiar places, when he became greatly excited with joy, and as they drew near Abbotsford he could scarcely be kept in the carriage, he was so impatient to reach it.

Mr. Laidlaw met him at the porch, and helped him into the house. Sir Walter’s eye lighted up at sight of his old friend, and he exclaimed, “ Ha! Willie Laidlaw, 0 man, how often I have thought of you.” His dogs came crowding around his chair, fawning on him and licking his hands. He bent down and smiled and wept over them for a while, then fell back and went to sleep.

The next’ morning he awoke refreshed, calm and conscious, and asked to be taken out to see his garden and grounds. Willie Laidlaw wheeled him about for some time, in a Bath chair, fob


lowed by his children, his grandchildren, and liis favorite dogs. He often smiled tenderly on them' all, and on the summer glory of the flowers and trees, and talked a little, very sweetly and like himself. Then he wished to be wheeled through his house, and as they passed around the lofty suite of rooms, endeared to him by so many sweet and bright memories, he said, “ I have seen much, but nothing like my own house, — give me one turn more.”

After this, for a little while, he took the air daily in his Bath chair, and so visited several spots most dear to him in his grounds. He often asked .Mr. Lockhart to read to him, and it was noticed that, though he seemed to have forgotten poems that he had once had by heart, he never forgot the Bible, which he loved more than ever; and one night, when his little grandson, TV alter Lockhart, was repeating some of TV atts’s Hymns, be seemed to remember them perfectly.

One day, he asked to be taken to his study, foi lie wanted to write. His daughters opened his desiv and got everything ready for him, and he was wheeled into his old place. He smiled and said, “Thank you, — now give me my pen and


leave me to myself for a while.” Mrs. Lockhart put the pen into his hand, but the poor old man could not hold it. As it dropped upon the paper he sank back on his pillow, burst into tears., and gave up forever!

Soon after this, he was taken to his own room, which he never left again. Yet he lingered until the 21st of September, most of the time in a state of complete stupor and unconsciousness. On the morning of the 17th he awoke conscious, and composed. He seemed to think himself dying, and said to Mr. Lockhart: “ I may have but a minute to speak to you. My dear, be a good man, — be virtuous, — be religious, — be a good man. Nothing else will give you any comfort when you come to lie here.”

Mr. Lockhart asked if he should call Sophia and Anne (Sir Walter’s sons had been obliged to return to their posts). “ No,” he said, u don’t disturb them. Poor souls ! I know they were up all night. God bless you all.”

These were his last audible words. He sunk again into a deep stupor, and only revived for a moment when his sons came to him. He knew them, and blessed them with his eyes.


He passed away very calmly, with all his children kneeling around him, and his son Walter kissed down his eyelids for the last sleep.

When, a few days after, that bereaved family returned from Dry burgh Abbey, where they had laid the worn and aged form of their beloved, to beautiful and desolate Abbotsford, they tried to comfort one another with thoughts of him in a better home, — in the midst of all his loved ones gone before, — with his tender wife by his side, and dear little Johnny at his knee.

When her idolized father was gone, Anne Scott had no heart to stay. She drooped and died within that year. Sophia followed a few years after, and Walter and Charles have since died. Abbotsford is now occupied by Mr. Hope, who married a granddaughter of Sir Walter Scott.


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