Noble lives and brave deeds


Material Information

Noble lives and brave deeds
Spine title:
Noble lives & brave deeds
Brave lives and noble
Physical Description:
160 p. : ill. (some col.) ; 28 cm.
Matéaux, Clara L
Cassell Publishing Co ( Publisher )
Cassell Publishing Company
Place of Publication:
New York
Publication Date:


Subjects / Keywords:
Biography -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Kings and rulers -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Queens -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Adventure and adventurers -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Authors -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Philanthropists -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Protestantism -- History -- Juvenile literature   ( lcsh )
Biographies -- 1890   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1890
Biographies   ( rbgenr )
collective biography   ( marcgt )
non-fiction   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- New York -- New York


Statement of Responsibility:
by Clara L. Matéaux.
General Note:
First ed. published in 1883 under title: Brave lives and noble.
General Note:
Frontispiece printed in colors.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Rights Management:
All applicable rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier:
aleph - 002224143
notis - ALG4404
oclc - 04235064
System ID:

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By 0. M. DUNHAM.



"THE CONcnaATus oF THE WEST."-George Washington, -
PocAHorTBs AND CaPrTa JofN SIaTH.--Te Story of "La Belle Sauvage,"

BeJaixxm Farj.uni.-APrinter and Governor, "Poor

JoAN or Ar, -
ABn~Aui LTFo~LN.-Ploughboy and Premiden, -
A CAP.Iav PRmicEss.-Elizabeth of England,
WIUIAM PENS.-72e Great Onas, -
RORBzT THE BUTCE.-A Scottis HoB -o
NaD OBo 's LEA, -
WEL=mGToN.-The Iron Duke, -
SiB JOHN FBANKxIN.-A Thirty Yeara' &arch, -
WOLsEY.-The Great Lord Cardinal, -
Sm FalAris DRAKE.-Ta "Golden Mind," -
Marm ArTOIurTTz.-A 1ench Queen, -
JOHN MILTO.--" Th Lady of Chris College," -
B TAxI N W T, -

ichard," 27
S 57
S 63
S 83
S 89
9- -
S 13






"Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the great-
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state
Yes, one-the first, the last, the best-
The Cincinnatue of the West-
Whom envy dared not hate-
Bequeathed the name of Washington,
To make men blush-there was but one."-Byro.

APA, papal come here. Do come directly I" A child ran
bursting into the quaint old room, his eyes bright and round
with excitement, as he seized upon his father's arm, and tried
i to lead him away instantly from the sack of seeds on which he
was giving judgment.
"My son, I am busy; I really am. Run away and amuse yourself."
"Oh, but do come," entreated the boy. "Such a strange-such a
wonderful thing 'has happened in the garden, and you must see it before
any one else. I was so startled, and so will you be, pa, if you will only
come. I cannot hide what it is much longer. I-its--but that's right "-
and as the indulgent father rose to follow, the boy skipped and jumped
with delight along the walk, while the whole air was rich with the
smell of ripening peaches, and noisy with the hum of big busy bees;
but there was no looking about till the child stopped and pointed to the
He did not say a word explanatory of his stupendous discovery. His
father put on big round glasses that might have suited an owl, and, after



taking a very deliberate survey, threw up both hands as though in mute
astonishment, and seemed fixed on the spot.
The child danced about like a young will-o'-the-wisp, then, clutching
his knees as he stood, he cried excitedly:-
"Spell it, pa, spell it. It's George, isn't it P-G-E-O-R-G-E--and I'm
George-little George: it must be me, there's only one George Washington."
"Ayyy, my son, it's George-George Washington, surely enough;
but what a very odd thing, to be sure 1"
Certainly, it was odd that those names should be springing out of the
ground in large and legible green letters, all the more odd if the old
gentleman had not chanced to have busied himself only the other night
in this very place, laying down rich earth and scattering cress-seed with
care and caution; but of that he had not spoken to any one, and the
result appeared to surprise him vastly, and to make his eyes twinkle not
a little as he stared down at the big

"I wonder how it came there?" he said presently. "Just chance,
I suppose."
Oh no, pa, it never came by chance before; all the letters exactly
right too-G-E-O-R-G-E."
"Well, I don't see why it should happen. Lots of things do happen
for the first time, and I suppose this is the first time your name thought
of growing. Chance, chance, George; nothing but chance, depend on't."
But something in his father's voice struck the lad's quick ear, and
clapping his hands, he cried:-
Oh, pa, don't say it's chance; it really couldn't be that, you know.
It was somebody. You, now, wasn't it ? Somehow, to scare your little
boy, you did it, I'm sure."
Yes, George, I did do it, not to scare but to teach my little boy.
I wanted you to learn about your Father-your Father and mine." And he
laid a kindly hand on the soft curls, and looked down in the earnest
young face.
"You mean God, don't you, pa? I did never see Him; I don't know
quite where He is," said the child, thoughtfully.


You did not see me when I hid your name, wrapped in tiny seeds,
in the earth; you did not see the warmth that made them spring up; you
never saw what Power made your teeth'grow, and your ears to hear, and
your tongue to prattle. Do you think all those things came by' chance ?'
Why, your name growing would be a simple matter to these, my
son." So much for George's father, who died when his little son was
eleven, leaving him heir to goodly lands by the Rappahanock river. As to
George's mother, she was a woman of whom people said, "There is no
nonsense about her-a plain, energetic, strong-willed lady, perfectly capable
of conducting the affairs of a farm, and scorning help." When the time
came that her son, the President, could ask her to.come and live at the
White House, she answered briskly:-
"I thank you, George, but I prefer being independent;" and so to
the last she lived in her farmhouse, and superintended the culture of her
own acres, not disdaining to labour with her own hands. It is said that
when General La Fayette came to visit her, she came in to him from her
garden walk and in her old sun-bonnet, saying, "I would not pay you so
ill a compliment, Marquis, as to stay to change my dress." Trained by
such a woman in a simple rational manner of life, George was prepared
to enjoy the high estate he achieved-that of being the man first in war,
first in peace, and first in the hearts of his fellow-citizens.
Need I tell here how he was one of the foremost of that gallant band
who framed the Declaration of Independence which is still read in America
every 4th of July P
What he did to gain the independence of his country every one
knows, or should know, by heart. I cannot even sum it up in this short
space; I can mention but one of the deeds shedding glory on Washington's
Once, when Philadelphia was in dire peril, and he had vainly entreated
Lee to come on--"Do come on l"-he at last sent most of his stores and
baggage across the Delaware river, and then, hearing that the English
troops were gaining rapidly on him, he took his men also over the river;
and then destroyed all the boats he had used, and caused all the other
vessels within seventy miles to be destroyed as well, so that when Lord
Cornwallis came up in hot pursuit, there was not a boat to be procured


by force, love, or money, and when the English tried to cross higher up,
the American troops had been so well disposed that it was altogether


impossible to land, and the defeated general had to turn about and return
to New Brunswick, whence they had so lately marched, to wait till the
now flowing waters should be frozen over, and his soldiers could pass.
But it was a dangerous and difficult time for Washington, who


remained waiting for reinforcements, which he only obtained with the
greatest difficulty. A number of foreign troops were assembled at Trenton,
and he determined to make a bold attack on them, for they were ravaging
all the country round with fire and sword,
One bitterly cold Christmas Eve, the Germans, little dreaming of
mischief, were resting in their camp, where fires were blazing cheerily.
Great lumps of ice were floating and blocking the Delaware now, but on
its slippery banks soldiers were moving silently, and one with a very
solemn, earnest face, was watching and ordering the embarkation of men and
guns. When all were over Washington formed his army into two columns,
and through a heavy fall of freezing snow they marched on towards
Trenton. Two of them fell frozen. There was no time or chance to
help. On the rest went, only the more determined to do or die; indeed,
there was little choice by now.
At last they came to the place they sought, and suddenly in the
darkness of night there arose a wild cry of "Der Feind I der Feind!
Heraus! heraus!" a sudden rattling of drums, a calling to arms, a fierce
struggle for victory; for the Germans were bold and brave, and led by a
gallant chief. He, endeavouring to make a determined stand, was shot,
and then his disheartened soldiers surrendered, and Washington's terrible
night march was not in vain.
This was the man of whom Thackeray wrote:-
To endure is greater than to dare, to tire out hostile fortune, to be
daunted by no difficulty, to keep heart when all have lost it, to go through
intrigue spotless, and to forego even ambition when the end is acquired-
who can say this is not greatness ?"


OWIATAN was a great chief among chiefs, and his lodge was
in the far-away valley of Werrowocomoco, where, when not on
the war-trail, he camped with many braves. Powhatan was
VIP bold and cunning, yet withal tender-hearted, especially when his
eyes lighted on his one little. daughter, Mataox, whose beloved
young mother lay at rest near the fair waters of the mighty Delaware.
A sweet dusky maiden this, with the step of a bounding fawn, with,
bright dark eyes and long raven hair that waved nigh to the edge of her
scarlet moccasins. Very precious to her tribe, as I have been told; so that
when it was known that the White Faces had come from afar to make a settle-
ment beyond the river, and called the poor place Jamestown, the Indians
who had first thought of slaying and next of trading with these strangers,
were in fear lest evil might befall their king's young daughter should the
white medicine men choose to bewitch her, or the evil eye fall on her. So
they changed her name, that'the man might be foiled and the eye not see
her, and called her in public, instead of Mataox, Pocahontas-a name of
which the meaning, and every Indian name has its special meaning, was
kept a mystery even among themselves.
The new comers fenced in their town with earthworks and palisades,
but by the time that the kernels of corn first appeared in the country,.
Powhatan and other Sachems determined upon attacking the intruding
palefaces at Jamestown, when, by a strange chance, it happened that their
captain and leader fell a helpless prisoner into their hands. The moon
was asleep, they captured him, and great was their rejoicing. Even

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Pocahontas clapped her hands, for she longed to see a white man; of them
she had heard much.
How it came about I will tell, as it was recorded in the summer of
1610, by the White chief himself, Captain John Smith, whose "portraic-
tuer" is before you on the next page.
He it was who first tracked the waters of the Chickahominy, and who
left his people, taking with him two men and an Indian youth for a guide,
with whom, in a small canoe, he travelled many a mile, and at last found a
way even through tall reeds and hanging branches. Then, when he could
pass no farther, he landed, and bidding the men watch, strode away inland
with his guide before his footsteps, swinging his gun as he went exploring.
But some straggling knaves of Powhatan slew the two weary boatmen
asleep by a fire of twigs-slew them as they lay. Then they tracked the
chief, and behold, he was still following in the trail of the guide. Not
caring to come too near, because of the gun, they let fly their arrows,
one of which stuck fast in his leg, but the others fell short; upon which
he caught the arm of the guide, who stood all abashed, and whipping off
his own leather thong, or garter, quickly had it fast about the native's
arm, and, swinging him round, used him as a barricado, or shield, and
from behind him wounded many, because they dare not come nigh his
And as all this time- he retreated, he would in safety have made
his way back to the canoe, but that, as he advanced, his buckler, trembling
and staggering before him, must needs fall and drag him into a hole
full of thick mud, where they would both have choked. The natives were
so afraid of the gun that the captain had to fling it away before they would
venture to come and drag him out, and carry him off, chilled and hurt,
to the fire, where he saw the two slain men, and by the fierce looks of the
Indians he judged that he himself was not far from death already.
But he stood up boldly, and asked to be taken before their leader; and
they, because of his manner, did not say him nay, but led him with much
noise to the noted Opechancanough, and there the captive made no,
entreaties. He simply drew out one of those mystic things-a pocket
compass-the like of which no warrior had ever seen, and, knowing
somewhat of the Indian tongue, began to tell of its wonders-how this


needle pointed ever north, and why; and Opechancanough and his braves
heard with grave, thoughtful eyes, while the paleface went on telling of
the 'stars, and earth, and sky, and how the sun did chase the night for


ever round the world; and it was good to see how they hearkened, even
as children do tO-a tale that is new and full of marvels.
As long as the captain spoke they listened and asked; then when he
spoke no more they, first tying him to a tree, calmly prepared to shoot hin.


Yet their chief held the compass in his own hand, and whether there
was magic in it to soften his. heart I know not, but he suddenly held it up
aloft as a signal, at which they unbound the captive and prepared to lead
him away to their camp, where ruled the great Powhatan himself.
At first there was a setting of themselves in marching array, with
Opechancanough in their centre, and nigh him borne the-weapons taken
from Captain Smith and his slain men; then the same captain, led by
three great "lubbers holding him faste; and so they went in file, six and
six and six, with arrows and quivers grimly painted-more than a
hundred men. They marched till night.
At the village of Orapaxe all the old people came out; also the women
and children yelling joyously, and those who had brought the prisoner did
prepare themselves for a kind of war-dance, painting their bodies and hair
red, and sticking. feathers and bits of fur about their heads. Then they
hopped and danced in a ring, brandishing the tails of rattlesnakes, while
those who looked on screeched with great admiration at their prowess.
The captive, faint and weary, was led away to a log hut, and so feasted
with venison stew that he fancied he was fatted to be himself eaten.
Such things he had heard of, but it was not so, and they did him no hurt.
Only one old man was anxious to slay him, because that his son
was wounded; whereupon Smith cried that at Jamestown he kept
certain medicine which would certainly cure the hurts, if he were allowed
to fetch it. Upon this they fastened his bonds the tighter, and pre-
sently they decided that he might send for it if he could by them, and he
took a leaf out of a book, and wrote to Jamestown of his peril, and
begged his friends to put certain useful things he named under a stone;
then he gave it to the Indians, and told them that if this white leaf
with signs on it were given to any Jamestown people, the bottle-and other
good things would be found under such a big stone outside the palisade,
which he described to his captors. On this poor chance his life hung for
the present..
Away sped the Indians through frost and snow; but when they saw
watchful white people sally forth they grew afraid and fled, dropping
the paper in their hurry, yet not daring to return without it. They came
back at midnight, and, with little hope, peeped under the stone, where--


lo and behold I-lay each thing they had been promised, after which they
swiftly hurried back, and every one was set wondering because of that
magical "talking leaf" that had so successfully informed the intruding
palefaces yonder of the meaning of their errand.
At last the unexpected party arrived at Werowocomoco, where stood
the spacious wigwam of Great Powhatan, outside of which they paused,
the centre of an admiring crowd, while the king and his court put on
their paint and bravery; and then they saw the king, who "sate on a
seate like a bedsted, with ravowcum (racoon) skinnes, all the tailes hanging
by." His young daughter sat near, and behind many men and women
with their heads and shoulders painted red, and their heads adorned with
white feathers and down of birds, and big chains of beads of all colours,
and of teeth and stones, for it was a great'occasion, as each one felt.
Very stately and royal did Great Powhatan feel, no doubt, as he
looked to see the effect of all this pomp on the dusty, haggard paleface,
to whom one woman brought water, and another a bunch of feathers by
way of towel. Then a long and solemn conference was held among
the braves, the result being, that suddenly the royal wigwam was thrown
open, and a huge log dragged forward, towards which Captain Smith was
hurriedly led, and forced to kneel. His last hour had come 1
Now, indeed, it seemed that he must die. Wounded and bound in
the hands of such foes, what chance for our poor Englishman, the war
Shatchets whizzing about in a preparatory flourish, the better to deal death-
blows ? What appeal could touch those savage hearts, or stop those
upraised arms, or stay the death song-chorus, only delayed because of a
fiendish triumph in the agony of the victim in their clutches P
But as he bowed his doomed head, the captain was suddenly aware of
a slight young form bounding past him, and of a girl in tears of passionate
pity and entreaty pleading for his life-the poor, defenceless stranger's
life. Would not her father spare it to her, his daughter-his little
PocahontasP Would he not give her this man's life, instead of the beads
he had promised her Did a chief ever refuse when it was the woman of
the family asked mercy P And then, as Powhatan would have gently but
firmly led her away, she flew from his side to kneel by that of the crouching
figure opposite, and, laying her dusky cheek against his head, and spreading

her strong young arms about him, appealed to all for her right as a chief's
daughter to save a prisoner's life. Women whose husbands had been
Slain on the war-trail, children whose parents were slain, could stay the
hatchet, even as it hung over a victim's head; and she, a princess, could surely
save this white man, who had not shed the blood of one of theirs.
"Powhatan did not love the lone daughter of Deeryes, or he would not
let her so implore in vain." And here she rose, and ran'with clasped hands
and kissed the royal mantle, and Powhatan, all sullen, yet unable to
resist her, signified that the white victim should be spared, to make hatchets
for him and beads for his daughter. Then, at a sign, the young captain was
dragged away, and thrust in a close lodge at some distance, where
he lay till night, disconsolate at the prospect of living a slave.
He was suddenly startled by a loud groaning and roaring, as of angry
wild animals coming nearer and nearer, but it was only Powhatan and
two hundred of his council, all fearfully disguised, who came to tell him
he was free, and should have guides back to Jamestown, if only he
would send back two big guns and a grindstone, after which the king
would never harm him, but look on him as a son, and trade with his people.
Speedily departed the captain with twelve Indians under the care of
Rawhunt, the king's servant, and on his arrival right honestly did he
deliver the guns. As to the coveted grindstone, they could not even lift
one: how then could they carry it back So. they got beads and many
trinkets of red and blue wherewith to charm the eyes of the dusky young
maid (she was but twelve summers old), whose pitiful words and determined
action saved the English leader's life.
After this the Indians became friendly with the little colony in
Jamestown, and often visited it, staring with grave-eyed wonder at the
doings of the palefaces, who in time were greatly interested with these
strange children of the wilds, and their strange ways and sayings. They
spoke of the sun as being asleep from sunset to sunrise; and in the ord of
the moon, when it does not shine in the night, they said "It is dead," all
rejoicing at the sight of the new moon, which brought promise of good.
But now it was -a period of peace, and soon came the celebration of the
close of the year-a great feast which took place at the time of the old
moon, in the last of the month we call January.


There was great din and stir about the council-house as hunters
came in from every direction, bringing whatever of venison and skins they
had been able to obtain; and there was a noisy election of some twenty of
the most active and able men into a sort of committee to superintend and
take the principal part in the coming festivities-no slight business, as we
shall see; for it was to continue eight days, and they would have to be
astir from first to last. To select a place where all the tribe could
assemble, and frolic and feast; then to strangle two spotless dogs, paint
their faces red, and adorn their bodies curiously with feathers, then stick
them up on a high pole as a sort of trophy; after which they had to run
round among the people, stirring them up with a kind of paddle, and
putting out every fire in the huts. If one were left alight, misfortune
would follow.
And so the feast commenced, every one dancing, and taking what
they liked out of the big steaming kettles.' But all the time those twenty
men ran here and there, now with nothing on, now dressed in bear-skins,
and with big masks of husks, which looked awful, and made the children
and squaws scream with affright, and put something into the baskets they
carried, that they should go away, but they never stayed long anywhere.
On the ninth day it ended by those twenty restless men assembling,
and taking down the painted dogs with much ceremony and sleight of
hand, passing into their inanimate bodies the sins and ill-doings of all
present during the past year. Then they were publicly burned, and the
smoke of all this evil passed away to Nau-wah-ne-u.
Many a time after this did Pocahontas do the infant settlement
good service, and it is pleasant to know that instead of drifting into a
forest wigwam, she soon learned to love the truths of Christianity, and
married that good Puritan, John Rolfe, whose descendants still flourish
in New England, proud, as well they may be, of their ancestor, "La
Belle Sauvage," who, strange to say, visited England, where she was
introduced to the Queen, who made mich of her because of her loyal
services, knowing that, as Captain Smith wrote to her Majesty, we owe the
preservation of the colony of Virginia, under God, to Princess Pocahontas,
now Madam Rebecca Rolfe."


RoB THA's 'IB BmEUR V IP'B mAB 0o."-Poor Richard.

ENJAMIN had had enough of cutting wicks and filling
tallow moulds. He had done it for a whole two years, and now
here he was a big boy of twelve, devoted to books-not that he
{ had a chance of much reading-and with a pretty turn for
ballad-writing, which, however, his father in no wise encouraged;
for he said that verse-makers were not much better than beggars, and
Benjamin meant to be something better than that, anyway.
Perhaps, because one of the youngsters-there were seventeen children
to be brought up, and old Mr. Franklin was naturally anxious to keep some
of them to the candle-making-ran away to sea in preference to making
candles, this younger son was allowed to give it up and become a printer-a
useful helper to his big brother, to whom he was apprenticed, and who
soon allowed him what spare time he could, to read the few books he might
borrow. Sometimes Benjamin sat up all night over some delightful work;
then he wrote, especially when he became possessor of an old Spectator.
He made notes of the best essays; then tried to re-write the ideas; or he
would turn poetry into prose, or prose into verse. Truly a worker was
this lad at sixteen, only. troubled that his books were so few; but
" where there's a will there's a way." Books he must have; meat he could do
without; so for long he lived on vegetables, saving half his allowance. He
told his own son in after years that when the others went to their meals he
stayed in the printing-house, and quickly despatching his big slice of bread
and a handful of raisins, or a tart and a glass of water, he spent the rest
of this spare time in study close and diligent. He did not "squander time."

lgI II



It is now fortyyears (1785) since I worked, like you, at this press,
ajourneyman printer."
~~~~-- ,-9y -- --



All this time he worked hard at the dingy little printing-press that so
many years after he came to look at with a very kindly feeling of interest.
As yet the quiet 'prentice lad was thought but little of, even though he
wrote small articles for his brother to print in his newspaper, and which the
boy had the delight of hearing criticised as the work of some of the known
men of the day. Think how his bright face glowed at the hearing. Yet in
time-how it happened I know not-the two brothers quarrelled, and
Benjamin all unable to get work, and feeling himself misunderstood and
wronged, sold his little library for what he could, and away he went, literally
to seek his fortune. It was hard finding, though; and when he at last
arrived, weary and worn, at Philadelphia, three hundred miles from his
home, he seemed as far from it as ever; but he was not disheartened.
Just listen.
"I was dirty from being so long in the boat," for he had come partly
on foot, partly by sea; my pockets were stuffed out with shirts and stock-
ings; I knew no one, nor where to look for lodgings; fatigued with walking,
rowing, and the want of sleep, I was very hungry, and my whole stock of
cash consisted in a single dollar and about a shilling in copper coin, which
I gave the boatmen for my passage;" and here Franklin gives a speci-
men of the independent man in him. "At first they refused to take
it on account of my having rowed, but I insisted on paying my way.
"I walked towards the top of the street, gazing about, till near Market
Street, where I met a boy with bread, and inquiring where he bought it
I went immediately to that baker's. Not knowing the different sorts of
bread, I told him to give me threepennyworth of any sort. He gave me
accordingly three big puffy rolls. I was surprised at the quantity, but took
it, and, having no room in my pockets, walked off with a roll under each
arm, and eating the other. Thus I went up Market Street as far as Fourth
Street, passing by the door of Mr. Reed, my future wife's father, where she,
standing at the door, saw me, and noticed that I made, as I certainly did,
a most awkward and ridiculous appearance."
But a clever worker had no need to perambulate the streets for long.
He soon got employment, and becoming acquainted with such of the young
people about him as were fond of reading, spent his leisure time pleasantly,
saved money, and even attracted the attention of the Governor of the


Province, who, struck with the capabilities of this Boston youth, advised
him to set up in business, offering to lend him money for the purpose.
The youth was delighted, and prepared to speed away to England to
get a supply of type, paper, and the necessary presses. In 1724 only one
ship sailed annually between London and Philadelphia. The Governor
promised that he should find the money and letters of recommendation;
but alas I for the insincerity of some men; he found nothing of the kind;
so there was nothing to be done but begin again at a London printer's,
where his sober, steady habits stood him in good stead. Strong and hard-
working, the Water American" held his own, until able to return to his
an countries "
By-and-by Franklin and a fellow-workman set up in business, and the
two worked hard early and late. Next they started a newspaper, which
attracted much attention. Then he opened a stationer's shop, and married
that same Miss Reed who had watched him on that day when he had come
up the street munching his penny roll.
Some of you have heard how "Early to bed and early to rise makes a
man healthy, wealthy, and wise," ,and that "Sloth makes all things
difficult"; also that "Lost time is never found again," with a great
many other wise saws" out of Poor Richard's Almanack. Richard was
no other than our Benjamin, who to prove how to employ time to
advantage set about learning French and Italian with an acquaintance,
who often tempted him to play chess; but finding this wasted precious
hours, Poor Richard refused to play any more except under the condition
that the victor in every game should impose some task, either grammar or
translation, to be worked out before the next meeting; and as both played
equally well they soon learnt to beat each other in languages.
Ten years passed, and Franklin was the head printer in Philadelphia,
respected and honoured. He was ever thinking of his fellow-citizens' good.
He founded the first public library in America; set on foot a public school,
a large hospital, and did a hundred other things I have no space to tell of.
No marvel that in 1747 he was elected a member of the Assembly, at which
point in his fortunes we leave our "printer." Now I am fain to tell of him
as a scientific man, and wish that I had space to write more of his long, busy,
useful life; suffice to say, that after doing good service, he returned to


America, and though eighty years of age was chosen as the Governor of the
State of Pennsylvania. He was also president of a society for alleviating the
misery of public prisoners and for the abolition of slavery. At eighty-
three he at length retired from public life, and wrote rejoicingly that he
lived at home at last in a very good house that he had built more than
twenty years ago. "I am again surrounded by my friends, with a fine
family of grandchildren about my knees, and an affectionate good daughter
and son-in-law to take care of me, and after fifty year's public service I have
the pleasure to find the esteem of my country in regard to me un-
When Washington was serving his country at home, Franklin was
helping her cause abroad, and finding there was no chance of obtaining
America's independence except by fighting for it, he went to France and
obtained assistance. We have a description of him written at this time
by a Frenchman present at the signature of the treaty, who describes him
as wearing the dress of an American farmer, and speaks of his straight un-
powdered hair, his round hat, his brown cloth coat, which formed a singular
coi.trast with the laced and embroidered coats, and powdered and perfumed
heads of the courtiers of Versailles, who crowded to gaze at the singularly
* plain, grave aspect of this Minister of the United States, who had come to
prevail upon their Government to openly acknowledge the independence of
the United States. This, at length, after the news of the surrender of
General Burgoyne with nearly six thousand men, it consented to do, and
a treaty of alliance and commerce was signed between the two nations, at
Paris, in February, 1778, Benjamin Franklin being one of the signers in
* behalf of the States. This treaty was immediately followed by a war
between France and England which lasted two years. A French army and
a fleet were sent to America, and by means of loans, obtained chiefly
through Franklin's exertions, the war of independence was continued, and
carried on with vigour to the end.
And Englishmen respected Franklin more than ever. Once, after he
had lived in England five years, Hume wrote to him:-" America has sent
us many good things-gold, silver, sugar, tobacco, indigo, &c., but you are
the first philosopher, and, indeed, the first great man of letters, for whom
we are beholden to her."


His grave is, as you see, simply a plain marble slab, bearing, by his

wish, simply his own and his wife's name; but long ago our printer had

scribbled this characteristic epitaph:-



*Where is my strength, my valour and my force
Our English troops retire. I cannot stay them,
A woman clad in armour ohaseth them."---Shakesper.

Domremy there were many things to be rejoiced over. For
instance, an old, old church, which had looked just as worn
and grey in the memory of all in the village; and in the
church two life-sized pictures of those good patron saints,
Catherine and Marguerite-solemn, sad-eyed saints, all with
gold surroundings, on which the sunshine loved to linger.
Besides this, there was a Hermitage, in which holy men had mortified
their flesh; and beyond that, a fair statue of the virgin of Seven Troubles,
on whose mystic shrine Joan d'Arc-the little daughter of a farmer-
had loved to hang votive wreaths of daisies ever since she could toddle.
Now, Joan was a tall and strong, though withal a timid and
sensitive maiden, much given to strange thoughts, deeper than the
thoughts of the rough rustics of Domremy. A demurely pious maiden,
of whom the old cur6 was heard to observe, she ias the one person
who always attended confession, yet never needed it. The girl took
great delight in traditionary ballads, and the place was said of old to
have been the abode of saints. Besides, there was the enchanted beech;
every one knew its gnarled and knotted trunk. Strangers might smile,
but all the natives knew how, on moonlight nights, elves came skipping
over the hill-tops to silently dance and weave their spells in its shadows.
Often and often Joan stole out and away to the beech-tree to try to



get a peep at its fairy visitants; but though she looked as closely as she
dared, she could not distinguish them from the mysterious forest beyond,
from which, old tradition had it, there would one day spring a saintly
maid, who would be of service to France in a dark period of sorrow and
oppression-a maid whom the saints would love and protect.
At this time Domremy had many a stray visitant passing through:
wounded soldiers and mendicants, all telling their bitter tale of the success
of those hated English, whose king claimed the French throne because
of Henry V.'s marriage with a French princess. How Charles of France
was resisting the claims of the baby King Henry, but all uselessly,
because the Burgundians were with the English. Orleans, the strong-
hold, was besieged; when that fell, alas! all would be ended. The
sceptre of France would pass to strangers for ever.
A change took place in the conversation of the neighbours; day by
day the strange excitement grew fiercer; the young girl heard little except
the wrongs of France and the evil plight of Orleans. The loyal hearts
of peasants burned at the recital; only the populace of Paris could bear
patiently with this Anglo-Burgundian confederacy, which threatened such
national disgrace; elsewhere all were enraged at its injustice.
One thing was plain to all who listened to the confused news that
reached such places as Domremy, and that was-could Prince Charles
once be properly crowned at Rheims, after the fashion of his great
ancestors, there would be comparative safety; but that could not be done
unless the city of Orleans should be properly protected; "but how?
but how ? was the question. It seemed unanswerable.
"How, indeed!" grumbled a disabled soldier who had, begged a
loaf, and in return was telling the last ill news concerning the Battle of
the Herrings. Hearts and arms have grown craven before these island
warriors. As things are, nothing less than a miracle can set the crown
on our Charles's head. Uncrowned he is helpless and lost."
The young girl-she was but sixteen-wandered away, her heart
full of excitement and indignation, as she looked up at the stars, shining
softly over the beech-tree, and thought of the tradition of that maid
who was to serve her country; and presently, in the dim light, a strange
glamour taking possession of Joan, it seemed to her as if she saw a flame,


and heard a voice bidding her be brave and good, as became the chosen one.
Her task was the making a way clear for Prince Charles, who, through
her means, should-be victoriously crowned at Rheims, and save France.
Faith had not died out of Joan's heart, at any rate. She could



not rest for thinking of this strange fancy of her over-excited mind.
Again and again it occurred, and at last she was bidden go at once to
the governor of Vaucouleurs, and reveal her vision to him, which she did
after many difficulties and much opposition from her parents, who thought
their girl gone mad, and besought her with tears to be still.
When she stood before the officer, a mere country child in a shabby


red stuff dress, and told him she was appointed to drive the hated English
out of France, after seeing the Dauphin crowned at Rheims, he laughed
rudely in her face, and ordered her to be off home and cease bragging."
Charles, with his followers, was four hundred miles away; his ex-
chequer empty; his useless soldiers desperate and downcast. Perhaps because
of all this, he did not laugh at this strange story of an inspired village
maid; he was not ready to throw away even so slight a chance; besides,
he and his councillors being in extremity, and those being days when strange
causes turned the affairs of nations, it was worth trying what this girl's
claim to the miraculous might be worth. They sent for her, more by way
of a passing amusement than aught else, and she came joyfully and readily.
A great crowd of knights, splendidly attired, filled the large hall
into which this poor farmer's maid was shown. The prince stood in the
background. Looking neither to the right nor left, she advanced, and
kneeling instantly before Charles, exclaimed, without hesitation or tremor,
"God give you good life, my gentle king."
"It is not I who am king," he replied hastily, to try her.
'.It is you and no other, sir, and I am Joan-Joan d'Ar--come
by God's order to announce that you will be crowned at Rheims, and
that I am to aid you in the siege of Orleans."
The Dauphin led Joan aside, and held long and serious conference
with her, then he came back, declaring that she had revealed to him
things known only to himself and God, and that he believed her inspired.
After this a suit of armour was made for her. She girded on a sword
which was found, as she said it would be, buried by the altar of St.
Catherine, and she was presented to the excited multitude mounted on a
war-steed, which she managed with all ease and grace. The people were
now as excited with hope as they had been depressed with despair, and
clamoured loudly for this young prophetess to lead them against the
English, who were invading and spoiling their land. And so it was that
seven thousand men, full of hope and enthusiasm, marched forth headed
by the maid; and above her floated a white banner, on which was the
fair inscription, "Jhesu Marie," and by her rode valiant captains, mar-
shalled by Dunois the brave-old fighting-men who would fain have
advised from long experience, but that she would not. Yet all she did


and ordered proved strangely successful, and soon all were content to be
guided by this fearless village girl-Joan, or, rather, Jeanne d'Arc of
Domremy-who, believing herself inspired, inspired all about her.
At first the English laughed aloud at the report that an obscure
village maid was advancing to give them battle. Orleans was closely
begirt with hostile fortresses, and reduced to its last extremity. What
could an army headed by a girl avail the good city in this dire plight P
But a strange, cold trepidation soon unnerved their warlike arms. What
if the holy saints, were indeed with this strange commander; or even
supposing she were a sorceress and witch, a worse reputation by far in
those days, both in French and English eyes. However, they boldly
prepared to repulse her: let her be what she would else, she was but a
woman; she could know nought of the difficulties of a siege, and the
valour of English soldiers. But little Joan seemed to know more than
all the weather-beaten men of war about her, and prepared at once to
relieve the city. First, however, in the name of St. Catherine, she ordered
that all bad characters should leave the camp, and that all the soldiers
should attend mass, and confess their sins with humbleness and contrition.
This done, they were to march to the attack, right through the crowded
English forces, which were garrisoned in forts that, except at the river
Loire's approaches, encircled Orleans in a most impregnable chain.
Who does not know the rest of this strange story?-how the young
maid in shining armour led the soldiers, exhorting, rallying, sweeping all
before her. Fighting with the vigour of a man-at-arms, and the
enthusiasm of a crusader-here, there, everywhere-until panic seized
upon the English soldiers, and they flung down their arms and fled before
this strange champion; and at last left a clear way open to Rheims,
where, with the "Maid of Orleans" at his right hand, was solemnly
crowned Charles the King.
Her task finished, she begged to return to Domremy. It was, however,
not to be, though she vowed, almost with tears, that the skill and the
cunning had departed from her. She was prevailed upon to stay, and, all
heavy-hearted, led that fatal sally where she was at length unhorsed,
wounded, and taken prisoner-ajoyous Te Deum being raised by the captors of
this heroine of seventeen, who had baffled and defeated their bravest and best.



LE Thomas Linckern, Linckoun, Lincoln-what you will-went
slouching about the country, doing nothing in particular beyond
m sitting in stores or under shady trees, chatting with all who
Should listen. For a living he took to doing rough carpentering
work and odd jobs at Joe Hanks's, in Hardin county; and there
he met and married pretty Nancy Hanks, a highly-educated girl
for the place and period, for she actually could read and write-
acquirements that in due time so impressed her husband that he got her
to teach him to sign his name, instead of as heretofore merely making his
clumsy mark.
Little Abe's parents settled on a farm near Knole Creek, whose
clear waters fell splashing into Rolling Fork and so into Salt River and
the Ohio; a famous place for an active little boy to grow up in, to dabble
in water after fish, or to scramble up trees after winged and finny things.
Once when attempting to "coon" across the river by the aid of a sycamore
tree, the future President went over headlong, and was only saved by the
frantic exertions of another boy, who held on to his jacket and screamed
till some one ran to the. rescue.
Then came a time when Abe's sister was sent to school at odd hours,
and Abe's father bid his little son "git along" with her, much to the
boy's delight, for he knew that his big parent admired "muscle" more
than learning, and began to doubt if he should be allowed to learn any-
thing except farm-work at home.
Yet this longed-for schooling was not easily got at, for Caleb Hazel,



renowned more for his power and readiness to "lick" big boys than to
impart knowledge to studious little ones, resided four miles away, over
very rough road, and the poor children had to trudge that distance,
carrying as best they could ragged books, and a dinner consisting
generally of corn bread and apples.
So the years flew by, and as little Abe grew tall, his father grew
discontented and quarrelsome. He wanted to be moving on-to emigrate
to another part of the country. So he built.a boat, and launched it on
the Rolling Fork, put his carpenter's tools on board, and four hundred
gallons of whiskey, with which he intended to trade. Then away went
our adventurer, his ramshackle bark floating with 'the current until it
reached the Ohio safely; but here, from some cause or other, it came to
sudden grief, capsized, all the lading vanished, and Thomas narrowly
escaped drowning.
But Abe's father was not easily disheartened. He fished up a few
stray tools and most of the whiskey, righted the boat, and floated on until
he landed safe and sound in Indiana, where he sold his boat, left his
things in charge of Posey, an old settler, and trudged off to select "a
location," which he fixed upon some sixteen miles farther. Then he turned,
and walked all the way back to Knole Creek, in Kentucky, loaded what
few goods he had there upon two borrowed horses-clothing, bedding,
one oven and lid, one skillet, and tin ware-and with one wife, one little
girl Nancy, and boy Abe, packed through to Posey's," camping out at
nights, and, luckily being a good marksman, shooting provisions enough
to keep them till they reached the friendly settler's shanty. There he
hired a waggon, loaded it with his things-not forgetting the whiskey-
and away to the now famous Lincoln Farm," which had yet to be evolved
out of the forest properties.
A strange, wild place, this "location "-a sort of untrodden wilder-
ness then; not a large village now. It was situated between Big Pigeon
and Little Pigeon Creeks, in a country covered with a dense overgrown
forest of oaks, beeches, walnuts, and sugar-maples, all so closely packed
that the energetic new comer had to hew a way for the waggon to
advance. There he set down his chattels "for good," building a half-
faced camp-that is, a camp about fourteen feet square, with no flooring,


enclosed on three sides and open on the fourth. It was built of poles,
not logs-that made the difference between camp and cabin in such places.
One good thing was the plentiful supply of provisions, for the whole
neighbourhood abounded in bears, deer, turkeys, and game.
It was a miserable house, however, for its owner preferred out-of-door
work to putting up windows or laying down a floor. He made a bedstead
of poles stuck in the cracks of the logs, and resting bu~rds on this threw
over it a shake-down of leaves and the skins of wild animals. There were
a few three-legged stools, a table fashioned out of a hewed puncheon, a
few tins and pewter platters; as to the rest, it was "fingers before forks,"
in all its primitive simplicity. In the wall were driven a few rough pegs-
not to hang clothes on, but for Abe, now nine or ten years old, to climb
up to his sleeping-loft by.
Thus much for our ploughboyy." Let me describe the President,"
or, as he was generally termed, old Uncle Abe," who, to begin with, was
over six feet four in height, long, lean, and wiry in figure, blue-eyed,
and black-haired, with the complexion of an octoroon, and a thin face,
which, though by no means handsome, beamed with such genial good
humour that it was pleasant to look upon. He spoke in a slow, diffident
manner, but with a sweet-toned voice that could become eloquent, and
he used many of the quaint Western idioms he had picked up in his youth.
He moved about in a slow way, too; a friend pictured him thus:-
His towering figure, sharp and spare,
Was with such nervous tension strung,
As if on each strained sinew swung
The burden of a people's care."

There is no space here to tell of his public career. Of his character as
leader it has been said that no man in our era, clothed with such vast
power, ever used it so mercifully; no ruler holding the keys of life and
death ever pardoned so many, and so easily. When friends said to him
they wished he had more sternness, he would answer:-" I am just as God
made me, and cannot change." His doorkeepers had standing orders from him
that no matter how great might be the throng, though senators or repre-
sentatives had to wait, or to be turned away without an audience, he must


see, before the day closed every messenger that came with a petition for
saving life. A friend came to him very late one night, when he was faint
and wearied out with a long day's troublesome labours, and begged of him
to interfere in the case of a young deserter sentenced to be shot. He heard
the whole account with his usual patience, and then with a sweet smile-
stealing over his plain, honest, care-furrowed face, he scribbled his name


to a form of pardon, remarking, as he placed it in the eager hand of his
"Some of our generals complain that I impair discipline and subordi-
nation in the army by my pardons and respites; but it makes me rested.
after a hard day's work, if I can find some good excuse for saving a man's
life, and I go to bed happy as I think how joyous the signing,of my name
will make his family and friends."
Once when there was a question as to what was the right course to
pursue,, he cried earnestly and enthusiastically:-
"Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us
to the end dare to do our duty as we understand it."


That is. one peep. For the next we need only turn to the New York
papers dated April 25th, 1865; and if we wonder why they speak of general
consternation and distress, of tolling bells and flags half-mast high, we
shall soon see the cause, for here it is on the first page:-
Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States, was assassinated in his private
box at Ford's Theatre, Washington, while sitting with his wife and two friends. The
assassin quietly entered the box during a pause in the performance, and shot the President,
then bounded forward on to the stage, and brandishing high a large dagger, cried, Sio
semper tyrannis' (the well-known motto of the States of Virginia); and before those near him
had rallied from their consternation, he had reached the door, mounted a horse ready bridled,
and off and away into the shadows of night."

Poor "Abe Lincoln !" he had not lived long to enjoy the power and
popularity he had won. When the news was brought to him, at Spring-
field, Illinois, in May, 1860, that he had been nominated at Chicago as
President, his thoughts instantly flew to the dear wife so soon to be
widowed, and his first words were-" Well, I guess there's a little woman
down at our house would like to hear that. I'll go and tell her." Poor
woman, how sad for her to see him murdered by her side! She was
consoled, however, with the knowledge that the great aim of his life was
accomplished, and that slavery was abolished in the United States.


0 Fortune I how thy restless wavering state
Hath wrought with cares my troubled wit.
Witness this present prison, whither Fate
Hath borne me, and the joys I quit.
Thou causedest the guilty to be loosed
From bands wherewith are innocents enclosed;
Causing the guiltless to be straight reserved,
And freeing those that death hath well deserved.
But by her envy can be nothing wrought.
So God send to my foes all they have thought.
AD. X.D.LV. ELIZABETH, Prisoner.
(Written in charcoal on a shutter window.)

a dark winter's night, in 1554, when all the inhabitants of
Ashbridge House were quietly asleep, there arose a sudden stir
outside, and a loud barking of disturbed dogs. It was a lonely
place, where resided a young princess of some importance just
then, for there was stir and tumult in London, partly on her
account, partly on that of fair, young Lady Jane Grey-the
sweet "twelve days queen-whose life was to be sacrificed to the ambition
of relatives and friends.
How much or how little of all this Elizabeth knew it is hard to say,
but so much, certainly, as made her fain not to venture from her new
country home if possible. Only a few days since a message had come
from Mary the Queen, bidding her hurry up to Court. Upon this she
had hurried off to bed instead, and declared herself far too ill to traveL



Too ill, forsooth, the meek traitress I Not too ill to conspire with
Wyatt, and Courtney, and others against her sister Mary I Away, and
bring her to our presence !" So cried Mary; and thus it was that at nearly
midnight, three royal commissioners arrived, accompanied by Her Majesty's
own leech, to ascertain whether this sudden illness might not be as
suddenly healed, which it was, strangely enough, at the sight of the
stern medicine and his companions.
At first the young lady, imperious and yet terrified, refused to see
them; but then, being also politic, and finding that in the Queen's name
they would take no "nay," she, looking very white and startled, ordered
their admittance to her chamber, asking as they came bowing low into
her presence-
"Is the haste such that it might not have pleased you to come in
the morning ?"
They began to answer awkwardly enough "that they were sorry to
see her Grace in such a case-- And I," interrupted she, am not glad
to see you at this time of the night;" and then she told how sick she
was, and how she could not endure to travel for a long time to come, not
for her life. However, in the end, having remembered an old saying, The
better part of valour is discretion," she considered, and consented to start
the very next day but one, which chanced to be the day and hour on
which that innocent Lady Jane and her lord were to be executed
--an ominous time, surely, for such a one as Elizabeth to venture within
the clutches of an angry queen. No wonder she thrice fainted as she sat
in the litter Mary had sent for her, and was now so really ill that she was
five days on her journey. -Perhaps, for her safety, it was well that she
happened to be so delayed.
But all the lion awoke in the breast of this daughter of the Tudors
when she entered London as a prisoner of state. Sickness and tremors were
thrust aside-
"Her cheek was pale, but resolved and high
Were the words on her lips and the glance of her eye."

She dressed herself all in white-emblematic of innocence--and had
her litter opened wide, that all who chose might see how proudly and


disdainfully she could meet the perils at hand. About her rode a hundred
gentlemen in velvet coats, as a sort of guard of honour; these were followed
by about a hundred more in the royal livery; and as she rode a troubled
crowd followed, many weeping as they remembered her fair mother,
Anna Bullen, who had passed to prison and death not seventeen
years ago.
Thus she went through Smithfield and Fleet Street to Whitehall, where
she trusted to meet her enraged sovereign. Mary, however, refused to see
her, and so she was taken on to Westminster, put in a part of the palace
resembling a prison, inasmuch as none could go in or out without passing
a guard, and here she remained in an agonising state of suspense; the
next announcement being that a barge was in readiness to convey her
Highness to the Tower, and she must prepare to go at once, as the tide
served, which would tarry for no one.
Then with all imploring words she begged to see the queen-the sister
who had once promised never to condemn her unheard; but no, they
would not: they dared not, in fact. Only Sussex, more noble-hearted
than the rest, did her lowly courtesy, saying, "she should have liberty to
write her mind," swearing, as a true man, he would himself deliver the
words to the queen, whatsoever came of it, and bring her back the answer;
but that he could not do, as no answer was condescended.
A passionate letter, such as one in dire distress would write, took so
long to write that the tide was missed; for which the angry queen rated
her council soundly, as the next would not serve till midnight, and in the
darkness there might be chance of escape or rescue.
It was Palm Sunday, and every one was away carrying their palms to
church as the barge was brought up, and Sussex and the Lord Treasurer
came once more with their unwelcome message--" Madam, the tide serves
-the tide that tarries for no man." This time their captive only said,
knowing full well her head was in the balance, "The Lord's will be done;
I am contented, seeing it is the queen's pleasure." Luckily Mary
was her sister, though irritated by suspecting that Elizabeth had much to
do with all these conspiracies and risings that cost so much blood, that she
was treacherous, and that on any possible opportunity she would depose her.
But what was to be done P Would any of the Lords of the Council, she


asked them, take charge and responsibility of this troublesome guest ?
Not one. Then, as the queen must away to her Parliament, Elizabeth
must to the Tower. Oh, doleful prison! whence her mother, and only
the other day her guiltless Cousin Jane, had stepped to the scaffold!
No wonder that, when the Council after charging her with abetting
Wyatt and the late risings in the West, told her of her destination in the
queen's name, Elizabeth cried out in wild dismay:-
"I trust that her Majesty will be far more gracious than to commit to
that place a true and most innocent woman, who never has offended her in
thought, word, or deed."
And she, the proud girl, who had bravely borne so much, entreated
them passionately to intercede for her with the queen. Not there!-
not there !" was her cry, until they, hard and stern men, I wot, melted
into pity, and promised they would do their best; but it availed not, for
presently a guard was placed at her chamber door, an armed force in the
hall, and two hundred "white-coats" in the garden, to prevent rescue or
escape, but of all her friends not one dared to appear. Poor Elizabeth I
Yet she looked up towards the banks and the many windows as they
hurried her into the boat, and presently said passionately :-
"I marvel what the nobles mean by suffering me, a princess, to
be led into captivity. The Lord knoweth wherefore; for myself, I do
So early had they started that the barge could scarcely shoot the bridge,
striking it, and only with great peril passing through. Then on, all
too swiftly, till they rowed into the black shadow of the Traitor's Gate,
through which so many had of late passed to their death.
Poor prisoner! Here was a horror she had not foreseen, and hard did
she struggle at being landed there. "She was no traitor-she was
Elizabeth of England. She might not, would not; besides," casting about
her for a practical reason, "neither well could she land, unless she should
step into the water over her shoes."
One saying "She might not choose in the matter," would have offered
her his cloak; for as she stood debating the rain was soaking her slight
figure pitifully, but she dashed the offering impetuously aside, and at last
setting her foot on the rough, wet stairs, exclaimed:-


"Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever landed at these
stairs. Before thee, 0 God, I speak it, having no other friend but Thee
alone." And, indeed, at that moment she must have deemed that even
He had forsaken her.
Only a short time since Wyatt had landed on these very stairs. Only
the other day he had paid, on the dismal Tower Hill yonder, the forfeit of
his life for the very plot in which this new captive knew full well she
was suspected of sharing, even though the loyal gentleman had protested
to the last concerning her innocence. Well might she shudder as she
looked up at the dismal prison, and wonder whether his words would
avail to save her.
We are apt to picture Elizabeth only as the splendid Tudor Queen,
beruffed and bejewelled, and holding her own, fiercely and firmly. We
are apt to think of her only,as a hard, cold, and calculating old woman.
Yet in those times she was very unhappy, though young and pleasant
to look upon-too pleasant, maybe, to suit that stern-faced half-sister,
of which it was yet to be recorded that, "in the morning ded Quen
Mari, and that the same day, at afternoon, all the churches in London dyd
ryng, and at nyght did make bonfyres and set tabulls in the street, and
ded ett and drynke and mad mere (made merry) for the new Quen
Elsabeth, QuenMari's syster."


"Beneath an elm whose noble branches spread
Far o'er the sward a vast and solemn shade,
I see a motley throng. A scene I tread
Whose loving memories may never fade.
There stands the lawgiver, and round him bend
The Sachems of the forest silent all,
While the just words in simple sweetness fall
From that great Onas whom they boast their friend."

Happened that when Admiral Penn died the Government owed
him fifteen thousand pounds, which was then worth as much as forty-
five thousand is to-day, and went on owing it until his son William
offered to take instead a tract of unoccupied Crown land in America.
This land had only one outlet into the sea-the mighty Delaware
-but it stretched away inland until it contained forty-seven thousand
square miles. The grant was violently opposed at first, and had there been
money in the exchequer it is probable that no Pennsylvania would have
been founded.
The Quaker, summoned to appear before the council, neither bent his
knee nor doffed his hat to Majesty; but it is said that the Merry Monarch
was much more amused than offended at this blunt, honest courtier, who
presently, observing that the king unbonneted, inquired wonderingly:-
"Friend Charles, why dost thou not keep on thy hat?" to which
his Majesty replied, with a little satirical smile :-
"It is the custom of this place for only one person to remain
covered at a time"-a hint quite thrown away on the sturdy Quaker,
who would have as soon thought of taking off his head out of humility.
But now the charter was issued, the debt cancelled, and Penn



acknowledged owner of the vast territory of Sylvania, or, as the king
insisted upon having it called, Pennsylvania.
The world laughed at the enthusiast who thought of placing his
head under the scalping-knives of the Lenni Lenape whose wigwams
were scattered over these far-away possessions; but an eternal witness of
the just and great founder's sagacity is the fact that not one drop of
Quaker blood was ever shed by an Indian.
When Penn was about to sail from England, he went to take private.
leave of King Charles, who saluted him thus:-
"Well, friend William, I have sold you a noble province in NorthA
America; but still, I suppose you have no thought of going thither."
"Indeed, I have," answered the "Friend;" "and I have come to bids
thee farewell."
"What venture thyself among the savages of North America r
Why, man, what security have you that you will not be in their war-
kettles within two hours after setting foot on their shores ?" exclaimed
his Majesty.
The best security in the world," answered his visitor gravely; but
the king shook his head.
I doubt that, friend William. I have no idea of any security against
those cannibals except a regiment of good soldiers, with their muskets and
bayonets. And mind, I tell you beforehand that, with all my goodwill to
you and your family, to whom I am under obligations, I will not send one
soldier with you."
"I want none of thy soldiers," answered the Quaker quickly. "I
depend on something better than soldiers. I depend on themselves, on
their own moral sense, even on that grace of God which bringeth
salvation, and which hath appeared unto all men."
"I fear, friend William, that grace hath never appeared to the
Indians," said the unconvinced Charles. "If it had, they would hardly
have treated my subjects as barbarously as they have done."
Thy subjects were the aggressors. When they went first to North
America, they found these people the fondest and kindest creatures in the.
world. Every day they would watch for them to come on shore, and'
hasten to meet them, and feast them on all they had. In return for the-


hospitality of the savages, as we call them, thy subjects, termed Christians,
seized on their country and rich hunting-grounds to make farms for them-
selves. Now, is it to be wondered at that these much-injured people
should have been driven to desperation by such injustice, and that, burning
for revenge, they should have committed some excesses ? "
"Well, then, friend William, I hope you will not complain when they
'treat you in the same manner. You are not afraid, you say; but how
will you avoid it P You mean to get their hunting-grounds too, I suppose P
as others have tried to do ere now."
"Yes; but not by driving them away in the same manner. I mean
to buy their lands of them," answered the Quaker.
King Charles looked up astounded. Buy their lands P Why, man,
you have already bought them of me."
"Ay, I know I have, and at a high rate. I did that to get thy
goodwill, not that I thought thou hadst any right to their lands-no,
friend Charles, no right at all. What right hadst thou in their lands?
In truth, canst thou think thou hadst any ? he asked quite seriously.
"What right? What rightP Why, the right of discovery-the
right which the Pope and all Christian kings have agreed to give one
another in such matters," was the rather angry answer.
"The right of discovery I A strange right, indeed. Now suppose,
friend Charles, some canoe-loads of these Indians, having crossed the sea
and discovered the island of Great Britain, were to claim it as their own,
and set it up for sale over thy head : what wouldst thou think of it ? "
"Why-why I must confess I should think it a great piece of
impudence," replied his Majesty, laughing a little at such a proposition.
Well, then, how canst thou, a Christian prince, do that which thou
utterly oondemnest in these people thou callest savages? Yes, friend
Charles; and suppose again these Indians, on thy refusal to give up Great
Britain, were to make war on thee, and having weapons more destructive
than thine, were to destroy many of thy subjects and drive the rest away.
Dost thou not think it would be horribly cruelP Thou assentest, I
observe. Well, then, how can I, who call myself a Christian, do what I
should abhor in a heathen ? No, I will not do it. I will buy the right of
the proper owners, even of the Indians themselves, and thereby ensure


God's blessing on my colony." And it was truly his colony, for the charter
granted constituted him and his heirs true and absolute proprietors of the
province of Pennsylvania, saving to the crown their allegiance and the

FILLIAi prmi (AG3uD 60).

sovereignty. It gave him and his the power to make laws not repugnant
to the laws of England.
Penn had not been in his new territory long before he was holding
cordial intercourse with the Indians. While making preparations for the
fair purchase of their territory, putting away the formal stiffness of


English manners, he won their simple hearts by easy, familiar confidence. He
walked and talked with them alone in their forests; he squatted with them,
watching the young warriors dance and exercise; he shared their frugal
meals of acorns roasted, and hominy; and when they showed pleasure at the
great "Onas's approval of their national customs and prowess, he entered
the lists, and beat their most expert leapers, to the great delight of the Red
warriors assembled.
They, too, then soon understood that neither he nor his had come to
wrong them by so much as a beaver-skin, or to take their land, even though
it was now his own legal domain. He traded openly and honestly; so
thab at last the Sachems cried, We will live at peace with Onas and his
children as long as sun and moon shall endure." And so it was agreed;
and on the Saximaxing, the locality of the kings," under a mighty elm-
tree, where of old the tribes had met to smoke the calumet of peace, a
conference took place, which has often been pictured by our best artists.
West's picture is specially well known.
Yet one can hardly realise that that plainly-dressed man with the broad
silken sash can be the leader of so great a movement-the Onas of the
painted befeathered Indians, whose chief Sachem receives with such courtly
dignity the white man he has learned to love and trust. And there,
too, is Taminent, above whose head twined a chaplet bearing a small
horn, which, when the chief of the Lenni Lenapd wears it, renders all
present sacred and inviolable.
Then they range themselves into the form of a crescent, while
Penn stands forth to address, them in their own language, and there is
concluded "the only treaty never sworn to and never broken." The
great elm-tree under which it was concluded stood for 'a hundred and
thirty years an object of veneration to the people. To this day the green
country town," moreover, founded by the Quakers is one of the most
beautiful cities in the United States. It is sometimes called the Quaker
city, and the City of Brotherly Love."



a Old Maurice of Inchaffery-save his grey head from harm-
Has brought to bless our battle-fields, St. Fillan's relic arm;
But how our hearts beat in us when we heard the good man say,
That living arms and laymen's nerves were all required to-day;
And when he raised the cross and bade us cry unto the Lord,
And seek the grace of every saint that ever drew a sword;
And pardoned fight and pardoned fall, scarce was the council given,
When hand to heart, and knee to knee, and every eye to heaven.
Ye could have heard the abbot tread, unsandalled though he trod,
So breathlessly the Scottish host were crying to their God I "
SJ. B. Mason.

N E lovely summer's morning a handsome knight came riding
slowly through the woods of Tutbury. His heart was sad and
Depressed because of home troubles and dissensions that had
called him back from the holy wars of Palestine. He, the
heir of that Bruce whose claim to the crown of Scotland had
been set aside by Baliol at the cost of so much treachery and
blood, seemed now at the lowest ebb of fortune. No wonder that his
eyes fell half jealously on the noble fortress yonder, with its tall battle-
ments overlooking the Clyde, and its fair acres golden with the ripening
grain; its fosse and drawbridge, making it a bold, strong domain for any lord
to own. But suddenly he remembered how the Lord of Carrick had fallen
in those very crusades in which he himself had but lately figured, and from
which his armour still carried its dints, and his cheeks, still brown bronzed




with the glare of the fiery sun of Palestine, their scars. At this thought
he reined in his horse the better to survey the scene, and as he thus
paused there came a sound of laughter on the wind, and soon riding by, a
gay hawking party, at the head of which was the young widowed Lady of
Carrick, fair and bright as the day, with a valuable merlin on her gloved
hand, for those were times when such sports were enjoyed.
Evidently she had given up grieving for her stern old lord, and was
amusing herself as she best could in the shadow of her splendid halls,
but such amusements pall, and halls were apt to become dull and tedious
residences to noble dames.
No wonder she paused, on seeing the warlike stranger bowing low
before her; no wonder her attendants pressed eagerly round to hear the
latest news he so willingly told of foreign camp and English court. In
those days such a chance was a most scarce and a welcome one, for even
the noblest depended upon passers-by for knowledge of what was going
on in the outside world, and passers-by were few.
Loud and joyfully did the warder blow his horn at sight of the
gay cavalcade returning, for knight and lady rode side by side, and the
feast was spread for the stranger, who could not, had he wished, have
refused to share it; and the fair Lady of Carrick soon listened and pitied
"for the perils he had passed, and he loved her because she pitied him."
But, thrown together thus, it was no day for slow and punctilious
wooing, for had one word of his presence there reached certain jealous
nobles, who were "biding their time" for the lady's favour, the Bruce
would for many reasons have had small chance; the king would have
certainly prohibited the wedding, and so to save trouble, before a fortnight
had passed, there was a quiet marriage solemnised in the chapel, of which
none knew. Thus opposition came too late, and the happy pair, after
paying a heavy fine into the royal coffers, were left in peace.
This was the little romance connected with Robert the Bruce's parents,
and it was at Tutbury that the child was born, and grew tall and bold and
strong, scrambling like a young kid among those rocks and fastnesses, those
heather-covered ways and mossy lawn sides where on that pleasant June
morning his father had come riding, little knowing of the good fortune at
that moment nearing, in the form of a pretty lady. It was in these wild and


beautiful places that the band of eleven frolicking brothers and sisters-
all destined to be persons of importance-passed a happy childhood.
Robert, one day to be crowned King of Scotland, and Edward, King of
Ireland, and the mother of Regent Murray, of Scotland, these and more were
there. But it is of the Hero of Bannockburn I have to tell, and this page of
Robert's story I will conjure up by the aid of the "Northern Wizard,"
Scott, who loved to tell of the Bruce, so bold and brave and true.
Being the 24th of June, at break of day, the battle began in terrible
earnest. The English, as they advanced, saw the Scots getting into line.
The Abbot of Inchaffray walked through their ranks barefooted, and
exhorted them to fight for their freedom. They knelt down as he passed,
and prayed to heaven for victory. King Edward, who saw this, called out,
SThey kneel down; they are asking for forgiveness.' 'Yes,' said a celebrated
English baron called D'Umfraville, 'but they ask it from God, not man.
These men will conquer or die upon the field.'"
The English king ordered his men to begin the battle. The archers
then bent their bows and began to shoot so closely together that the arrows
fell like snow-flakes on a Christmas Day. They killed many of the Scots,
and might, as at Falkirk and other places, have decided the victory; but
Bruce was prepared for them. He had in readiness a body of men-at-arms
well mounted, who rode in full gallop among the archers, who having no
weapon save their bows and arrows,- which they could not use when attacked
hand to hand, were cut down in great numbers by the Scottish horsemen,
and thrown into total confusion.
The fine English cavalry then advanced to support their archers and to
attack the Scottish lines. But the ground was dug full of pits, the horses
fell into these holes, and the riders were thrown, tumbling about without
any means of defence, and unable to rise on account of their armour. The
Englishmen began to fall into general disorder, and the Scottish king,
bringing up more forces, attacked and pressed them still more closely.
On a sudden, while the battle was obstinately maintained, an event
happened which decided the victory in a most unexpected manner.
The servants and attendants on the Scottish camp had been sent to a
place behind the army, afterwards called the Gillies' Hill, but when they
saw their masters were likely to gain the day, they rushed from their place


of concealment, with such weapons as they could get, that they might have
their share of the victory and the spoil. The English, seeing them come
suddenly over the hill, mistook this disorderly rabble for a new army


coming to sustain the Scots, and, losing all heart, began to shift-
every man for himself.
Edward left the field as fast as he could ride. A valiant knight, Sir
Giles d'Argentine, much renowned in the wars of Palestine, attended the


king till he got him out of the press of the combat; but he would retreat
no farther, saying, proudly, "It is not my custom to fly," and with that
he took leave of the king, set spurs to his horse, and calling out his
war cry of Argentine I Argentine he rushed back into the thickest
ranks, and was killed, sword in hand.
Years passed by, and crowned by his loving adherents as the first warrior
of the age, the Bruce lay a-dying. Around him pressed his sorrowing
friends and soldiers, to whom he gave wise advice concerning the safety of
his dear native land; then he turned to the good Lord James of Douglas,
and reminding him that he was still under the ban of the Church, begged
of him, by their tender friendship's sake, to carry his heart to Palestine,
and to see it buried in the Holy Land, where all good Catholics loved to
rest; and this the loyal Douglas, amid his tears and sighs, vowed to do,
and soon departed on the melancholy errand, accompanied by a princely
train. But on his way he was prevailed on to stay and aid the King of
Spain in his disastrous war against the.Moors.
Wherever the fight was raging most fiercely there was the Douglas.
At last, in very desperation, he loosened the casket that hung about his
neck, and flinging it among the infidels, cried, "Forward I gallant heart,
as thou wert wont, Douglas will rescue thee or die l" Then with eight
or ten followers he broke through the Moorish squadrons, but was soon
overpowered and slain. So died the chivalrous lord. The body of the
brave champion and the relic of the Bruce were interred together in the
Abbey of Melrose.


"Born all too high, by wedlock raised
Still to be cast thus low I
Would that mine eyes had never gazed
On aught of more ambitious show
Than the sweet flowerets of the fields I
It is my royal state that yields
This bitterness of woe."-Wordsaorth.
,c^ -------
LIZABETH WYDEVILLE How familiar the name is
i how we instantly picture the handsome young widow of a
Lancastrian knight kneeling before an all-powerful king, and
entreating for the restoration of rights withheld from her
children I We see the scene as Shakespeare conjured it, and
hear Edward, whose heart was in the matter, say enthusiastically-
Brother of Gloater, at St. Alban's Field,
.This lady's husband, Sir John Grey, was slain
His lands were seized on by the conquerors.
Her suit is now to repossess those lands,
Which we, in justice, cannot well deny;
Because in quarrel of the house of York
The worthy gentleman did lose his life"

And what a disturbance the announcement of his marriage with the
fair suppliant caused, not only in England but in France, where Warwick
the sturdy "king-maker," was at the very time negotiating for his royal
master's espousal with the Lady Bona of Savoy. What ill thoughts and
words must have been spread concerning the obscure lady who had so



suddenly and completely set all other arrangements aside, and become
mistress of a mighty realm; indeed, it was declared that the "Kyng
was enchaunted," as doubtless he was, but only by her sweet face.
Yet, though obscure as far as fortune went, Elizabeth was well born,
for she was the daughter of Sir Richard Wydeville and of Jacquetta,
Duchess of Bedford, whose secret marriage with a poor English knight had
so incensed her noble relatives that her dower was forfeited and her husband
imprisoned for some time, by order of the Council, and made to pay 1,000
crowns. So much for wedding a royal ward. For a long time the young
pair suffered much trouble and tribulation, living far from the Court,. and
ignored by their friends. Their home was in the Manor of Grafton, where
little Elizabeth was born, and where she grew into a winsome maid.
There is on record a curious old diary, said to be part of one kept by the
young country lady in those happy days when the shadow of troubles
to come had not yet darkened her life. It is interesting in many ways,
especially because it shows us the home life-the ways and doings of a
country'maiden-in the long ago of the 15th century:-

"Rose at four o'clock; helped Catherine to milk the cows, Rachel the
dairymaid having scalded her hands in so bad a manner the night before.
Made a poultice for Rachel, and gave Robin a penny to get her some-
thing comfortable from the apothecary..
&i o'clock.-The buttock of beef rather too much boiled, and the beer
a little of the stalest. Mem.-To talk to the cook about the first fault, and
to mend the second myself by tapping a fresh barrel directly.
Seven o'clock.-Went to walk with the lady my mother into the court-
yard. Fed five-and-twenty men and women. Chid Roger severely for
expressing some ill-will at attending us with broken meat.
Eiht o'clock.-Went into the paddock behind the house with my
maid Dorothy. Caught Things, the little pony, myself, and rode a matter
of six miles without bridle or saddle.
"Ten o'clock.-Went to dinner. John Grey, a most comely youth; but
what is that to me P A virtuous maiden should be entirely under the com-
mand of other parties. John ate but little, and stole a great many tender
looks at me. Said women would never be handsome, in his opinion, who


were not good-tempered. I hope my temper is not intolerable. Nobody
finds fault with it but Roger, and he is the most disorderly serving-man in
the family. John Grey likes white teeth; my teeth are of a pretty good
colour, I think. My hair is as black as jet, though I say it, and John, if I
mistake not, is of the same opinion.
"Eleven o'clock.-Rose from table. The company all desirous of taking
a walk in the fields. John Grey would lift me over every style, and twice he
squeezed my hand. I cannot say I have any objection to John Grey. He
plays at prison bare as well as any of the country gentlemen; is remarkably
dutiful to his parents, my lord and my lady; and never misses church
on Sunday.
"Three o'clock.-Poor farmer Robinson's house burnt down by an
accidental fire. John Grey proposed a subscription among the company
for the relief of the farmer, and gave no less than four pounds himself
with that benevolent intent. Mem.-Never saw.him look so comely as at
that moment.
Four o'clock.-Went to prayers.
Bim o'clock.-Fed the hogs and poultry.
Seven o'clock.---Supper on the table. Delayed to that hour on account
of the accident at farmer Robinson's misfortune. Mem.-The goose-pie
too much baked, and pork stewed to rags."

Simple, housewifely, little lady Elizabeth I One would feel glad that
she married so good a youth-charitable and remarkably dutiful to his
parents-only he was soon to lie stark and still on the disastrous field
of St. Albans, his estates forfeited, and his widow obliged to return
with her children to the old home at Grafton, where after three years she
presented a petition for redress to the King, who chanced to be hunting in
the neighbourhood. The next is a chapter of history, for most of you
have read of that quiet stolen marriage on the 1st of May, 1464.
It was no use disbelieving, as many would fain have done, that the
widow of John Grey was now Queen of England. Edward IV. soon brought
her to London in great state. She was carried through the streets in a
horse-litter for all to see, preceded by many new knights created in her
honour, and crowned amidst feasting and tournament and loud cries of "Al


hail, Elizabeth, our blessed new Queen What a change from the quiet
home life at which we have had a peep that told of such sweet content I
For all her state and splendour, I do not think Elizabeth was happy.
Treason and troubles and trials made her crown sit very uneasily, and when
her royal husband died, and she and her family of five young daughters


and two sons were left to the tender mercies of his kindred, she was fain to
retreat in hot haste to the sanctuary offered within the walls of West.
minster Abbey, where she waited in fear and trembling for what would befall.
Young Edward V. was already in the Tower-nominally till such times
as his uncle Glo'ster could provide for his coronation; but Glo'ster was more
intent on getting the little Duke of York in his clutches, and soon sent
and took him from his sorrowing young sisters and fearful mother, who
cried in anguish of heart because of her sore foreboding.


"'Farewell, my own sweet sonne. God send you goode keeping. Let
me kiss you once yet ere you goe, for God Himselfe knoweth when we
shall kisse together againe; and then she kissed him and blessed him,
and turned her back and wept and went her way, leaving the child
weeping as faste.
Then the child was led by many lords temporal into the mydest of
Westminster Hall, my Lord Protector recevyng hym at the sterre
chamber door with many loving words, and so departed with my Lord
Cardinal to ye Towre, where he is, blessed be Jhesu, merry."
Thus reported one who little knew of the dark deed to come, for
instead of crowning the fatherless Edward, Duke Richard, as we all know,
himself assumed the "round" of sovereignty, and had a very splendid
ceremony performed on the occasion, wearing a robe of crimson velvet,
embroidered with gold and trimmed with ninever puffs, and shoes of cloth
of gold; and for the anointing, a tabard of white sarsnet and a coif of lawn,
which being put on his head after the unction" was not to be removed for
eight days. Though Glo'ster, by fraud and malice, possessed himself of
his nephews' persons, he could not rest secure while those two innocents
breathed; and hence came a tragedy of which the final words are to be
read in Latin on a cold grey stone altar in that same Abbey which had
given sanctuary to his- mother, and where the little boy of eleven had
been proclaimed:-
Here lie the relics of Edward V., King of England, and of Richard, Duke of York,
who, being confined in the Tower and there stifled with pillows, were privately and meanly
buried by order of their perfidious uncle, Richard, the usurper. Their bones, long inquired
after and wished for, after lying 191 years in the rubbish of the stairs (i.., those lately
leading to the chapel of the White Tower), were, on the 17th of July, 1674, by undoubted
proofs, discovered, being buried deep in that place. Charles IL, pitying their unhappy fate,
ordered these unfortunate Princes to be laid among the relics of their predecessors, in the
year 1678."


London Bridge is broken down;
Dance o'er my Lady Lee;
London Bridge is broken down,
With a gay lady.
"London Bridge is broken down;
Dance o'er my Lady Lee;
How shall we build it up again,'
With a gay lady

"Build it up with stone so strong;
Dance o'er my Lady Lee;
Huzza I 'twill last for ages long,
With a gay lady."--ld Ballad

is not of the present bridge "of stone so strong" that I have a
touching tale to tell, but of that old, old one of wood and clay
that once spanned the silvery Thames; for it was the silvery
Thames in the days when bluff King Harry, or his strong-handed
S daughters, ruled our land; and the bridge that crossed it was
important because of the houses of wealthy citizens that crowded closely
together, and the open shops well stocked, and the warehouses, though
as late as 1477, when Falconbridge besieged it, there were but thirteen
houses besides the gate. In 1666 the houses were destroyed by the Great
Fire, and it was not rebuilt in the same fashion again.
Instead of being merely a passage across for horse and foot, it was
considered a genteel place in which to carry on business. There were many
"haberdashers of hatts and small wares, and stillers of strong waters, and



silke men, and wooling drapers, and a scrivener and clarke." And there was
a strong central drawbridge, with a chapel and terminal towers, on which
were set the gory heads of many traitors; while below could be seen the
twenty small and dingy arches built upon wooden piles, through which
dashed and worried the fair waters of the river, fretting roughly to pass,
and ofttimes working woe on the smaller boats that could not hold their
own against wind and tide. No wonder that one of the popular city
sayings was that "London Bridge was made for wise men to go over and
for fools to go under; for it was not always a matter of choice. Folk
were far too daring in such matters then as now. Had not the Duke of
Norfolk himself, with a brave following of gentlemen and retainers, crossed
in a boat from St. Mary Overies yonder, in the shadow of a November
evening, struck against a pile, and, being swamped, barely escaped with his
life-he and three others only being saved through ropes from above ?
One thing that made the richest citizens' wives content to live in the
big rambling timber houses on the bridge was the fact that many a gay
pageant entered London by that way. Long since, Richard IL brought
his little eight-year-old queen through so dense a crowd that several
persons were pressed to death; then there were waving of banners, and
cloth of gold, and trumpets and drums, and giants. No public procession
was complete in the good citizens' eyes without these images; they loved
to tell how, when Henry V. made his triumphal entry, he was received
by two huge ogres, standing at the beginning of the bridge, one bearing
an axe, and also the keys of the city hanging to a staff. And so with
Henry VI. A mighty giant of wickerwork awaited him as his champion,
with a drawn sword, and an inscription by its side beginning--

"All those that be enemies to the king,
I shall them alothe with confusion."
But now that we have taken a backward glance at the old "bridge of
wood and clay," let me tell you of a little romance which took place in the
long ago, when the Tudors reigned in England, and the citizens were lords
and masters of London, in a different fashion from what they are now.
Among all the rich and respected merchants whose fortunes had been
made in those quaint timber houses overlooking the river every way, none


was more rich or respected than the good cloth-worker, William Hewet,
afterwards "Sir William" and Lord Mayor of London. Though possessed
of land and fair estate, he loved the ceaseless, and, truth to tell, some-
what harassing, splash of the waters around and beneath this busy home
better than the song of birds or the silence of the country. Here he had
grown in wealth and the good esteem of his fellows; here he had brought
his bride; here his Baby Anne" was flourishing fair and fresh as a rose in
June. What more could the heart of man desire P Master Hewet was
content and thankful, and wished for no change.
But for all that the good merchant kept a close look-out after the
business and the men and 'prentices in his employ. Well he knew that
the latter were a troublesome set to deal with, ever ready to fling down
their tasks and fly at the cry of "clubs" or the chance of a dispute or
squabble. Only one youth could he rely on, and that one, a Kentish lad,
more gently nurtured than the rest; one who had told him on his very
first coming, and in all innocence of heart, that his father had bidden him
become rich and respected, even as Master Hewet, and that he, Ned.
intended doing so, by God's grace, and Master Hewet only nodded "yes."
In those days 'prentice lads were usually considered and treated as
members of the master's family, holding their peace and behaving submis-
sively it might be, as became youth and ignorance, yet looking forward
to the time when they, too, would be proud merchants-a high and
independent position to hold, and only attainable after years of toil.
Two years had passed since then. Young Ned Osborne grew tall and
straight, but not over strong. "Baby Anne" grew rosier and sweeter day by
day-just a soft little prattler to kiss and caress and love-and the cloth-
working was going on briskly, when one summer's morning something
startling happened-something that might have broken the good merchant's
heart; something that did alter the course of two lives.
Another satirical saying anent this peculiar neighbourhood was to the
effect that if London Bridge had fewer eyes it would see better than it did."
This was intended to insinuate that if those crowded houses had not so
many big windows, there would be less staring at the river going on, and
more seeing concerning indoor matters. And there was truth in this
saying, too; only perhaps if the eyes had not been so bright and lively


Maid Lettuce would not have been tempted to open hers so widely, or to
linger with bouncing "Baby Anne" clinging to the ledge, staring out at
the gay" scene-the ferry-boat laden with folk bound to Paul's, or the
fishermen's vessels bringing in' shining stores, on which the sunshine
glittered and glinted till the pretty fish shone like white light, attracting



the child's blue eyes, just as the gay ribbons of some smart Court ladies
did those of Maid Lettuce, who relaxed her hold better to stare, just at the
instant when the child darted forward to clutch at her vanishing delights.
In an instant there was a splash in the waters below; above, a girl was
shrieking in despair and signalling wildly to a distant boatman for help.
Ned Osborne, busy measuring cloth in a large room, became suddenly
aware that for a single moment the stuff was shaded by a fluttering some-
thing that was past and gone and had splashed below, before he could
draw breath. Why or how he. felt so instantaneously that something"


was dear Baby Anne," he never knew; certainly he had no time to see. He
did not stop to seek assistance; he did not shriek or call-Maid Lettuce above
was doing that; he just bounded on to the deep sill, forced back the lattice,
took one quick glance to where the mocking sun was gilding a bright little
curly head, and then, flinging off his dark jerkin, went down with a
muttered God's mercy I" into the very surf of the waters-down just in
time to catch the soft little body, to feel the frightened clutch of cramped,
chubby fingers. Another moment, and "Baby Anne might have been
dashed against the cruel wood and clay that hedged them in all too closely.
Well was it that the idler suddenly bent to his oars, and came quick,
flying to the rescue, for Ned was at best but a poor swimmer, and well-nigh
exhausted with his efforts to support the child and himself so long. Well
was it for the loving parents that only now they knew of the peril from
which their darling had escaped so providentially.
And thus Baby Anne was saved by her father's "'prentice," and
in the years to come Mistress Anne grew into a sweet, fair maiden,
admired by all her neighbours. Young lovers wooed; even the handsome
Earl of Shrewsbury would fain have wed the heiress of Sir William Hewet;
yet she favoured none but her fond father's partner, now making a grand
name for himself in the world of commerce. And when friends remon-
strated, and would fain advise, because her father heeded none of these
fine offers, the kind old merchant would rub his hands gleefully, and
answer, "Tut, tut, sirs; Osborne saved her, Osborne shall wed her, an they
will it so." They did" will," and, as far as history tells, lived happily ever
after. He won her even a title, for we find that by-and-by Queen Elizabeth
granted Sir Edward Osborne and Richard Staper, the charter of the
Levant Company, "doing good offices for the peace of Christendom, relief
of Christian slaves, and good vent for the commodities of the realm."
The grandson of Ned Osborne, the cloth-worker 'prentice, was created
Duke of Leeds in 1694; and surely he was an ancestor to be proud of.
Such men-
"Are fortune's jewels, moulded bright"


"Thy calm mien
Recalls old Rome, as much as thy high deed;
Duty thine only idol; and serene
When all are troubled, in the utmost need
Prescient: thy country's servant ever seen,
Yet sovereign of thyself whatever may speed."-B. Disraeli.

O VERY one is familiar with that pretty fable of the "Ugly
A M Duckling." Every one knows how the poor young thing was
reviled and slighted by handsome kin, because of its awkward-
ness and its grey colour. Why, it could not even quack like
the rest of the family. It was-well-it was only the "ugly
duckling," and the less one saw or heard of it the better. And yet
by-and-by, when it so unexpectedly developed into a stately swan, how
proud and glad those poor shabby relatives must have been when the noble
and dignified creature condescended to look their way; and how they must
have preened their scanty feathers and glorified themselves in his state, and
admired the very shadow he cast on the smooth lake.
There have been ugly ducklings" among families of boys and girls.
Of one such let me gather a few facts, for there are but few known.
The "man." never cared to talk or tell of his childhood, which of itself
is a sign that it was not as happy a memory as it might have been.
There were four brothers, I believe, in the old house. Three of them,
bright good-looking lads, were carefully educated and attended to; the
other, little Arthur, was nothing to look at, and giving small promise of
turning out a scholar, was sent to a cheaper school at Chelsea, where
S0 75



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there seems to have been more play than work. Not a bad thing as
yet, for a little delicate pale-faced boy of ten years old, who was so
slow that he was openly declared by his own mother to be the family
dunce, and she kept him in the background accordingly.
But young Wellesley had neither strength nor spirits to romp and
tumble with those big strong lads at Mr. Brown's, with whom, as
one can easily imagine, he was no great favourite. The master con-
sidered him indolent, and heavy, and careless, and frowned upon
him in class or as he came slowly lagging out of the schoolroom.
Instead of joining the rest full of laughter and fun, he would
take his stand against the trunk of a big old walnut-tree that
stood in the middle of the ground, and, with both hands in his
pockets, watch the noisy frolics in which he could never be per-
suaded to mingle. Sometimes the lads would make a rush, and fairly
drag him from his vantage-ground; but then he would get cross, hit
out right and left, and struggle his way out of their hold and back to
his tree, where he would generally be left at last to his sullen dejection,
out of which he was only roused when he saw any unfair advantage
taken or rule of the game broken. Nothing of that kind escaped his
observant eye, or failed to be at once loudly announced to the whole
party, who always chose him as umpire.
The boy seemed to care for nothing but music, of which all his life
he continued to be very fond. Perhaps he inherited the taste from his
father, Lord Mornington, who composed sundry odd pieces that we still
find in our old music-books. "Here in cool grot reclining," a glee for
four voices, is still a great favourite with many of our best singers.
So time passed on, Arthur stumbling through his lessons as best he
could, which was as badly as a boy well might; his clever and proud
lady-mother spoke of his sullen idleness with haughty impatience, instead
of trying to charm it away with loving words; and only once, to his
great wonderment, his elder brother called at the shabby school-house at
Chelsea, and magnificently tipped his young brother to the extent of a
shilling-no great thing for a young lord to do, when it would have to
be shared with so many boys, but enough for our Arthur" no doubt.
Such a boy as this was not likely to figure proudly at Eton, where


he was just as idle, dreary, and shy as ever, making little advance and
few friends. Indeed, one cannot help fancying that he was somewhat
provoking and quarrelsome in those early times; for we read that one
day, seeing Bobus Smith bathing in the Thames, Arthur must needs stop


and throw a clod of wet clay full at the swimmer, who called out in-
dignantly that if young Wellesley did that again, he, Bobus, would land
and thrash him. Dab came another clod, and out of the water scrambled
Smith, who, catching his schoolfellow, administered a hearty slap in
the face, which was immediately returned; and then the two fell to
fisticuffs, and the injured Bobus decidedly got the worst of the fray,
which, no doubt, made him wroth at the time, though in after life


he used to say gleefully--"I was the Duke of Wellington's first
When the holidays came, the lad spent them with his grandfather,
at Brynkinalt, in North Wales, a quiet little place, where the boy had
nothing better to do than first to form a great friendship, and next to
have a violent quarrel with, the son of Hughes, the village blacksmith,
whom he considered to have wronged him in some bird-nesting matter.
They fought the quarrel out bravely, giving and taking hard blows; but,
truth to tell, the future Iron Duke" got decidedly the worst of it, and
was treated to a severe thrashing. Yet, as Hughes remarked when he
told the story, "Master Wellesley bore me not a pin's worth of ill-will
for the beating, but made me his companion in many a wild ramble after
the fight, just as he had done before "-rambles which he must have
enjoyed far more than studying at Eton, where, however, he did not
remain long, his father dying poor, and his proud mother taking her
"ugly boy" with her to Brussels, where they might live cheaply. And
here, again, we hear of his playing well on the fiddle-the only indication
he had given of any taste or talent. Certainly at this time he had
no thought and no wish to be a soldier; indeed, I fancy a civilian's
quiet life would have been the lad's own choice had circumstances per-
mitted, or had not that strong-minded mother of his ordained, when he
was eighteen, that he should go at once to the military school of Angers,
and prepare for the army, where her family interest could promise advance-
ment, and his scholarship would not particularly matter.
Then we lose sight of Arthur altogether until we hear of his appoint-
ment as ensign, and next as lieutenant, in a foot regiment. Just as shy
and diffident a young officer as he had been a schoolboy, nobody took
much notice of poor Arthur. It is told how one night he went to a grand
ball, and not having the courage to engage a partner, hung about the
band, luckily a very good one, the whole evening, listening to the dance
music. When the party broke up, and every one was chatting merrily, young
Wellesley was ignored as if by common consent, and left to travel home-
wards with the fiddlers as best he could.
Yet one thing was remarked by those who cared to notice, that from
the time he reached man's estate he read a great deal, fell into the way


of acquainting himself with everything worthy of notice that went on
about him; no- exhibition of a new discovery, no display of skill or
ingenuity, however seemingly absurd, failed to interest him; and he was
quick and ready at drawing inferences, illustrating in his own person a
remark he was heard to make, that in many cases "sound sense is
better than ability," though, as he proved in after life, he had plenty of
Many years afterwards, when at the height of his fame, the Duke of
Wellington calling at the house of a French nobleman, met an old nurse
with a pretty little girl in her arms. He was always exceedingly fond
of children, their ways and doings, and when he saw this one looking at
him with scared blue eyes, he held out his own arms and would fain have
taken her in them; but she turned from him with a shrill cry of aversion,
clutching her nurse round the neck as though to protect her from
him, and beginning to cry in the most frantic fashion:-
"But why?" asked the soldier, in vexed wonderment at the frightened
angry mite.
"He-he beats everybody," she whispered at last. No doubt," said
the Duke, when he laughingly told the story, "no doubt she had heard
the nurse say so, and thought I should beat her."
Yet if the little creature could only have known it, Wellington had
no desire to beat any one but the foe in the field, and this he did with
right good will and valour. Calm, and cool, and observant in the battle-
field, as becomes the leader of hosts, he took command of our armies at
a time when the military character of Britain had become of small account,
and other nations, trained to arms by continual warfare and aggression,
derided all her warlike operations, declaring that whatever victories she
might have achieved in past times were the result of chance, and that
such a nation had better attend to home traffic than seek to hold its
own with other nations.
This was the general opinion when Wellington came upon the scene,
and changed the face of affairs by stepping from victory to victory.
This is no place for a long list of campaigns, nor am I fond enough of
" the pomp and circumstance of glorious war to do more than hint at the
various battles in which our Commander was engaged--Corunna, Talavera,


Bajadoz, Toulouse, Vittoria--but this last reminds me of how Wellington
became Field Marshal of England, and held the baton of such.
Spain and Portugal had of late been one great battle-field, upon which
tens of thousands had been slain. To understand the why and wherefore,
you must refer to the many volumes indited on the subject. Here I can
only tell you that the French forces, commanded by Prince Joseph Napoleon,
were collected at Vittoria. and that they were threatened by an allied army
commanded by our Iron Duke, who was determined to drive them out of
it. A very desperate battle followed, and the French were at length forced
to retreat, fighting bravely as. they went, struggling gallantly, but in vain,
against their determined adversaries. After many' hours they were com-
pletely routed, and obliged to fly, Joseph himself and Marshal Jourdain
riding off at last, leaving all their arms and baggage behind them. A great
amount of money was also captured, which was mostly pounced upon by
thievish camp-followers--those very disgraceful circumstances of "glorious
war;" but they brought Wellington the French Marshal's forgotten baton,
having first stolen its gold tip. This wand of office the commander at
.once forwarded to King George, or, rather, the Prince Regent, as a token
of English victory. In hot haste came a return messenger with a letter of
warm gratulation and regard. It concluded thus:-" You have sent me
among the trophies of your unrivalled fame the staff of a French Marshal,
and I send you in return that of England." Truly enough there was
the soldier's sceptre fairly won.
For now my "ugly duckling" had indeed become a full-fledged swan
of the most magnificent description. Lord Chancellor Eldon remarked in
the House of Lords, "It is a fact unprecedented in the history of England
that in little more than four years this commander has been raised to the
highest rank the crown can bestow, and not one title has been bestowed
without its appropriate meed. Arthur Wellesley, whether as knight,
viscount, earl, marshal, marquis, or duke, has paid the price of each
successive step by some heroic deed that will illustrate the pages of British
history when perchance the pages of the British peerage will cease to be
Wellington continued steadily to retrieve the military reputation of
his country, routing all the most distinguished officers of Napoleon one


after the other, and on the field of Waterloo finally defeating that most
able and successful commander, "the Child of Destiny," as his adherents
loved to style Napoleon.
At one period of this battle, the Duke, surrounded by his staff, had
evidently become the special object of the fire of a French battery. The
shot fell fast about them, striking and tearing up the ground where they
stood. The horses turned restive, and Wellington's own favourite,
Copenhagen, so fidgety that his master became impatient, but not wishing
to leave the spot said, coolly, Gentlemen, we had better divide a little."
Presently an officer came up and told the Duke that he had a distinct
view of Napoleon, attended by his staff; 'that he had the guns of his
battery well pointed in that direction, and was prepared to fire full upon the
"No," cried the Commander, emphatically, no, I will not allow it.
It is not the business of commanders to be firing -at each other."
The battle ended, Wellington had to ride back to head-quarters, over
the bodies of so many brave men that he had trained to arms and led to
victory, that hot regretful tears came into his eyes, and he declared that
he had never yet fought such a battle, and hoped never to fight such
another. And the great general had his wish, and for the future served
his country in courts instead of camps. After a long and useful political
career, in which he displayed the qualities which had rendered him so
successful as a military leader, namely, firmness, caution, and foresight, he
died at Walmer Castle in 1852, and was buried with great state in St. Paul's.
"Victor of Assaye's orient plain,
Victor of all the fields of Spain,
Victor of France's despot reign,
Thy task of glory done,-
Welcome I from dangers greatly dared,
From triumphs which the vanquished shared,
From nations saved, and nations spared,
ITnconquer'd Wellington I"



ISTORY'S pages record no more splendid reign than Isabella
of Castile's, who, it is pleasant to note, was descended from
our English "old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster."
As a child she was graceful and very lovely to look upon,
and as dignified and grave as a little Spanish queen. She had
two brothers then, one the reigning monarch Henry-some
called him "Henry the Imbecile "-and a younger one, Alfonzo, of whom
nobody thought much in comparison with his sister, then studying all
kinds of princely accomplishments and scholarly learning in her peaceful
convent school.
The proud Castilian nobles at length grew so enraged with the doings
of the feeble Henry that they deposed him in effigy-a ceremony so strange
and unusual that it is worthy of description.
In an open plain not far from the city of Avila was erected a scaffold
of sufficient elevation to be seen from all the surrounding country. A
chair of state was placed on it in which was seated an effigy of King
Henry, clad in sable robes and adorned in all the insignia of Castilian
royalty-a sword at its side, a sceptre in its hand, and a crown upon its
head. A manifesto was then read aloud, exhibiting in all glowing colours
the tyrannical conduct of the base king and the consequent determination
to depose him. The Archbishop of Toledo then tore the diadem from the
head of the statue, the Marquis of Villena removed the sceptre, the Count
of Placentia the sword, the Grand Master and other nobles, the rest of the




regal insignia, and next the image was ignominiously rolled in the dus~
amid groans and clamours. Alfonzo, then only eleven years old, was
seated on the vacant throne, and the assembled grandees came one by one
to kiss his hand in token of homage, while the trumpets sounded the
accession of a new sovereign.
Alfonzo soon died, however, overweighted by the cares of State, and
his crown was offered to Isabella, but she refused it, saying that it was still
her brother Henry's, and that while he lived none other had a right to it,
and she for one would be no usurper.
Many wooed the fair princess, even, it is said, our English EdwardA
IV.; but one she already loved-her cousin Ferdinand of Arragon, and&
heir to the throne of that country. Young and of a chivalrous nature,.
he was bronzed by exposure to the sun, and strengthened by the toils of
war. She was tall, fair, with bright chestnut hair and beaming blue eyes,.
the handsomest lady that one ever beheld, dignified and modest, and most
gracious in her manners-so said all about her. Indeed, these two bright&
young beings seemed born for each other, though in mind the lady excelled!.
Now King Henry did not approve of his heiress marrying this prince,
so he had her kept under close watch and ward, and would have made her
wed a creature of his own, only that she escaped from the fortress prison
away to the friendly city of Valladolid, and Ferdinand, having private news
of the whereabouts of her little court, started to join her, through a country
patrolled by whole squadrons of cavalry, all on the alert to arrest his<
adventurous Highness and turn him back. He had also to pass a line oD
the enemies' fortified castles on the frontier, but with half a dozem
attendants disguised as merchants, Ferdinand, acting as a common servant,
looking after the mules and attending on his abusive masters' wants, passed
over the dangerous ground in safety. Only one unlucky thing happened
-the "servant" lost the purse which contained the funds necessary for
the expedition. However, late one night they arrived, hungry, cold, and
faint with much travel, at a little place called the Burgo of Osma, occupied,
luckily, by partisans of Isabella, but the guard disapproving of the din the
new arrivals made at the gate in the dark, one of them flung a big stone at
the first head he saw. Had it not missed its aim, there would have ended
the princely wooer's romantic quest.


But matters were soon made clear, and there was much welcoming
festivity and blowing of trumpets and calling together, and at dawn
Ferdinand hopefully resumed his journey with a good armed escort, for
whom there was no pausing till the eager young prince stood before his
rejoicing betrothed. It was Gutierra de Cardenas who first saw and


pointed out to her the approach of the royal horseman, crying, breathlessly,
"Ese es, ese es "This is he, this is he." In commemoration of which
he was permitted to place on his escutcheon the letters S. S., the sound
of which in Spanish resembles that exclamation.
Many humble excuses were sent to Henry, and soon there followed a
joyous wedding-a union destined to open the way to the highest
prosperity and grandeur of the Spanish monarchy. Yet for the moment
such was the poverty of this royal young pair that they had to borrow
money from such of their followers as had any to lend, to defray the
expenses of the ceremony which was to make them one.
The next scene shows us an immense crowd, and Isabella, royally


attired, riding on a Spanish jennet, preceded by an officer on horseback
bearing aloft a naked sword, the badge of sovereignty. Presently she
dismounts, and ascends a platform, on which is erected a splendid throne.
A herald loudly proclaims, Castile, Castile, Castile, for the King Don
Ferdinand and his consort Donna Isabella, queen proprietor of these
kingdoms." Then the royal standards are unfurled, the bells clang merrily,
and a discharge of ordnance from the castle announces the accession of
the new sovereigns. The queen having received the homage of her subjects,
and swearing to maintain the liberty of the realm, descends from the
platform and slowly paces to the church, where prostrated before the high
altar she implores the protection of God for herself and her country.
Such was the simple form of this great queen's coronation.
No mention of Ferdinand and Isabella would be complete unless we
add the name of Columbus, who himself gratefully declared how-" In
the midst of general incredulity the Almighty infused into the queen, my
lady, the spirit of intelligence and energy, and whilst every one else in
his ignorance was expatiating only on the inconvenience and cost of my
expedition, her Highness approved it on the contrary, and gave it all the
support in her power." Well might he own her generous protection.
One little speech of Isabella's must be recorded, for it stamped
her renown for ever as the patroness of the wonderful new world,
till her time undiscovered. When the king looked coldly on
Columbus, and pleaded an empty treasury and his Moorish wars,
while statesmen and learned men mocked aloud, especially when he
declared the square earth to be round; yet the queen would not
let him depart from Spain, and maybe carry the glory of his discoveries
to other nations. She pleaded in favour of his cause, exclaiming,
when all else failed, and there seemed no hope-
"I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of Castile, and I will
pledge my jewels to raise the necessary funds.'
Even Ferdinand could no longer resist, and Columbus was recalled,
created admiral, and viceroy of all lands he might discover, and his
eighteen long years of patience rewarded with the command of three small
vessels, with which he sped away over the seas.
Eight months after this there were great stir and rejoicing in the


land. "El Admirante," handsome and stately, was kneeling before the
royal pair, for whom he had won the most wonderful prize of these West
Indies. They had risen to meet him, and received him almost as an
equal, commanding him to be seated and to tell them of his adventures,
which he did in simple sailor-like fashion, neither he nor his hearers
quite understanding that it was not a part of Western Asia but an entirely
new hemisphere that he had discovered. There is a letter extant in which,
after giving a simple, straightforward account of his discoveries, he says:-

"Whatever may have been hinted in former times of the existence of these islands, either
in writings or in discourse, it is certain that it was-only by obscure conjecture, and that no
one ever asserted that he had seen them, and accordingly their existence appeared merely
fabricacy. Let then our King and Queen, their Nobles, and all their happy realms-and
indeed all the nations of Christendom-return thanks to our Saviour the Lord Jesus Christ,
because he has magnified us with so great bounty and victory. Let solemn processions and
other holy offices be celebrated, and let the temples be veiled with festive boughs. Glory be
henceforth to dust on the earth as there is glory in the heavens; for he is advancing forth
to bring salvation to the perishing soul of the heathen. Let us, too, rejoice, bdth on account
of the exaltation of our faith, and of the increase of our temporal advantages, in which not
only Spain but all Christendom will participate. Farewell.
"Lisbon, the day before the Ides of March."




iTee is Wstminaster Abbey.

N- the 25th of April, 1818, the first Arctic expedition under-
taken this century went sailing merrily down the Thames.
y It was composed of only two rather ugly brigs, bound for the
Pacific by way of the North Pole; and one of the two was
commanded by Lieutenant John Franklin, who not -long before
had been gathering laurels with Nelson on the Nile.
SIn those days there was a supreme ignorance of all the difficulties
connected .with Arctic navigation, and a headstrong confidence, founded
on this same ignorance. British sailors, who never were stayed or
daunted by anything, need surely not be baffled by ice or frowning
cliffs. Time, perseverance, and more especially an English Jack's pluck,"
must surely carry them safely through all difficulties, and enable them
to discover the North-West Passage or anything else in nature.
Away they sailed, blithe and hardy and hopeful as Norse kings,
away and away till they reached the chill domains of the frozen north;
yet soon it was discovered that Franl~in's brig was but a leaky, unsea-
worthy vessel. Then, when within view of the Spitzbergen Mountains,
they were nigh buried in hard frozen snow-flakes and chilled sea-spray,
while every rope grew stiff as a pine-branch, and almost as un-
manageable. Sometimes they could not stir the brigs; sometimes



they had to "take a pack," that is, dash through what looked
like a black chasm, but was in reality an opening in the ice, beyond which
foamed and heaved a line of fearful breakers, that threatened to smash the
vessels all to pieces or to sink them in a moment. Against such
difficulties it was useless to contend any longer; and slowly and with diffi-
culty the lately hopeful band managed to retrace their way. They were sick
and sorrowful, the brigs, disabled and battered, staggering over their home-
ward route like weak and wounded creatures, showing the hurts and
scars of a late engagement that had nigh proved fatal.
In 1823 Captain John Franklin showed his wife Eleanor a second
summons from his country to proceed on another Arctic expedition.
The captain was elate, yet full of sorrow; for she was so ill and
delicate, there seemed small chance of their ever meeting again-as,
indeed, they did not; yet she urged him bravely to accept the task set
before him, and with weak and faltering fingers worked a flag he was
to unfurl to the winds as he reached the Polar seas.
"Only give me one thought then, and I shall be rewarded, dear
John," said the heroic wife, without doubting that he must win this
time, for, like all true wives, she believed in her husband's infalli-
Franklin was married twice; and surely no man was ever blessed
with the love of two such women, such noble types of good, heroic
womanhood--the first unselfishly urging him away to his duty, even
with her dying breath; the second sacrificing wealth and patrimony,
and living in humble lodgings that she might spare the more to learn the
true story of the fate of him who had passed away with his gallant crew
in the dread realm of frost and silence.
Before he started on this last fatal journey, Sir John had been for
some time Lieutenant Governor of Tasmania, as we now call Van Diemen's
Land; and here a young middy on a visit describes him and his
second wife-Lady Jane-whose name was to become a household
word in England. He says:-
"I was greatly struck by the contrast between Sir John Franklin
and his wife. Sir John had already acquired fame as an Arctic explorer.
He was a tall, portly, florid-complexioned man, with a head slightly


bald, of very commanding presence, and with a cheerful, benevolent
countenance. Little Lady Franklin seemed like a fairy by his side. She
was a slight, delicate-looking woman, with gentle, interesting features,
and a soft low voice." And yet, how strong and brave of heart she
proved to be, in the long years of unrest and trouble before her, the record
of those days tell.
When, in 1844, it was decided that the good ships Brebs and Terror
should be sent out on another expedition, there were plenty ready to
take the command; but who more ready than- Captain Franklin? yet,
because of the risk, the authorities persuaded' him to stay at 'home, and
let stronger men take his place.
"We might find good excuse for not letting you go, in that tell-tale
record which says you are sixty years old,"' said one kindly-meaning
"No, no, my lord," cried Franklin eagerly, "I am only fifty-nine."
So he it was that took the command of the Erebus and Terror, two fine
vessels, that he was right proud of.
The expedition, provisioned for three years, and with 189 men,
sailed away hopefully on the important mission; and though nothing was
heard of it, no great anxiety was felt at first. When, however, weeks and
months passed by the appointed time, public and private feeling was
roused, and relief parties went out one after another, seeking and searching
for the missing ships; but in vain, until the Resolute and the Assistance
and the brave little Fox found traces of them at last.
To get an idea of the horrors of an Arctic voyage, we need only remember
what a terrific thing even one glacier is-when, as in the Polar regions,
it extends from the shore, and protrudes its craggy form into the wild
waters. Large floating masses become detached, and form icebergs, ice-floes,
and drift ice. Sailors term this "the calving of the glacier;" and the
disruption is heard for many miles. These bergs, or mountains of ice,
are often between two and three hundred feet above the sea-level, with
as much as seven-eighths of their entire mass hidden beneath the waves.
Sometimes they look like Gothic buildings or vessels in full sail; so that
it has happened that boatmen have rowed up to pilot the lumps of ice,
mistaking them for ships, into harbour.


Even worse than the bergs are the flat floating ice-fields, or floes,
as much as hundreds of miles in length, sometimes lying so close together
that it is easy to leap from one floe to another; at other times
drifting apart. Altogether it is easy to see that navigation in high


latitudes becomes, because of the ice, almost
as much an affair of chance as of skill. No L
conclusion can be drawn from one season as
to the nature of the next.
When in the winter-such winters !-the ice gathers round the ship,.
and holds her fast and tight until the spring returns, and when the
influence of summer rouses into activity the fountains of, the deep, a
dangerous time arrives for the vessel: the loosened masses, rough or


smooth, as it happens, moving in the direction of wind or tide, or both;
and the great effort" of the navigator is then to avoid getting into the
"pack," as he calls the broken masses; for, once in there, the vessel is
surrounded and perhaps "nipped" and crushed between the moving ice.
To avoid this, he hugs the shore, and waits the chance of any temporary
safe opening. It sometimes happens that even when a ship has escaped
"packing" it cannot get out into open waters again; and as it is no
use drifting about purposelessly, the only thing then to be done is to
abandon her, and for the crew to make the best of their way to the
nearest inhabited or habitable place. If they cannot do that within
a certain time, their fate is sealed. Thus it was with Franklin's ill-
fated expedition. In June, 1847, the ship had to be abandoned, and
the survivors, taking what they could carry, endeavoured to journey
southward; but it was too late-as the Esquimaux reported afterwards,
they dropped as they walked. Some of their skeletons were found by
the members of the Fo expedition just where they fell, while here
and there were collected very sad mementoes of that gallant band.


asOIN POA S MAN'S 60so1n."

"This Cardinal,
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashioned to much honour. From his cradle
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
Exceedingly wise, fair spoken, and persuading;
Lofty and sour to them that loved him not,
But to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
And though he were unsatisfied in getting
(Which was a sin), yet in bestowing, madam,
He was most princely. Even witness for him
Those twins of learning, that he raised in yon
Ipswich and Oxford "

S ALNY events which were to prove important in after times took
M place about the year 1485. One was, that Richard, the uncle
__iVA of cruel notoriety, fell at the battle of Bosworth, which put
an end to those cruel Wars of the Roses, which had extended
over thirty years. Another, that at the University of
Oxford a poor student of not above fourteen years of age, was made
Bachelor of Arts, an unheard-of thing, of which the good folk of Ips-
wich, whence he came, were naturally not a little proud, though they
had laughed when they first heard that the son of butcher Robert was
to be sent to College, even though the father had often boastfully said
the child was apt to be learned, and that certain good friends and masters
would assist in the charge. Why could he not be content to let the lad




be trained in the shambles P-the most natural course, and to be expected
from a person of so low a degree.
Any way, the boy progressed, and strangely enough graduated as
Master of Arts in the very same year in which his future imperious and
splendid sovereign lord, Henry VIII., was born.
Young Wolsey, being much made of, grew ambitious as well as
learned, and had been heard to say that if he could ever get only one
foot into Court, he would soon rise high. So we will next peep at him
when after some years he had become chaplain to the King Henry VII.,
who presently finding him to bee a man of sharpe wit," sent him on a
private mission anent a Princess of Savoy he had thought of for wife.
Here was "the one foot in." If the young priest could do nothing
else as yet, he could astonish his Tudor majesty by the shrewdness and
dispatch with which he would carry out his bidding, travelling being no
easy work in those days. He instantly sped away from Richmond Palace,
embarked, and reached Gravesend, set off on a fleet horse, rode as for dear
life all night, and dashed nigh breathless into Dover at the very
moment when the packet was under weigh, but he leaped into a small
boat, caught her up, and before noon was safe on shore at Calais. On
and on again, neither sparing post-horses nor gold, never staying to eat
or rest, until late at night, he stood in the presence of Maximilian,
craving hasty answer to the Lord Henry of England's message. So well
and eloquently did the chaplain speak, that the emperor, interested in this
ardent young ambassador, granted all his master's requests, and despatched
him back at once, escorted as far as Calais by a splendid train of nobles,
"to doe him a curtesie." Fortune still favoured determination, for he
stood at Calais town gates, just as the return packet was ready to sail,
and in less than seventy hours arrived once more at Richmond Palace,
his errand accomplished most satisfactorily. Then he went to bed,
satisfied, surely, that he had earned a night's repose and a chance of
When Henry came out of his chamber to mass, the first person he
saw was Wolsey, standing calmly in his usual place, upon which sight
His Majesty frowned heavily, and stopped.
Ha 1 How is this, Sir Chaplain? Were it not full time that you


should prepare to depart on the errand you wot of. Methinks it were
fitting I chose some less tardy messenger, or my affairs may suffer."
"Sire," said the exultant Wolsey, bowing low, "the business is
accomplished, I trust, to your grace's contention. I have been with the
emperor, and bear you his gracious answer here;" and, kneeling, the
chaplain presented the letters of credence.
But the king could not believe such a tale; there must be trickery
somewhere, and the Tudors were not to be easily hoodwinked. So, hiding
his wonderment and admiration under a tone of lofty reproof, he re-
marked, coolly, it was a pity the thing had been concluded in such hot
speed, as he had sent a pursuer after, with messages concerning certain
things to be amended, things which he, the king himself, -had omitted to
mention as particularly important. To which Wolsey answered humbly
enough, though no doubt his downcast eyes were sparkling with exultation,
and his heart beating high, "Forsooth, sire, I met the messenger yesterday
by the way. I had become so bold upon mine own discretion, perceiving
the matter to be very necessary, to despatch the same, and forasmuch as
I have been so bold to exceed my commission, I most humbly crave
your Grace's royal pardon."
The king replied, rejoicing at such shrewdness, "We doe not only
pardon you but give you our princely thanks, both for your good exploit
and happie expedition; and he held out his royal hand to be kissed, and
went his way smiling.
From this moment Wolsey, the poore man's son," was secure, and
finally he rose to be Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England.
During the first twenty years of the reign of Henry VIII., Wolsey was
the prominent figure-a splendid priest, as able to conduct the business
of the State as he was to shine in the court revels. He had his train
of eight hundred gentlemen; his splendour surpassed that of the king;
the highest nobles in England had to be content to serve him on feast-
days with towel and water, all of which delighted the common people,
from whose ranks he had risen, and whose good will he fostered to the last
-the better to understand this we need remember the then state of the
clergy. At priests' houses, and in monasteries, the table-cloth was on the
board-literally a board set on trestles-all day long, for the benefit and


comfort of strangers, travellers, friars, and pilgrims. Then there were
charitable doles at all religious houses and in every parish; and for each
parish, there being no poor-rates, there was *a church-house, to which
were attached spits, pot-crooks, and whatever was necessary for dressing

.' 1w


provisions, and where the housekeepers often met in seasons of jollity for
forming charitable plans. In every church also there was a "poor man's
box," and the same at all inns, but few or no alms-houses.
As the astute Wolsey soon discovered, the king loved' pageants, gaudy
shows, and disguisings, which by their mingled and exaggerated oddity and
splendour, and the ingenuity of the machinery used, resembled in many


ways a modern pantomime. We hear how one Twelfth-night, which he
kept at Greenwich, there came into the Great Hall a rich mount," which
was set full of flowers of silk, specially of broom slips full of pods; the
branches were of green satin, and the flowers flat gold of damask, which
signified Plantagenet. On the top stood a goodly beacon giving light;
above the beacon sat a king and five others, all in crimson velvet spangled
with gold. Four "wodehouses" (men dressed up in skins to resemble
savages) drew the mount, and the king and his company descended and
danced alone. Then suddenly the rich mount" opened, and out came fair
ladies all hooded and in gold embroidered satin, and they danced first alone,
then with the masquers, after which they all returned to their mount and
were conveyed away. Another time two persons played a dialogue before the
king and cardinal to the effect "Whether Riches .were better than Love."
Wolsey also kept his royal master amused with out-of-door sports, for
Henry was passionately fond of hawking. Indeed, this amusement on
one occasion well-nigh cost him his life, for as he was following his hawk
on foot and attempting to leap over a ditch with a pole, it snapped, and
in went his, by no means light, majesty, plump into the dirty water, and
what was worse, sticking head downwards in the black mud. Well was
it for him that the falconer, Ned Mody, chanced to see the undignified
plight of his royal master, and was able to reach at and drag him out.
But a black shadow fell across the haughty cardinal's bright path,
and strangely enough it was that of a beautiful woman, the lady Anne
Bullen; and because of churchmen's opposition to his wedding this fair
maid, the lately appointed Defender of the Faith" grew vexed, and took
the seal of office and the splendid York palace from his long-favoured
priest, sending him away from court in disgrace. Indeed he would
even have sent him to the scaffold, to which he soon consigned the
Lady Anne, whose smiles had worked such mischief, but that rude
death interfered with his grace's plans-even when his victim was on his
way. Who does not know those last remorseful words at Leicester?-.
Had I but served my God as diligently as I have served my king,
He would not now have given me over in my grey hairs; but this is my
just reward."


Adieu I sweet land of France, adieu I
All cherished joys gone by;
Scenes where my happy childhood grew,
To leave ye is to die.
Love, glory, genius-all too dear,
Have darkened all my prime;
My fate shall change to cold and drear,
In Scotland's ruder clime.
My heart, my heart, with sudden awe,
Feels'a vague omen's shock;
Sure in some ghastly dream I saw
A scaffold and a block.
Oh, France I in all her woes and fears,
The Stuart's daughter she,
As now she greets thee through her tears,
Shall ever turn to thee."

OOR young Queen. Streaming were her eyes and heavy was her
heart when she landed, on a dark and stormy morning, in the
(year 1561, at Leith; and, as we are told in the quaint language
of the time, "was convoyit up to her police of Halyrudhous,"
where at night she was serenaded with "a melodie (she said)
lyked her well, and she willed to be continued some nychts after with greit;
diligence," though, poor lady, she wept bitterly when she compared her
rough surroundings with the pomp and graciousness of all she had left
behind in that fair France of her adoption. Now she had to bear with



harsh disapproving looks, her dress, her manners, and especially her religion,
giving dire offence to these uncompromising leaders of the Scottish Refor-
mation-these strange new subjects-with whose ideas she was as yet
totally unacquainted,and whose very appearance somewhat startled her.
Would you like to hear how the lovely lady of Scotland" occupied
her time in these early days at Holyrood P- how, after dining at
"twelf houris," she read from the ancient historians with grave George
Buchanan, and presently played chess, or went hawking or shooting at the
butts. She had brought minstrels and singers in her train-players on the
viol and players on the lute; and, having a passion for music, paid a
whole ten pounds that an ancient organ might be put in order. In her
more private hours she sat embroidering all sorts of exquisite things,
chatting meanwhile with her four Maries, all noble maidens, as the sad
old ballad runs-
There was Marie Seton, and Marie Beaton,
And Marie Ckrmichael, and me (Marie Hamilton).

(But it should have been Mary Fleming and Mary Livingstone.) Besides,
there was Jane, the Queane's fiue or jester, a usual attendant at courts.
These four Maries.were exactly of the Queen's own age; they had been
playmates, classmates, maids of honour and bridesmaids to the fairest
Marie of them all, and now were her greatest comforts.
All that first year of her arrival in her new kingdom the young
Sovereign was ill and in low spirits; but with Christmas-tide she mended,
and on Twelfth-night gave a grand entertainment, at which was present the
English ambassador, who had brought her a "faire diamond ring from her
cousin Elizabeth, of England." Then it was that she taught her new
Court the French frolic of "The Bean," which became as common after-
wards as at the merry Court of France.
The "Bean," hidden away in a large cake which was cut into pieces
and distributed at hazard, fell to the lot of sweet Mary Fleming, who was
therefore appointed Queen of the Revels, and held her state with pretty
dignity. Nothing would .suit her royal mistress and friend but that the
maid should don her own regal attire, she herself retaining, her plainest
widow's robes of black and white that she might not spoil the illusion.