his co-conspirators-upon that day did William of Orange land upon our shores. The morning of the 5th November 1688 was misty and cloudy, and fears were entertained on board the fleet that the expedition could not land. Oakwood had seen that wonderful spectacle, so eloquently described by our greatest living historian, when the coasts of France and England, Picardy and Kent, were covered with multitudes of anxious gazers on the progress of the fleet; he had seen the squadron passing the straits, he had heard the music of warfare on the bosom of the deep, and all the spirit of his father rose within him, and he despaired not. The sun arose, his beams dispersed the clouds and mist, and, to use the words of Macaulay, "under the mild light of an autumnal noon, the fleet turned back, passed round the lofty cape of Berry Head, and rode safe into the harbour of Torbay." CHAPTER XIII.-HOW THE NEWS WAS TOLD IN WHITEHALL. "And every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay.' MACAULAY'S Lays. "Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, FROM the bold heights which surrounded the clear, deep, blue waters of Torbay, and from a spot where an opening in the hills commanded a complete view of the noble harbour, and where a small wood crested the summit of the range, did one of the most ardent cavaliers, who supported the Stuart cause, gaze on the landing of the troops of William of Orange. With one hand resting on the saddle of his horse, which stood patiently beside him, and with the other shading his eyes to behold the arrival of the fleet, stood Reginald Oakwood, with no companion save his page, who rode beside him. For four November days had he watched the progress of the fleet from the silver-edged shores of Kent, by the headlands of Sussex, passing the Isle of Wight, the Needles, and St. Alban's Head, and he now beheld them safely riding in Torbay. The November sun, as it lit the fair scene before him, and fell on his anxious face, revealed to him the magnitude of the forces, and the extent of the danger; and never before had his naturally gay and light heart been so depressed and sad, or his feelings so desponding. His little page, who rode beside him, and whose gay court dress was now changed for a sad-coloured livery, looked upon the scene with far different emotions the inspiriting sounds of the martial music, the gaiety, colour, and glitter of the uniforms, the voices of the BYRON. soldiers, the waving of the standards, the clash of arms, the variety of the vessels, all attracted his eyes and captivated his ears, while he could scarcely refrain from joining in the shout of exultation which broke from the mighty multitude as the Prince landed from his boat, and planted his standard on the shores of Devonshire. 66 Silence, sir!" said Reginald Oakwood, angrily, as he heard the half-uttered cry of his attendant." Silence, boy. Remember what those men are— either traitors to their king, or invaders of our country." The boy bit his lip, and replied not; yet still his heart swelled with pleasure at the sight, for there is something very captivating to a youthful mind in the pomp, glitter, and pageantry of war; and boyhood stops not to inquire whether the cause be right or wrong, if his senses be gratified, and his feelings, not his reason, appealed to. Reginald watched for some minutes longer. He saw boat after boat leave the vessels, he beheld the peasantry hastening in crowds to the beach to join, not to repulse, the invaders, and he felt that there was not a moment to be lost. "To horse, sir!" he cried, addressing his page, and spring into his saddle. "To horse, sir! To-morrow's noon must see me at Whitehall." And setting spurs to their horses, they soon left Torbay behind them. By the woods of Chudleigh and the spires of Exeter, through the fair fields of Honiton and the silver streams of Wellington, did those horsemen pursue their anxious way; and ere the shades of night fell over the landscape, they had crossed the boundaries of Somersetshire, and had entered Wilts. They had changed horses at Wellington, and their new steeds were al ready beginning to flag. "We must change horses again," said Reginald to his page. "I think we must be near Wilton; yet no! we are some miles above it. We are nearer the Avon than the Wily." 66 "There is a little hamlet on the Avon, Heathcote, where we may procure horses for the journey," replied the page, "but it is close to Sir Arthur Sackville's, and it might be dangerous." Oh, no!" replied Reginald, carelessly; "the South were not prepared for a rising, and most probably Sir Arthur Sackville is with the Prince. For Heathcote, then; but which road do we take?" As he spoke, they had arrived on the banks of the Avon, and the road branched into two very different directions the one crossed the river by an old gray bridge, the other wound along the bank, and through the shade of thick woods. "The bridge, sir," replied the page, "for I remember being here once when I served Lady Sackville; the other is the road to the Hall." So saying. they crossed the river, whose waters were scarcely revealed to them by the struggling light, and proceeded on their way to Heathcote. They hed scarcely aroused the landlord of the little inn, explained their requirements, and had the horses preparing, when the trampling of cavalry, and the glitter of arms, was apparent, coming down the long street of the village; and Reginald had barely time to mount the fresh horse, when a body of cavalry, commanded by Sir Arthur Sackville, rode past the inn door. The light enabled their leader to discern the two horsemen, Reginald and the page, the latter just mounting, and, with the rapidity of lightning, he turned his horse's head towards them. Reginald Oakwood felt that if Sir Arthur arrested him, and prevented the intelligence of the landing of the Prince of Orange reaching Whitehall, that much would be gained by the adherents of William, and lost to the cause of the King. He hesitated not a moment," but driving the spurs deep into his horse's side, he leaped the fence which divided the inn garden from the street, and dashing down the slope, a few bounds brought him to the river. The river forded, he found himself on a level road, and at a hard gallop, the noise of the pursuit still sounding in his ears. A moment's consideration assured him that he was still at the right side of the Avon, and eagerly and anxiously he pursued his midnight way. Half an hour's hard riding brought him to the borders of Hampshire, and he slackened rein to pause and listen. No sound broke the tranquillity of the night, save the roaring of the wintry wind through the leafless branches of the forest, and he concluded that the pursuit had been given over when his young companion was captured, for he had seen Sir Arthur seize upon the page as he attempted to follow his master towards the river. On, and on, and on, through fertile Hampshire, by the towers of Farnham into the broad fields of Surrey, and then the waters of the Wey were crossed, and Brentford was in sight. Twice had he exchanged horses since his adventure at Heathcote, and now, travel-stained and weary, he approached the termination of his journey. * In the same private audience-chamber where James the Second had discussed with William Penn the propriety of summoning the parliament, sate at noon, on the 6th of November 1688, the weak monarch, in earnest discussion with four bishops of the Church of England. "Where is the paper ?" he repeated for the third time. "Where is your declaration that you abhor the Prince's enterprprise ?" "Sire," answered the Primate, "we have brought no paper." "Why?" 66 "Our consciences acquit us, and we are content," replied Sancroft. "Where is the declaration, my lords ?" said the king, his passion momentarily rising. "It is necessary-it must be given. See here!" and open The bishops looked at each other, and White, the Bishop of Peterborough, assured the monarch that the declaration was not genuine ; while the mild Sancroft, moved with indignation, recounted to the Roman Catholic King the sufferings of the clergy of the Established Church. "I will sign no document," he concluded, "of a political nature." All the bishops persisted in their refusal-the King lost his temper. He commanded them to sign on their allegiance; and seeing that they remained firm, he cried, "I have done ; I will urge you no further. Since you will not help me, I must trust to myself and my arms. Leave me !"' Scarcely had the words been spoken, and as the bishops, glad of their escape, were retiring, when a hurried step was heard in the antechamber, the door was flung open, and Reginald St. Victor Oakwood knelt before the King. "My Liege !" he cried the Prince has landed at Torbay ;" and then, overcome with his fatigue and his long and ceaseless exertions, he fainted at his monarch's feet. It was done. Noon had indeed told the news in Whitehall, and more than one of the bishops, as they heard it, and looked on the King, trembling and pale with emotion, secretly thanked God that it was at length true, and that their religion would now be secure from insult, and themselves from persecution. And he, the sovereign of the fair realm of England, how did he feel as the intelligence smote upon his heart, and as he beheld one of his favourite officers lying senseless at his feet? A voice seemed to ring in his ears, saying, “The sceptre and the crown are thine no longer-thou art a king no more!" (To be continued.) 17.1 THE MOON OF SCIENCE. THE cold, gray light of evening Her watch, unmoved, she keeps, Pale Moon! When science opens Each early fancy flies, But stranger is the Real Than all we dreamt before, For, as the truth dawns on us, We wonder but the more. Sea-less and air-less wanderer How distance sheds a glory But their steep sides are never drest No living, breathing creature, Unknown to thee our cold, clear rain, Thy steel-gray plains seem boundless, Through all thy great creation Shed down on thee their light. And we reflect a radiance Back to thee, voiceless Moon! A sentient soul is found, To which his thoughts are bound. The lamp of Science, lighting Perchance, in other ages, May our successors know, Or trace out its remains. But whatsoe'er they tell us, But sparks of light from God! We'll see thee brightly shine, And hear thy wondrous story Complete, from lips Divine! DRUMMOND'S ANCIENT IRISH MINSTRELSY.* IT is recorded of a wise and learned philosopher of the middle ages, when remonstrated with by a friend as to his persevering and unceasing labours, and advised to allow his mind to rest, that, though age pressed heavily on him, and touched his hair with its silver fingers, his spirit stirred within him to utter a noble reply, "Have I not all eternity to rest in ?" We may well adapt this anecdote to the talented and indefatigable author, whose last work is now be fore us; for, nearly fifty years ago, he won his first laurels in the field of literature, and successive years have but added to his well-earned fame, which his Ancient Irish Minstrelsy will serve to increase, and, we trust, be but a prelude to other works on the same or kindred subjects from his able pen. Since the time when Miss Brooke first drew the attention of the public to the treasures of poetry, and the charms of song, which lay hidden in old Irish manuscripts, or which, handed from father to son, from mother to daughter, were sung around the turf fires in the cottages of Munster, and the bogs of Mayo, or the mountains of Donegal, depending for their preservation on the affections and the memories of the peasants of our country, very little, comparatively, has been done to render those important historical ballads better known to the general reader. Hardiman's Irish Minstrelsy, Clarence Mangan's small Collection of Ballads, Montgomery's Specimens of Early Irish Bards, are almost the only books on the subject; and such a work as the one which Dr. Drummond has given us here, was much required, in order to enable us to form a clear idea of the peculiar beauty of our old Irish poetry. To him were open, not only the fine collection of manuscripts in the Royal Irish Academy, but the principal private libraries of Ireland; and he has well availed himself of his opportunities, bringing to his task the learning of the scholar and the imagination of the poet. War and love are the themes of the thirty lays in this volume, and some of the battle scenes are described with much force and vigour. The poet seems to have been a warrior himself in youth, and participates in the furious joy of an onset, the glory of a victory, the sorrows of a retreat. Like Shelley, he seems to have "learnt in suffering, what he taught in song;" for there is an unequalled pathos in the reflections on a defeat, which convinces us of the strength of the real feelings of the narrator, while nothing can be more accurate or magnificent than the occasional bursts of joy in the excitement of the moment of victory. What can be finer, or more sublime, than some of the passages in the first lay in the volume, that of "Magnus the Great?" That at page 9, for example, or the following from the conclusion of the poem : "Such furious onslaught then we made, Through withered trees that crown A prophetic spirit seems to have inspired the bard in the second Duan of the " Lay of the Battle of Gavra❞—a battle, one of the most memorable and bloody ever fought in Ireland, and one which was long the theme of poets' song; it was fought near the celebrated Hill of Tara, and by it the Fenian power was annihilated. After describing the position of the contending armies, and the proceedings of a council of war, in the first Duan, the second opens with a glowing passagea companion-picture to the one we have already quoted; and then occurs that Ancient Irish Minstrelsy. By WILLIAM HAMILTON DRUMMOND, D.D., M. R.I.A. Dublin Hodges & Smith, Grafton Street. 1852. B |