THE BATTLE OF DUNBAR, The orders of the Scots were to extinguish their matches, to cower under the shocks of corn, and seek some imperfect shelter and sleep; to-morrow night, for most of them, the sleep will be perfect enough, whatever the shelter may be. The order to the English was, to stand to their arms, or to lie within reach of them all night. Some waking soldiers in the English army were holding prayer-meetings too. By moonlight, as the gray heavy morning broke over St. Abb's Head its first faint streak, the first peal of the trumpets ran along the Scottish host. But how unprepared were they then for the loud reply of the English host, and for the thunder of their cannons upon their lines. Terrible was the awakening of the Scottish soldiers; and their matches all out the battle cry rushed along the line "The Covenant!" "The Covenant!"-but it soon became more and more feeble, while yet high and strong, amid the war of the trumpets and the musketry, arose the watchword of Cromwell: "The Lord of Hosts!" 66 The Lord of Hosts!" The battle cry of Luther was in that hour the charging word of the English Puritans. Terrible! but short as terrible! A thick fog had embarrassed their movements. But now over St. Abb's Head the sun suddenly appeared, crimsoning the sea, scattering the fogs away. The Scottish army were seen flying in all directions-flying, and so brief a fight! "They run!" said Cromwell; "I protest they run!" and catching inspiration, doubtless, from the bright shining of the daybeam-" inspired," says Mr. Forster, "by the thought of a triumph so mighty and resistless, his voice was again heard, Now let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered !'” It was a wonderful victory; wonderful even among wonderful triumphs! To hear the shout sent up by the united English army; to see the general make a halt, and sing the 117th Psalm upon the field. Wonderful that that immense army should thus be scattered-10,000 prisoners taken, 3,000 slain, 200 colors, 15,000 stand of arms, and all the artillery !and that Cromwell should not have lost of his army twenty men.-Oliver Cromwell. HOOD, THOMAS, an English poet and humorist, born in London, May 23, 1799; died there, May 3, 1845. After the death of his father, a bookseller, he was in his fifteenth year apprenticed to a woodengraver, and acquired some facility as a comic draughtsman. He wrote verses for periodicals while a mere boy. In 1822 the London Magazine passed into the hands of publishers with whom Hood was acquainted, and who made him their sub-editor. This position brought him into connection with De Quincey, Hazlitt, Lamb, Hartley Coleridge, Proctor, Talfourd, and other contributors to the magazine. In 1824 he married, and in conjunction with his brother-in-law, J. H. Reynolds, published a small volume of Odes and Addresses to Great People. In 1826 he put forth the first series of Whims and Oddities, illustrated by himself. In 1827 he published National Tales, and a volume of Poems, among which were The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, Nero and Leander, and Lycus, the Centaur, all of a serious character, He edited the annual called The Gem for 1829, in which appeared The Dream of Eugene Aram. In 1829 he brought out a second series of Whims and Oddities. In 1830 he began the publication of the Comic Annual, of which eleven volumes appeared, the last being in 1842. In 1831 he wrote Tilney Hall, his only novel. Pecuniary difficulties and impaired health induced him in 1837 to take up his residence on the Continent, where he remained three years, writing Up the Rhine. Returning to England in 1841, he became for two years the editor of the New Monthly Magazine. He then started Hood's Magazine, which he kept up until close upon his death. He was also a contributor to Punch, in which appeared in 1844 The Song of the Shirt and The Bridge of Sighs, both composed upon a sick-bed from which he never rose. Hood's broken health during the three or four later years of his life rendered his pecuniary condition an em barrassed one; but he accepted the situation bravely and uncomplainingly. In 1841 the members of the "Literary Fund" offered him a present of £50, which he declined in the following letter: RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE. The adverse circumstances to which allusion is made are unfortunately too well known from the public announcement in the Athenæum by my precocious executor and officious assignee. But I beg most emphatically to repeat that the disclosures so drawn from me were never intended to bespeak the world's pity or assistance. Sickness is too common to humanity, and poverty too old a companion of my order, to justify such an appeal. The revelation was merely meant to show, when taunted with "my creditors," that I had been striving in humble imitation of an illustrious literary example, to satisfy all claims upon me, and to account for my imperfect suc I am too proud of my profession to grudge it some suffering. I love it still-as Cowper loved England"with all its faults," and I should hardly feel as one of the fraternity, if I had not my portion of the calamities of authors. More fortunate than many, I have succeeded not only in getting into print, but occasionally in getting out of it; and surely a man who has overcome such formidable difficulties may hope and expect to get over the commonplace ones of procuring bread-and-cheese. I am writing seriously, gentlemen, although in a cheerful tone, partly natural and partly intended to relieve you of some of your kindly concern on my account. Indeed, my position at present is an easy one compared with that of some eight months ago, when out of heart, and out of health, helpless, spiritless, sleepless, childless. I have now a home in my own country, and my little ones sit at my hearth. I smile sometimes, and even laugh. For the same benign Providence that gifted me with the power of amusing others has not denied me the ability of entertaining myself. Moreover, to mere worldly losses I profess a cheerful philosophy, which can jest "though china fall," and for graver troubles a Christian faith that consoles and supports me even in walking through something like the valley and the shadow of Death. My embarrassment and bad health are of such standing, that I am become as it were seasoned. For the last six years I have been engaged in the same struggle, without seeking, receiving, or requiring any pecuniary assistance whatever. My pen and pencil procured not only enough for my own wants, but to form a surplus besides a sort of "literary fund" of my own, which at this moment is "doing good by stealth." To provide for similar wants there are the same means and resources -and may it only last long enough! In short, the same crazy vessel for the same foul weather; but I have not yet thought of hanging my ensign upside down. Fortunately, since manhood I have been dependent solely on my own exertions-a condition which has exposed and enured me to vicissitude, whilst it has nourished a pride which will fight on, and has yet some retrenchments to make ere its surrender. Your welcome sympathy is valued in proportion to the very great comfort and encouragement it affords me. Your kind wishes for my better health-my greatest want-I accept and thank you for with my whole heart; but I must not and cannot retain your money. I really do not feel myself to be yet a proper object for your bounty; and should I ever become so, I fear that such a crisis will find me looking elsewhere: to the earth beneath me for final rest, and to the heaven above me for final justice. The respite from his pulmonary disease was only temporary. A year before his death his straitened circumstances were brought to the notice of Sir Robert Peel, then Premier, through whom a pension of £100 a year was awarded to Hood, and afterward continued to his wife. His daughter, in a letter to Mr. S. C. Hall, describes his dying hour: "He called us round him-my mother, my little brother, and myself-to receive his last kiss and blessing, tenderly and fondly given; and gently clasping my mother's hand, he said: 'Remember, Jane. I forgive them all-all!' He lay for some time calmly and quietly, but breathing painfully and slowly; and my mother bending over him, heard him murmur faintly, 'O Lord, say, Arise, take up thy cross and follow me!'" Perhaps the last poem by Hood is the following, composed a few weeks before his death: FAREWELL AND HAIL TO LIFE. Farewell, life! my senses swim, Welcome life! The spirit strives; |