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Title: Historic Boys
       Their Endeavours, Their Achievements, and Their Times


Author: Elbridge Streeter Brooks



Release Date: November 4, 2008  [eBook #27157]

Language: English

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HISTORIC BOYS

Their Endeavours, Their Achievements, and Their Times.

by

E. S. BROOKS.

Illustrated by R. B. Birch and John Schönberg.







[Illustration: MARCUS ANNIUS VERUS,

AFTERWARD THE EMPEROR MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS.

(_From a bust in the Capitoline Museum._)]



[Illustration]

London:
Blackie & Son, 49 & 50 Old Bailey, E.C.
Glasgow, Edinburgh, and Dublin.
1886.




[Illustration]

PREFACE.


The world's historic boys and girls have been many. In every age and clime
may be found notable examples of young people who, even before they
reached manhood or womanhood, have--for good or evil--left their impress
on their time.

From these the author of this volume has selected the careers of a dozen
young fellows of different lands and epochs, who, even had they not lived
out their "teens," could have rightly claimed a place in the world's
annals as Historic Boys. They are such also as show that, from the
earliest ages, manliness and self-reliance have ever been the chief
groundwork of character, and that in this respect the boy of the
nineteenth century in no way differs from his brother of the second or the
ninth. To bravely front danger, difficulty, or death, if need be, for
principle or right, is as commendable and as heroic in the boy brought up
amid the surging and restless life of London to-day, as in the lads who
trod the narrow streets of Jerusalem, or Rouen, of Florence, or old Rome
centuries ago.

These stories of boy life, in the stirring days of old, have been based
upon historic facts and prepared with a due regard to historic and
chronologic accuracy. Nine of the twelve stories have already appeared in
_St. Nicholas_ magazine, but these have been revised and amplified for
their present use, while the remaining three were specially prepared for
this volume.




CONTENTS.

                                                             PAGE

   I.--MARCUS OF ROME: THE BOY MAGISTRATE,                      1

  II.--BRIAN OF MUNSTER: THE BOY CHIEFTAIN,                    25

 III.--OLAF OF NORWAY: THE BOY VIKING,                         44

  IV.--WILLIAM OF NORMANDY: THE BOY KNIGHT,                    65

   V.--BALDWIN OF JERUSALEM: THE BOY CRUSADER,                 83

  VI.--FREDERICK OF HOHENSTAUFEN: THE BOY EMPEROR,            104

 VII.--HARRY OF MONMOUTH: THE BOY GENERAL,                    126

VIII.--GIOVANNI OF FLORENCE: THE BOY CARDINAL,                154

  IX.--IXTLIL' OF TEZCUCO: THE BOY CACIQUE,                   178

   X.--LOUIS OF BOURBON: THE BOY KING,                        196

  XI.--CHARLES OF SWEDEN: THE BOY CONQUEROR,                  218

 XII.--VAN RENSSELAER OF RENSSELAERSWYCK: THE BOY PATROON,    242




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

                                                             PAGE

Marcus Annius Verus, afterwards Emperor, from a bust in
the Capitoline Museum,                             _Frontispiece_

Roman Lictors,                                                  7

Annia, the Sister of Marcus, and her pets,                     20

"The boy chieftain knelt and kissed the hem of the darling
little maiden's purple robe,"                                  36

The Castle of Falaise--Birthplace of William the Conqueror,    70

"'So, hollo, my lord duke,' said Hubert, 'what taketh thee
abroad in this guise so early?'"                               77

"'Thou the king!' he exclaimed; 'thou that Baldwin of
Jerusalem whom men do call the hero of the Jordan!'"           88

Conrad the Emperor quitting the Crusade,                      101

"'Cross at thy peril, Baron Kapparon,' cried Frederick of
Hohenstaufen,"                                                108

Prince Henry picks up the gage of the Percies'
defiance.--"'This shall be my duty,' he said,"                140

Hualpilli the Lord of Tezcuco reveals himself,--"'Now who
shall say me nay?' he asked,"                                 184

"I'll make them rue their words ere this day's sun cross
the dome of the Smoking Hill,"                                190

Cradle of Charles the boy King of Sweden,                     219

Eagle Flag of Sweden,                                         237

"'Suppawn and malck and rulliches, with chocolate and soft
waffles, you know,' said Mistress Margery,"                   252

"The throng of tenants greeted him with a rousing
birthday cheer,"                                              256




[Illustration]

HISTORIC BOYS.




                              I.

              MARCUS OF ROME: THE BOY MAGISTRATE.

     (_Afterward the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus._)

                         [A.D. 137.]


A perfect autumn day. Above, the clear sky of Italy; below, a grassy
plain, sloping gently down from the brown cliffs and ruined ramparts of
old Veii--the city of the ancient Tuscan kings. In the background, under
the shade of the oaks, a dozen waiting attendants; and here, in the open
space before us, three trim and sturdy Roman youths, all flushed with the
exercise of a royal game of ball. Come, boys and girls of to-day, go back
with me seventeen and a half centuries, and join the dozen lookers-on as
they follow this three-cornered game of ball. They call it the _trigon_.
It is a favorite ball-game with the Roman youth, in which the three
players, standing as if on a right-angled triangle, pitch and catch the
ball, or _pila_, at long distances and with the left hand only. It is not
so easy as you may think. Try it some time and see for yourself.

"This way--toss it this way, Aufidius; our good Sejus will need more
lessons from old Trimalchio, the gladiator, ere he outranks us at
_trigon_."

And with a quick but guarded dash of the left hand the speaker caught the
ball as it came spinning toward him, and with as vigorous a "left-hander"
sent it flying across to young Sejus.

"Faith, my Marcus," said Sejus, as he caught the ball with difficulty,
"the gallop from Lorium has made me somewhat stiff of joint, and I pitch
and catch but poorly. Keep the _pila_ flying, and I may grow more elastic,
though just now I feel much like our last text from Epictetus, that the
good Rusticus gave us yesterday--'a little soul bearing about a corpse.'"

"What then! Art as stiff as that, old Sejus?" gayly shouted Aufidius. "Ho!
brace thee up, man," he cried, as he sent the ball whirling across to
Marcus; "brace thee up, and use rather the words of our wise young Stoic
here--'Be like the promontory against which the waves continually break,
but it stands firm and tames the fury of the waters around it.'"

"'T is well applied, Aufidius. But--said I all that?" Marcus inquired.

"Ay, so didst thou, my Marcus. 'T is all down on my tablets." And with
merry talk the game went on.

But soon old Ballio, the _ordinarius_, or upper servant, left the oak
shade and said to Marcus: "Come, my master; the water-glass shows that we
must soon ride on if we mean to reach Rome by dinner-time."

So the game was broken off, and, after a few nibbles at the cakes and
sweetmeats which one of the slaves carried to "stay the stomachs" of the
travellers, the call "To horse!" was given, and the party moved on toward
the city. The spirits of the lads ran high; and though the one called
Marcus had a sedate and quiet look, he was roused into healthy and hearty
boyishness as, over the Etruscan plains, they galloped on to Rome.

They had been riding, perhaps, a short half hour, when they saw, coming
down a cross-road that entered the highway just beyond them, a large flock
of sheep returning from their summer pasturage on the hills, in charge of
three shepherds and their families. The game and the gallop had made the
boys ripe for mischief; for, though close and patient students, they were
in their hours of sport as ready for a frolic as are any schoolboys of
to-day.

The shepherds, seeing a party of hard riders coming toward them, looked at
their sheep anxiously and eyed the strangers suspiciously. For
sheep-stealing was of common occurrence in those days, and, when changing
pastures, the shepherds were kept constantly on the watch.

The quick eye of Aufidius marked the suspicions of the shepherds.

"Why, Marcus," he exclaimed, "yonder fellows surely take us for
highwaymen."

"Highwaymen, indeed!" said Sejus, indignantly. "Dost think the knaves
could mistake the noble Marcus Verus for a cowardly sheep-stealer."

"And why not," said Marcus, laughingly. "Man looks at man but as his
reason bids him. If shepherds look but for sheep-stealers, to them, at
first, all men are sheep-stealers. Come," he added, gayly, "let us not
disappoint them. What did our teacher Rusticus tell us but yesterday:
'That which is a hinderance is made a furtherance to an act, and that
which is an obstacle on the road helps us on the road.' Shall we not put
his text to the test? Behold our obstacle on the road! Let us ride down
the sheep!"

The spirit of mischief is contagious. Down the highway dashed the whole
party, following the lead of Marcus and his cry of "Forward, friends!"
while the now terrified shepherds turned their huddling sheep around, and
with many cries and much belaboring struggled back to the cross-road to
escape the pretended robbers. But the swift horses soon overtook the
slow-footed shepherds, and the laughing riders, with uplifted weapons and
shouts of seeming victory, were quickly at the heels of the flock. Then
came a change. The shepherds, finding that they could not outrun their
pursuers, stopped, wheeled around, and stood on the defensive, laying
valiantly about them with crook and staff.

"'Go on and increase in valor, O boy! this is the path to immortality,'"
shouted the nimble Aufidius, and with this quotation from Virgil, he
swooped down and caught up a struggling lamb.

"What says your philosophy now, O Marcus?" said Sejus as, rather
ruefully, he rubbed an aching shin, sore from the ringing thwack of a
shepherd's crook.

Marcus dodged a similar blow and replied "That nothing happens to any man,
O Sejus, which he is not fitted by nature to bear. But I have had enough.
Let us go our way in peace."

And turning from the fray, the whole party rode rather ingloriously from
the field of defeat, while the victors vowed a lamb to Pales, the special
patroness of shepherds, for their deliverance from "so blood-thirsty" a
band of robbers.

So, flushed and merry over their adventure, the three lads rode on to
Rome; but, ere they came in sight of the yellow Tiber, a fleet Numidian
slave came running toward them, straight and swift as an arrow, right in
the middle of the highway. Marcus recognized him as one of the runners of
his uncle, the proconsul Titus Antoninus, and wondered as to his mission.
The Numidian stopped short at sight of the party, and, saluting Marcus,
handed him a small scroll. The boy unrolled it, and at once his face
became grave.

"For me; this for me?" he said, and, in seeming surprise, laid his hand
upon the arm of his friend Aufidius. Then, as if remembering that he was a
Stoic, whose desire was to show neither surprise, pleasure, nor pain, let
what might happen, he read the scroll carefully, placed it in his mantle,
and said, half aloud: "How ridiculous is he who is surprised at any thing
which happens in life!"

"What is it that so disturbs you, O Marcus?" Aufidius asked.

"Friends," said the lad, "this scroll from my uncle Antoninus tells me
that I am named by the Emperor's council as prefect[A] of the city while
the consuls and magistrates are at the Latin Games."

"Hail to thee, Prefect! hail! hail! hail!" cried Aufidius and Sejus, while
the whole company joined in a respectful salute.

"Would it were some one more worthy than I, Aufidius," said Marcus,
solemnly.

"Nay, it is rightly decreed, my Marcus," protested his friend, proudly.
"Did not Hadrian, the Emperor, himself say of thee: '_Non Verus, sed
Verissimus!_'[B] and who but thee, Marcus Verissimus--Marcus the most
true--should be the governor of Rome?"

"But think of it, friends! I am but a boy after all. Who can respect a
prefect of sixteen?" still queried the modest Marcus.

Sejus at once dipped into history.

"And why not, O Marcus?" he asked. "Was not Tiberius Cæsar a public orator
at nine, and Augustus a master of the horse at seventeen? Was not Titus a
quæstor[C] before he was eighteen, and the great Julius himself a priest
of Jupiter at fourteen? And why, then, should not Marcus Verus, in whose
veins runs the blood of the ancient kings, rightly be prefect of the city
at sixteen?"

"Thou art a good pleader, my Sejus," Marcus said pleasantly. "Since, then,
I must be prefect, may I be a just one, and take for my motto the text of
the good Rusticus: 'If it is not right, do not do it; if it is not true,
do not say it.' So, forward, my good friends! The lictors await me at the
city gate."

So they pressed forward and, with more decorum, rode along the Via Cassia
and across the Milvian Bridge to the broader Via Lata and the city gate.
Here an escort of six lictors with their rods of office welcomed Marcus,
and, thus accompanied, the young magistrate passed down the Via Lata--the
street now known as "the Corso," the great thoroughfare of modern Rome--to
the palace of his uncle Antoninus, near the Coelian Gate.

[Illustration: Lictors.]

"Hail, Prefect!" came the welcome of the noble uncle (one of the grand
characters of Roman history). "And how fare the hens of Lorium?" For the
good proconsul, so soon to be hailed as Cæsar and Emperor, loved the
country pleasures and country cares of his farm at Lorium more than all
the sculptured magnificence of the imperial city.

"The hens are well conditioned, O Antoninus," answered the boy, simply.

"But what said I?" his uncle exclaimed gayly. "What cares a prefect of
Rome for the scratching hens of Lorium? As for me, most noble Prefect, I
am but a man from whom neither power nor philosophy can take my natural
affections"; and, as the parrot swinging over the door-way croaked out his
"_Salve!_" (Welcome!), arm-in-arm uncle and nephew entered the palace.

Marcus Annius Verus was in all respects a model boy. Not the namby-pamby
model that all human boys detest, but a right-minded, right-mannered,
healthy, wealthy, and wise young Roman of the second century of the
Christian era. At that time (for the world was not yet Christianized)
there flourished a race of teachers and philosophers known as Stoics--wise
old pagans, who held that the perfect man must be free from passion,
unmoved by either joy or grief, taking every thing just as it came, with
supreme and utter indifference. A hard rule that, but this lad's teachers
had been mainly of the "School of the Stoics," as it was called, and their
wise sayings had made so deep an impression on the little Marcus that,
when only twelve years old, he set up for a full-fledged Stoic. He put on
the coarse mantle that was the peculiar dress of the sect, practised all
their severe rules of self-denial, and even slept on the hard floor or
the bare ground, denying himself the comfort of a bed, until his good
mother, who knew what was best for little fellows, even though they were
Stoics, persuaded him to compromise on a quilt. He loved exercise and
manly sport; but he was above all a wonderful student--too much of a
student, in fact; for, as the old record states, "his excess in study was
the only fault of his youth." And yet he loved a frolic, as the adventure
with the shepherds proves.

Of the best patrician blood of old Rome; the relative and favorite of the
great Emperor Hadrian; a splendid scholar, a capital gymnast, a true
friend, a modest and unassuming lad; he was trying, even at sixteen, to
make the best of himself, squaring all his actions by the rule that he, in
after years, put into words: "I do my duty; other things trouble me not."
Is not this young pagan of seventeen centuries back worthy to be held up
as a model boy? Manly boys, with good principles, good manners, and good
actions, are young gentlemen always, whenever and wherever they may live;
and quickly enough, as did young Marcus of Rome, they find their right
place in the regard and affections of the people about them.

Well, the days of waiting have passed. The great festival to Jove, the
_Feriæ Latinæ_, has drawn all the high magistrates to Mount Albanus, and
in their stead, as prefect of the city, rules the boy Marcus. In one of
the _basilicæ_, or law courts of the great Forum, he sits invested with
the toga of office, the ring and the purple badge; and, while twelve
sturdy lictors guard his curule chair, he listens to the cases presented
to him and makes many wise decisions--"in which honor," says the old
record, "he acquitted himself to the general approbation." It was here no
doubt that he learned the wisdom of the words he wrote in after life: "Do
not have such an opinion of things as he who does the wrong, or such as he
wishes thee to have, but look at them as they are in truth."

"Most noble Prefect," said one of the court messengers, or _accensi_, as
they were called, "there waits, without, one Lydus the herdsman, demanding
justice."

"Bid him enter," said Marcus; and there came into the _basilica_ one whose
unexpected appearance brought consternation to Aufidius and Sejus, as they
waited in the court, and caused even the calm face of Marcus to flush with
surprise. Lydus the herdsman was none other than their old acquaintance,
the shepherd of the Etruscan highway!

"Most noble Prefect," said the shepherd, with a low salutation, "I am a
free herdsman of Lake Sabatinus, and I ask for justice against a band of
terrible highwaymen who lurk on the Via Cassia, near to old Veii. Only
three days since, did these lawless fellows beset me and my companions,
with our flocks, on the highway, and cruelly rob and maltreat us. I pray
thee, let the _cohortes vigilum_[D] search out and punish these robbers;
and let me, too, be fully satisfied for the sheep they did force from
me."

"Not so fast, man," said Marcus, as the shepherd concluded his glib
recital. "Couldst thou identify these knaves, if once they were
apprehended?"

"Ay, that could I, noble Prefect," replied the shepherd, boldly. "They
were led on by three as villainous rascals as go unhung, and these had
with them a crowd of riotous followers."

"Ha! is it so?" said Marcus. "Aufidius! Sejus! I pray you, step this way."
His two friends, in some wonder as to his intention, approached the
tribunal; and Marcus, stepping down from his curule chair, placed himself
between them. "Three villainous rascals, thou didst say. Were they aught
like us, think'st thou?"

"Like you? O noble young Prefect!" began the shepherd, protestingly. But
when, at a word from Marcus, the three lads drew back their arms as if to
brandish their weapons, and shouted their cry of attack, the mouth of
Lydus stood wide open in amazement, his cropped head fairly bristled with
fright, and, with a hasty exclamation, he turned on his heel, and fled
from the _basilica_.

"Ho there, bring him back!" Marcus commanded; and guarded by two lictors,
Lydus was dragged reluctantly back into the presence of the young prefect.

"So, my shepherd," said Marcus, "thou hast recognized thy villainous
rascals. Surely, though, thy fear was larger than thine eyeballs; for thou
didst multiply both the followers and the harm done to thee. Thou hast
asked for justice, and justice thou shalt have! Forasmuch as I and my
companions did frighten thee, though but in sport, it is wise to do well
what doth seem but just. I, then, as prefect of the city, do fine Marcus
Annius Verus, Aufidius Victorianus, and Sejus Fruscianus, each, one
hundred _sestertii_ (about twenty shillings), for interfering with
travellers on the public highway; and I do command the lictors to mark the
offenders unless they do straightway pay the fine here laid upon them."

Aufidius and Sejus looked troubled. They had barely a hundred _sestertii_
between them; but Marcus drew forth an amount equal to the three fines,
and, handing the money to an _accensus_, bade him pay the shepherd. With
many a bow, Lydus accepted the money, and with the words, "O noble young
Prefect! O wise beyond thy years!" he would have withdrawn again.

"Hold!" said Marcus, ascending the tribunal, "hear the rest! Because thou
hast placed a false charge before this tribunal, and hast sought to profit
by thy lying tongue, I, the Prefect, do command that thou dost pay over to
the _scriba_ (clerk of the court) the sum of three hundred _sestertii_, to
be devoted to the service of the poor; and that thou dost wear the wooden
collar until thy fine is paid."

Very soberly and ruefully, Lydus paid over as the price of his big stories
exactly the sum which he had received from the _scriba_, and departed from
the _basilica_ of the boy prefect, if not a poorer, at least a sadder and
a wiser man.

The days of Marcus' magistracy were soon over, and when the great festival
of Jove was ended, and the magistrates had returned to the city, the lad
gave up the curule chair and the dress and duties of his office, and
retired to his mother's house, bearing with him the thanks of the
magistrates, the approval of the Emperor, and the applause of the people.

The villa of the matron Domitia Lucilla, the mother of Marcus, stood
embowered in delightful gardens on the Coelian Hill, the most easterly
of the famous Seven Hills of Rome. In an age of splendor, when grand
palaces lined the streets and covered the hill-slopes of the imperial
city, when fortunes were spent upon baths and gardens, or wasted on a gala
dress, or on a single meal, this pleasant house was conducted upon a plan
that suited the home ways of the mother and the quiet tastes of the son.
Let us enter the spacious vestibule. Here in the door-way, or _ostium_, we
stop to note the "_Salve!_" (Welcome!) wrought in mosaic on the marble
floor, and then pass into the _atrium_, or great living-room of the house,
where the female slaves are spinning deftly, and every thing tells of
order and a busy life. Now, let us pass on to the spacious court-yard, in
the very heart of the house. In the unroofed centre a beautiful fountain
shoots its jets of cooling spray from a marble cistern of clear water.

And here, by the shining fountain, in the central court, stand two
persons--Marcus and his mother. The lad has laid aside his _toga_, or
outside mantle, and his close-fitting, short-sleeved tunic, scarcely
reaching to his knees, shows a well-knit frame and a healthy, sun-browned
skin. His mother, dressed in the tunic and long white _stola_, or outer
robe, is of matronly presence and pleasant face. And, as they talk
together in low and earnest tones, they watch with loving eyes, from the
cool shadows of the high area walls, the motions of the dark-eyed little
Annia, a winsome Roman maiden of thirteen, as, perched upon a cage of pet
pigeons, she gleefully teases with a swaying peacock plume now the
fluttering pigeons and now the wary-eyed Dido, her favorite cat.

"But there is such a thing as too much self-denial, my Marcus," said the
mother in answer to some remark of the lad.

"Nay, this is not self-denial, my mother; it is simple justice," replied
the boy. "Are not Annia and I children of the same father and mother? Is
it just that I should receive all the benefit of our family wealth, and
that she should be dependent on my bounty?"

"Divide then thy father's estate, my son. Let Annia and thyself share
alike, but give it not all to thy sister," his mother suggested.

"'Receive wealth without arrogance and be ready to let it go,' is what the
Stoic Commodus hath taught me," the boy replied. "To whom we love much we
should be ready to give much. Is it not so, my mother?"

"So I believe, my son," the matron answered.

"And if I seek to act justly in this matter, shall I not follow thy
counsels, my mother?" Marcus continued; "for thou hast said, 'No longer
talk about the kind of a man a good man ought to be, but be such.'"

"Ah, Marcus," the pleased mother exclaimed, "thou wilt be a happy man,
too, if thou canst go ever by the right way, and think and act in the
right way, as now. Thou art a good youth."

"And what is goodness, mother," argued the young philosopher, "but the
desire to do justice and to practise it, and in this to let desire end?
Let me, then, as I desire, give all my father's estate to my sister Annia.
My grandfather's is sufficient for my needs. So shall Annia have her fair
marriage portion, and we, my mother, shall all be satisfied."

And now, his sister Annia, wearying of her play with the pigeons, dropped
her peacock plume and ran merrily toward her brother.

"O Marcus," she cried, "'t will soon be time for the bath. Do come and
toss the _pila_ with me;--that is," she added, with mock reverence, "if so
grand a person as the prefect of Rome can play at ball!"

"And why not, my Annia," asked her mother, proudly; "even the world-ruling
Julius loved his game of ball."

"Ah, but our Marcus is greater than the great Cæsar. Is he not, mother?"
Annia asked, teasingly.

"Aye, that he is," the mother answered, feelingly; "for, know that he has
this day given up to thee, his sister, one half of his heritage, and
more--unwise and improvident youth!" she added, fondly.

"So let it end, mother," the boy said, as the pretty Annia sprang to him
with a caress. "Come, Annia, let us see who can toss the _pila_ best--a
woman of property, such as thou, or the prefect of three days." And as
hand in hand the brother and sister passed cheerily through the pillared
portico, the mother looked after them with a happy heart and said, as did
that earlier noble Roman matron of whom history tells us: "_These_ are my
jewels!"

[Illustration: ANNIA, THE SISTER OF MARCUS, AND HER PETS.]

The days passed. Winter grew to spring. The ides of March have come. And
now it is one of the spring holidays of Rome, the fourteenth of March in
the year 138--the _Equiria_, or festival of Mars. Rome is astir early, and
every street of the great city is thronged with citizens and strangers,
slaves and soldiers, all hurrying toward the great pleasure-ground of
Rome--the Circus Maximus. Through every portal the crowds press into the
vast building, filling its circular seats, anxious for the spectacle. For
the magistrate of the games for this day, it is said, is to be the young
Marcus Annius, he who was prefect of the city during the last Latin Games;
and, more than this, the festival is to close with a grand _venatio_--a
wild-beast hunt!

There is a stir of expectation; a burst of trumpets from the Capitol; and
all along the Sacred Street and through the crowded Forum goes up the
shout, "Here they come!" With the flutes playing merrily, with swaying
standards and sacred statues gleaming in silver and gold, with proud young
cadets on horse and on foot, with priests in their robes and guards with
crested helms, with strange and marvellous beasts led by burly keepers,
with a long string of skilled performers, restless horses, and gleaming
chariots, through the Forum and down the Sacred Street winds the long
procession, led by the boy magistrate, Marcus of Rome, the favorite of the
Emperor. A golden chaplet, wrought in crusted leaves, circles his head; a
purple _toga_ drapes his trim, young figure; while the flutes and trumpets
play their loudest before him, and the stout guards march at the heels of
his bright-bay pony. So into the great circus passes the long procession,
and as it files into the arena, two hundred thousand excited
people--think, boys, of a circus-tent that holds two hundred thousand
people!--rise to their feet and welcome it with hearty hand-clapping. The
trumpets sound the prelude, the young magistrate (standing in his
_suggestus_, or state box) flings the _mappa_, or white flag, into the
course as the signal for the start; and, as a ringing shout goes up, four
glittering chariots, rich in their decorations of gold and polished ivory,
and each drawn by four plunging horses, burst from their arched stalls and
dash around the track. Green, blue, red, white--the colors of the drivers
stream from their tunics. Around and around they go. Now one and now
another is ahead. The people strain and cheer, and many a wager is laid as
to the victor. Another shout! The red chariot, turning too sharply, grates
against the _meta_, or short pillar that stands at the upper end of the
track, guarding the low central wall; the horses rear and plunge, the
driver struggles manfully to control them, but all in vain; over goes the
chariot, while the now maddened horses dash wildly on until checked by
mounted attendants and led off to their stalls. "Blue! blue!" "Green!
green!" rise the varying shouts, as the contending chariots still struggle
for the lead. White is far behind. Now comes the seventh or final round.
Blue leads! No, green is ahead! Down the home stretch they go in a
magnificent dash, neck and neck, and then the cheer of victory is heard,
as, with a final spurt the green rider strikes the white cord first and
the race is won!

And there, where the race is fiercest and the excitement most intense,
sits the staid young Marcus, unmoved, unexcited, busy with his ivory
tablets and his own high thoughts! For this wise young Stoic, true to his
accepted philosophy, had mastered even the love of excitement--think of
that, you circus-loving boys! He has left it on record that, even as a
youth, he had learned "to be neither of the green nor of the blue party at
the games in the circus," and while he looked upon such shows as dangerous
and wasteful (for in those days they cost the state immense sums), he
felt, still, that the people enjoyed them, and he said simply: "We cannot
make men as we would have them; we must bear with them as they are and
make the best of them we can." And so it happened that at this splendid
race at which, to please the people, he presided as magistrate, this boy
of sixteen sat probably the only unmoved spectator in that whole vast
amphitheatre.

Now, in the interval between the races, come the athletic sports;
foot-racing and wrestling, rope-dancing and high leaping, quoit-throwing
and javelin matches. One man runs a race with a fleet Cappadocian horse;
another expert rider drives two bare-backed horses twice around the track,
leaping from back to back as the horses dash around. Can you see any very
great difference between the circus performance of A. D. 138 and one of
A. D. 1886?

Among the throng of "artistes" on that far-off March day there came a
bright little fellow of ten or eleven years, a rope-dancer and a favorite
with the crowd. Light and agile, he trips along the slender rope that
stretches high above the arena. Right before the magistrate's box the boy
poises in mid air, and even the thoughtful young director of the games
looks up at the graceful motions of the boy. Hark! a warning shout goes
up; now, another; the poor little rope-dancer, anxious to find favor in
the eyes of the young noble, over-exerts himself, loses his balance on the
dizzy rope, and, toppling over, falls with a cruel thud to the ground, and
lies there before the great state box with a broken neck--dead. Marcus
hears the shout, he sees the falling boy. Vaulting from his canopied box
he leaps down into the arena, and so tender is he of others, Stoic though
he be, that he has the poor rope-dancer's head in his lap even before the
attendants can reach him. But no life remains in that bruised little
body, and, as Marcus tenderly resigns the dead gymnast to the less
sympathetic slaves, he commands that ever after a bed shall be laid
beneath the rope as a protection against such fatal falls. This became the
rule; and, when next you see the safety-net spread beneath the
rope-walkers, the trapeze performers, and those who perform similar
"terrific" feats, remember that its use dates back to the humane order of
Marcus, the boy magistrate, seventeen centuries ago.

But, in those old days, the people had to be amused--whatever happened.
Human life was held too cheaply for a whole festival to be stopped because
a little boy was killed, and so the sports went on. Athletes and gymnasts
did their best to excel; amidst wild excitement the chariots whirled
around and around the course, and then the arena was cleared for the final
act--the wild beast hunt.

The wary keepers raise the stout gratings before the dens and cages, and
the wild animals, freed from their prisons, rush into the great open
space, blink stupidly in the glaring light, and then with roar and growl
echo the shouts of the spectators. Here are great lions from Numidia and
tigers from far Arabia, wolves from the Apennines and bears from Libya,
not caged and half-tamed as we see them now, but wild and fierce, loose in
the arena. Now the hunters swarm in, on horse and on foot,--trained and
supple Thracian gladiators, skilled Gætulian hunters, with archers, and
spearmen, and net-throwers. All around the great arena rages the cruel
fight. Here, a lion stands at bay; there, a tigress crouches for the
spring; a snarling wolf snaps at a keen-eyed Thracian, or a bear with
ungainly trot shambles away from the spear of his persecutor. Eager and
watchful the hunters shoot and thrust, while the vast audience, more
eager, more relentless, more brutal than beast or hunter, applaud and
shout and cheer. But the young magistrate, who had, through all his life,
a marked distaste for such cruel sport, turns from the arena, and, again
taking out his tablets, busies himself with his writing, unmoved by the
contest and carnage before him.

The last hunted beast lies dead in the arena; the last valorous hunter has
been honored with his _palma_, or reward, as victor; the slaves stand
ready with hook and rope to drag off the slaughtered animals; the great
crowd pours out of the vast three-storied building; the shops in the
porticos are noisy with the talk of buyers and sellers; the boy magistrate
and his escort pass through the waiting throng; and the Festival Games are
over. But, ere young Marcus reaches the Forum on his return, a shout goes
up from the people, and, just before the beautiful temple of the Twin
Gods, Castor and Pollux, where the throng is densest, flowers and wreaths
are thrown beneath his pony's feet, and a storm of voices raises the
shout:

"_Ave Imperator! Ave Cæsar!_"

"What means that shout, Aufidius?" he asked his friend, who rode in the
escort. But the only reply Aufidius made was to join his voice with that
of the enthusiastic throng in a second shout; "_Ave Imperator! Auguste,
Dii te servent!_" (Hail, O Emperor! The gods save your majesty!)

Then Marcus knew that the decree of the dying Emperor Hadrian had been
confirmed, and that he, Marcus Annius Verus, the descendant of the ancient
kings, the boy philosopher, the unassuming son of a noble mother, had been
adopted as the son and successor of his uncle Antoninus, who was to reign
after Hadrian's death, and that where he went, through the Forum and up
the Sacred Street, there rode the heir to the greatest throne in the
world, the future Emperor of Rome.

A Stoic still, unmoved, save for the slight flush that tinged his cheek as
he acknowledged the greeting of the happy people, he passed on to his
mother's house, and, in that dear home, amid the green gardens of the
Coelian Hill, he heard her lips speak her congratulations, and bent his
head to receive her kiss of blessing.

"I lose a son, but gain an emperor," she said.

"No, my mother," the boy replied, proudly, "me thou shalt never lose. For,
though I leave this dear home for the palace of the Cæsars, my heart is
still here with that noble mother from whom I learned lessons of piety and
benevolence and simplicity of life, and abstinence from evil deeds and
evil thoughts."

Before five months had passed the great Emperor Hadrian died at Baiæ, in
his hill-shaded palace by the sea, and the wise, country-loving uncle of
Marcus succeeded to the throne as the Emperor Antoninus Pius. During all
his glorious reign of twenty-three years, he had no more devoted admirer,
subject, helper, and friend, than his adopted son and acknowledged
successor, Marcus, who, in the year A. D. 161, ascended the throne of the
Cæsars as the great Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus.

The life of this Roman Marcus was one of unsought honors and titles. At
six, a knight of the Equestrian Order; at eight, one of the priests of
Mars; at twelve, a rigid Stoic; at sixteen, a magistrate of the city; at
seventeen, a quæstor, or revenue officer; at nineteen, a consul and Cæsar;
at forty, an emperor,--he was always clear-headed and clean-hearted,
beloved by his people and honored by all, making this one rule the guide
of all his actions: "Every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man, to
do what thou hast in hand with perfect and simple dignity, with affection
and freedom and justice."

A noble boy; a noble man; preserving, as has been said of him, "in a time
of universal corruption, a nature sweet, pure, self-denying, and
unaffected,"--he teaches us all, boys and men alike, a lesson of real
manliness. Here are two of his precepts, which we are none of us too young
to remember, none of us too old to forget: "The best way of avenging
thyself is not to become like the wrong-doer"; "Let me offer to the gods
the best that is in me; so shall I be a strong man, ripened by age, a
friend of the public good, a Roman, an emperor, a soldier at his post
awaiting the signal of his trumpet, a man ready to quit life without a
fear." The foremost boy of his time, manly, modest, princely, brave, and
true, we can surely find no more fitting representative with which to open
this series of "Historic Boys" than the boy magistrate, Marcus of Rome,
the greatest and best of the Antonines.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[A] _Præfectus urbi_: governor of the city.

[B] Not true, but _most_ true.

[C] An officer of the treasury.

[D] Armed police.




                       [Illustration]

                             II.

            BRIAN OF MUNSTER: THE BOY CHIEFTAIN.

         (_Afterward Brian Boru, King of Ireland._)

                         [A.D. 948.]


Into that picturesque and legend-filled section of Ireland now known as
the County Clare, where over rocks and boulders the Shannon, "noblest of
Irish rivers," rushes down past Killaloe and Castle Connell to Limerick
and the sea, there rode one fair summer morning, many, many years ago, a
young Irish lad. The skirt of his parti-colored _lenn_, or kilt, was
richly embroidered and fringed with gold; his _inar_, or jacket,
close-fitting and silver-trimmed, was open at the throat, displaying the
embroidered _lenn_ and the _torc_, or twisted collar of gold about his
sturdy neck, while a purple scarf, held the jacket at the waist. A
gleaming, golden brooch secured the long plaid _brat_, or shawl, that
dropped from his left shoulder; broad bracelets encircled his bare and
curiously tattooed arms, and from an odd-looking golden spiral at the back
of his head his thick and dark-red hair fell in flowing ringlets upon his
broad shoulders. Raw-hide shoes covered his feet, and his bronze shield
and short war-ax hung conveniently from his saddle of skins. A strong
guard of pikemen and gallowglasses, or heavy-armed footmen, followed at
his pony's heels, and seemed an escort worthy a king's son.

A strong-limbed, cleanly-built lad of fifteen was this sturdy young
horseman, who now rode down to the Ath na Borumma, or Ford of the Tribute,
just above the rapids of the Shannon, near the town of Killaloe. And as he
reined in his pony, he turned and bade his herald, Cogoran, sound the
trumpet-blast that should announce to the Clan of Cas the return, from his
years of fosterage, of the young _flaith_, or chieftain, Brian, the son of
Kennedy, King of Thomond.

But ere the strong-lunged Cogoran could wind his horn, the hearts of all
the company grew numb with fear as across the water the low, clear strains
of a warning-song sounded from the haunted gray-stone,--the mystic rock of
Carrick-lee, that overhung the tumbling rapids:

    "Never yet for fear of foe,
    By the ford of Killaloe,
    Stooped the crests of heroes free--
    Sons of Cas by Carrick-lee.

    "Falls the arm that smites the foe,
    By the ford of Killaloe;
    Chilled the heart that boundeth free,
    By the rock of Carrick-lee.

    "He who knows not fear of foe,
    Fears the ford of Killaloe;
    Fears the voice that chants his dree,
    From the rock of Carrick-lee."

Young Brian was full of the superstition of his day--superstition that
even yet lives amid the simple peasantry of Ireland, and peoples rocks,
and woods, and streams with good and evil spirits, fairies, sprites, and
banshees; and no real, native Irish lad could fail to tremble before the
mysterious song. Sorely troubled, he turned to Cogoran inquiringly, and
that faithful retainer said in a rather shaky voice:

"'T is your warning-song, O noble young chief! 't is the voice of the
banshee of our clan--_A-oib-hinn_, the wraith of Carrick-lee."

Just then from behind the haunted gray-rock a fair young girl appeared,
tripping lightly across the large stepping-stones that furnished the only
means of crossing the ford of Killaloe.

"See--see!" said Cogoran, grasping his young lord's arm; "she comes for
thee. 'T is thy doom, O Master--the fiend of Carrick-lee!"

"So fair a fiend should bring me naught of grief," said young Brian,
stoutly enough, though it must be confessed his heart beat fast and loud.
"O Spirit of the Waters!" he exclaimed; "O banshee of Clan Cas! why thus
early in his life dost thou come to summon the son of Kennedy the King?"

The young girl turned startled eyes upon the group of armed and warlike
men, and grasping the skirt of her white and purple _lenn_, turned as if
to flee,--when Cogoran, with a loud laugh, cried out:

"Now, fool and double fool am I,--fit brother to Sitric the blind, the
black King of Dublin! Why, 't is no banshee, O noble young chief, 't is
but thy foster-sister, Eimer, the daughter of Conor, Eimer the
golden-haired!"

"Nay, is it so? St. Senanus be praised!" said Brian, greatly relieved.
"Cross to us, maiden; cross to us," he said. "Fear nothing; 't is but
Brian, thy foster-brother, returning to his father's home."

The girl swiftly crossed the ford and bowed her golden head in a vassal's
welcome to the young lord.

"Welcome home, O brother," she said. "Even now, my lord, thy father awaits
the sound of thy horn as he sits in the great seat beneath his kingly
shield. And I----"

"And thou, maiden," sad Brian, gayly, "thou must needs lurk behind the
haunted rock of Carrick-lee, to freeze the heart of young Brian at his
home-coming, with thy banshee song."

Eimer of the golden hair laughed a ringing laugh. "Say'st thou so,
brother?" she said. "Does the 'Scourge of the Danes' shrink thus at a
maiden's voice?"

"Who calls me the 'Scourge of the Danes'?" asked Brian.

"So across the border do they say that the maidens of King Callaghan's
court call the boy Brian, the son of Kennedy," the girl made answer.

"Who faces the Danes, my sister, faces no tender foe," said Brian, "and
the court of the King of Cashel is no ladies' hall in these hard-striking
times. But wind thy horn, Cogoran, and cross we the ford to greet the
king, my father."

Loud and clear the herald's call rose above the rush of the rapids, and as
the boy and his followers crossed the ford, the gates of the palace, or
_dun_, of King Kennedy of Thomond were flung open, and the band of
welcomers, headed by Mahon, Brian's eldest brother, rode out to greet the
lad.

Nine hundred years ago the tribe of Cas was one of the most powerful of
the many Irish clans. The whole of Thomond, or North Munster, was under
their sway, and from them, say the old records, "it was never lawful to
levy rent, or tribute, or pledge, or hostage, or fostership fees," so
strong and free were they. When the clans of Munster gathered for battle,
it was the right of the Clan of Cas to lead in the attack, and to guard
the rear when returning from any invasion. It gave kings to the throne of
Munster, and valiant leaders in warfare with the Danes, who, in the tenth
century, poured their hosts into Ireland, conquering and destroying. In
the year 948, in which our sketch opens, the head of this powerful clan
was Cennedigh, or Kennedy, King of Thomond. His son Brian had, in
accordance with an old Irish custom, passed his boyhood in "fosterage" at
the court of Callaghan, King of Cashel, in East Munster. Brought up amid
warlike scenes, where battles with the Danish invaders were of frequent
occurrence, young Brian had now, at fifteen, completed the years of his
fostership, and was a lad of strong and dauntless courage, cool and
clear-headed, and a firm foe of Ireland's scourge--the fierce "Dub-Gaile,"
or "Black Gentiles," as the Danes were called.

The feast of welcome was over. The bards had sung their heroic songs to
the accompaniment of the _cruot_, or harp; the fool had played his pranks,
and the juggler his tricks, and the chief bard, who was expected to be
familiar with "more than seven times fifty stories, great and small," had
given the best from his list; and as they sat thus in the _cuirmtech_, or
great hall, of the long, low-roofed house of hewn oak that scarcely rose
above the stout earthen ramparts that defended it, swift messengers came
bearing news of a great gathering of Danes for the ravaging of Munster,
and the especial plundering of the Clan of Cas.

"Thou hast come in right fitting time, O son!" said Kennedy the King.
"Here is need of strong arms and stout hearts. How say ye, noble lords and
worthy chieftains? Dare we face in fight this, so great a host?"

But as chiefs and counsellors were discussing the king's question,
advising fight or flight as they deemed wisest, young Brian sprung into
the assembly, war-ax in hand.

"What, fathers of Clan Cas," he cried, all aflame with excitement, "will
ye stoop to parley with hard-hearted pirates--ye, who never brooked
injustice or tyranny from any king of all the kings of Erin--ye, who never
yielded even the leveret of a hare in tribute to Leinsterman or Dane? 'T
is for the Clan of Cas to demand tribute,--not to pay it! Summon our
vassals to war. Place me, O King, my father, here at the Ford of the
Tribute and bid me make test of the lessons of my fostership. Know ye not
how the boy champion, Cuchullin of Ulster, held the ford for five long
days against all the hosts of Connaught? What boy hath done, boy may do.
Death can come but once!"

The lad's impetuous words fired the whole assembly, the gillies and
retainers caught up the cry, and, with the wild enthusiasm that has marked
the quick-hearted Irishman from Brian's day to this, "they all," so says
the record, "kissed the ground and gave a terrible shout." Beacon fires
blazed from cairn and hill-top, and from "the four points"--from north and
south and east and west, came the men of Thomond rallying around their
chieftains on the banks of Shannon.

With terrible ferocity the Danish hosts fell upon Ireland. From Dublin to
Cork the coast swarmed with their war-ships and the land echoed the tramp
of their swordmen. Across the fair fields of Meath and Tipperary, "the
smooth-plained grassy land of Erinn," from Shannon to the sea, the kings
and chieftains of Ireland gathered to withstand the shock of the invaders.
Their chief blow was struck at "Broccan's Brake" in the County Meath, and
"on that field," says the old Irish record, "fell the kings and
chieftains, the heirs to the crown, and the royal princes of Erinn." There
fell Kennedy the King and two of his stalwart sons. But at the Ford of the
Tribute, Brian, the boy chieftain, kept his post and hurled back again
and again the Danes of Limerick as they swarmed up the valley of the
Shannon to support their countrymen on the plains of Meath.

The haunted gray-stone of Carrick-lee, from which Brian had heard the song
of the supposed banshee, rose sharp and bold above the rushing waters; and
against it and around it Brian and his followers stood at bay, battling
against the Danish hosts. "Ill-luck was it for the foreigner," says the
record, "when that youth was born--Brian, the son of Kennedy." In the very
midst of the stubborn fight at the ford, and around from a jutting point
of the rock of Carrick-lee, a light shallop came speeding down the rapids.
In the prow stood a female figure, all in white, from the gleaming golden
_lann_, or crescent, that held her flowing veil, to the hem of her
gracefully falling _lenn_, or robe. And above the din of the strife a
clear voice sang:

    "First to face the foreign foe,
    First to strike the battle blow;
    Last to turn from triumph back,
    Last to leave the battle's wrack;
    Clan of Cas shall victors be
    When they fight at Carrick-lee."

It was, of course, only the brave young Eimer of the golden hair bringing
fresh arms in her shallop to Brian and his fighting-men; but as the sun,
bursting through the clouds, flashed full upon the shining war-ax which
she held aloft, the superstitious Danes saw in the floating figure the
"White Lady of the Rapids," the banshee, _A-oib-hinn_, the fairy guardian
of the Clan of Cas. Believing, therefore, that they could not prevail
against her powerful aid, they turned and fled in dismay from the flowing
river and the haunted rock.

But fast upon young Brian's victory came the tearful news of the battle of
Broccan's Brake and the defeat of the Irish kings. Of all the brave lad's
family only his eldest brother Mahon escaped from that fatal field; and
now he reigned in place of Kennedy, his father, as King of Thomond. But
the victorious Danes overran all Southern Ireland, and the brothers Mahon
and Brian found that they could not successfully face in open field the
hosts of their invaders. So these two "stout, able, valiant pillars,"
these two "fierce, lacerating, magnificent heroes," as the brothers are
called in the curious and wordy old Irish record, left their mud-walled
fortress-palace by the Shannon, and with "all their people and all their
chattels" went deep into the forests of Cratloe and the rocky fastnesses
of the County Clare; and there they lived the life of robber chieftains,
harassing and plundering the Danes of Limerick and their recreant Irish
allies, and guarding against frequent surprise and attack. But so
hazardous and unsettled a life was terribly exhausting, and "at length
each party of them became tired of the other," and finally King Mahon made
peace with the Danes of Limerick.

But "Brian the brave" would make no truce with a hated foe. "Tell my
brother," he said, when messengers brought him word of Mahon's treaty,
"that Brian, the son of Kennedy, knows no peace with foreign invaders.
Though all others yield and are silent, yet will I never!"

And with this defiance the boy chieftain and "the young champions of the
tribe of Cas" went deeper into the woods and fastnesses of the County
Clare, and for months kept up a fierce guerilla warfare. The Danish
tyrants knew neither peace nor rest from his swift and sudden attacks.
Much booty of "satins and silken cloths, both scarlet and green, pleasing
jewels and saddles beautiful and foreign" did they lose to this active
young chieftain, and much tribute of cows and hogs and other possessions
did he force from them. So dauntless an outlaw did he become that his name
struck terror from Galway Bay to the banks of Shannon, and from Lough Derg
to the Burren of Clare. "When he inflicted not evil on the foreigners in
the day," the quaint old record asserts, "he was sure to do it in the next
night, and when he did it not in the night he was sure to do it in the
following day."

To many an adventurous boy the free outlaw life of this daring lad of nine
centuries ago may seem alluring. But "life in the greenwood" had little
romance for such old-time outlaws as Brian Boru and Robin Hood and their
imitators. To them it was stern reality, and meant constant struggle and
vigilance. They were outcasts and Ishmaels--"their hands against every man
and every man's hand against them,"--and though the pleasant summer
weather brought many sunshiny days and starlit nights, the cold, damp, and
dismal days took all the poetry out of this roving life, and sodden
forests and relentless foes brought dreary and disheartening hours. Trust
me, boys, this so-called "free and jolly life of the bold outlaw," which
so many story-papers picture, whether it be with Brian Boru in distant
Ireland, nine hundred years ago, or in Sherwood Forest with Robin Hood, or
with some "Buckeye Jim" on our own Montana hill-sides to-day, is not "what
it is cracked up to be." Its attractiveness is found solely in those
untruthful tales that give you only the little that seems to be sweet, but
say nothing of the much that is so very, very harsh and bitter. Month by
month the boy chieftain strove against fearful odds, day by day he saw his
brave band grow less and less, dying under the unpitying swords of the
Danes and the hardships of this wandering life, until of all the
high-spirited and valiant comrades that had followed him into the hills of
Clare only fifteen remained.

One chill April day, as Brian sat alone before the gloomy cave that had
given him a winter shelter in the depths of the forests of Clare, his
quick ear, well trained in wood-craft, caught the sound of a light step in
the thicket. Snatching his ever-ready spear, he stood on guard and
demanded:

"Who is there?"

No answer followed his summons. But as he waited and listened, he heard
the notes of a song, low and gentle, as if for his ear alone:

    "Chieftain of the stainless shield,
      Prince who brooks no tribute fee;
    Ne'er shall he to pagan yield
      Who prevailed at Carrick-lee.
    Rouse thee, arm thee, hark and heed,
    Erin's strength in Erin's need."

"'T is the banshee," was the youth's first thought. "The guardian of our
clan urgeth me to speedier action." And then he called aloud: "Who sings
of triumph to Brian the heavy-hearted?"

"Be no longer Brian the heavy-hearted; be, as thou ever art, Brian the
brave!" came the reply, and through the parting thicket appeared, not the
dreaded vision of _A-oib-hinn_, the banshee, but the fair young face of
his foster-sister, Eimer of the golden hair.

"Better days await thee, Brian, my brother," she said; "Mahon the King
bids thee meet him at Holy Isle. None dared bring his message for fear of
the death-dealing Danes who have circled thee with their earth-lines. But
what dare not I do for so gallant a foster-brother?"

With the courtesy that marked the men of even those savage times, the boy
chieftain knelt and kissed the hem of the daring little maiden's purple
robe.

"And what wishes my brother, the king, O Eimer of the golden hair?" he
said. "Knows he not that Brian has sworn never to bend his neck to the
foreigner?"

"That does he know right well," replied the girl. "But his only words to
me were: 'Bid Brian my brother take heart and keep this tryst with me, and
the sons of Kennedy may still stand, unfettered, kings of Erin.'"

[Illustration: "THE BOY CHIEFTAIN KNELT AND KISSED THE HEM OF THE DARLING
LITTLE MAIDEN'S PURPLE ROBE."]

So Brian kept the tryst; and where, near the southern shores of Lough
Derg, the Holy Isle still lies all strewn with the ruins of the seven
churches that gave it this name, the outlawed young chieftain met the
king. Braving the dangers of Danish capture and death, he had come
unattended to meet his brother.

"Where, O Brian, are thy followers?" King Mahon inquired.

"Save the fifteen faithful men that remain to me in the caves of
Uim-Bloit," said the lad, "the bones of my followers rest on many a field
from the mountains of Connaught to the gates of Limerick; for their
chieftain, O my brother, maketh no truce with the foe."

"Thou art but a boy, O Brian, and like a boy thou dost talk," said the
king, reprovingly. "Thy pride doth make thee imprudent. For what hast thou
gained, since, spite of all, thy followers lie dead!"

"Gained!" exclaimed the young chieftain, impetuously, as he faced Mahon
the King; "I have gained the right to be called true son of the Clan of
Cas--of ancestors who would brook no insult, who would pay no tribute fee
to invaders, who would give no hostage; and as to my trusty liegemen who
have fallen--is it not the inheritance of the Clan of Cas to die for their
honor and their homes?" demanded Brian. "So surely it is no honor in
valorous men, my brother, to abandon without battle or conflict their
father's inheritance to Danes and traitorous kings!"

The unyielding courage of the lad roused the elder brother to action, and,
secretly, but swiftly, he gathered the chiefs of the clan for council in
the _dun_ of King Mahon by the ford of Killaloe. "Freedom for Erin and
death to the Danes!" cried they--"as the voice of one man," says the
record. Again the warning beacons flamed from cairn and hill-top. In the
shadow of the "Rock of Cashel," the royal sun-burst, the banner of the
ancient kings, was flung to the breeze, and clansmen and vassals and
allies rallied beneath its folds to strike one mighty blow for the
redemption of Ireland.

In the county of Tipperary, in the midst of what is called "the golden
valley," this remarkable "Rock of Cashel" looms up three hundred feet
above the surrounding plain, its top, even now, crowned with the ruins of
what were in Brian's day palace and chapel, turret and battlement and
ancient tower. Beneath the rough archway of the triple ramparts at the
foot of the rock, and up the sharp ascent, there rode one day the herald
of Ivar, the Danish King of Limerick. Through the gate-way of the palace
he passed, and striding into the audience-hall, spoke thus to Mahon the
King:

"Hear, now, O King! Ivar, the son of Sitric, King of Limerick and sole
Over-lord of Munster, doth summon thee, his vassal, to give up to him this
fortress of Cashel, to disperse thy followers, to send to him at Limerick,
bounden with chains, the body of Brian the outlaw, and to render unto him
tribute and hostage."

King Mahon glanced proudly out to where upon the ramparts fluttered the
flag of Ireland.

"Say to Ivar, the son of Sitric," he said, "that Mahon, King of Thomond,
spurns his summons, and will pay no tribute for his own inheritance."

"And say thou too," cried his impetuous younger brother, "that Brian, the
son of Kennedy, and all the men of the Clan of Cas prefer destruction and
death rather than submit to the tyranny of pirates and the over-lordship
of foreigners and Danes!"

"Hear then, Mahon, King of Thomond; hear thou and all thy clan, the words
of Ivar, the son of Sitric," came the stern warning of the Danish herald.
"Thus says the king: I will gather against thee a greater muster and
hosting, and I will so ravage and destroy the Clan of Cas that there shall
not be left of ye one man to guide a horse's head across a ford, an abbot
or a venerable person within the four corners of Munster who shall not be
utterly destroyed or brought under subjection to me, Ivar the king!"

"Tell thy master," said Mahon the King, unmoved by this terrible threat,
"that the Clan of Cas defy his boastful words, and will show in battle
which are lords of Erin."

"And tell thy master," said his brother, "that Brian the outlaw will come
to Limerick not bound with chains, but to bind them."

The Danish power was strong and terrible, but the action of the two
valiant brothers was swift and their example was inspiriting. Clansmen and
vassals flocked to their standard, and a great and warlike host gathered
in old Cashel. Brian led them to battle, and near a willow forest, close
to the present town of Tipperary, the opposing forces met in a battle that
lasted "from sunrise to mid-day." And the sun-burst banner of the ancient
kings streamed victorious over a conquered field, and the hosts of the
Danes were routed. From Tipperary to Limerick, Brian pursued the flying
enemy; and capturing Limerick, took therefrom great stores of booty and
many prisoners; and the queer old Irish record thus briefly tells the
terrible story of young Brian's vengeance--a story that fittingly shows us
the cruel customs of those savage days of old, days now fortunately gone
for ever: "The fort and the good town he reduced to a cloud of smoke and
to red fire afterward. The whole of the captives were collected on the
hills of Saingel, and every one that was fit for war was killed, and every
one that was fit for a slave was enslaved."

And from the day of Limerick's downfall the star of Ireland brightened, as
in battle after battle, Brian Boru,[E] the wise and valiant young
chieftain, was hailed as victor and deliverer from sea to sea.

But now he is a lad no longer, and the story of the boy chieftain gives
place to the record of the valiant soldier and the able king. For upon the
death of his brother Mahon, in the year 976, Brian became King of
Thomond, of Munster, and Cashel. Then uniting the rival clans and tribes
under his sovereign rule, he was crowned at Tara, in the year 1000,
"Ard-righ," or "High King of Erinn." The reign of this great king of
Ireland was peaceful and prosperous. He built churches, fostered learning,
made bridges and causeways, and constructed a road around the coast of the
whole kingdom. In his palace at Kincora, near the old _dun_ of his father,
King Kennedy, by the ford of Killaloe, he "dispensed a royal hospitality,
administered a rigid and impartial justice, and so continued in prosperity
for the rest of his reign, having been at his death thirty-eight years
King of Munster and fifteen years Sovereign of all Ireland."

So the boy chieftain came to be King of Ireland, and the story of his
death is as full of interest and glory as the record of his boyish deeds.
For Brian grew to be an old, old man, and the Danes and some of the
restless Irishmen whom he had brought under his sway revolted against his
rule. So the "grand old king of ninety years" led his armies out from the
tree-shaded ramparts of royal Kincora, and meeting the enemy on the plains
of Dublin, fought on Friday, April 23, 1014, near the little fishing
station of Clontarf, the "last and most terrible struggle of Northman and
Gael, of Pagan and Christian, on Irish soil." It was a bloody day for
Ireland; but though the aged king and four of his six sons, with eleven
thousand of his followers were slain on that fatal field, the Danes were
utterly routed, and the battle of Clontarf freed Ireland forever from
their invasions and tyrannies.

    "Remember the glories of Brian the brave,
      Though the days of the hero are o'er;
    Though lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,
      He returns to Kincora no more!
    That star of the field, which so often has poured
      Its beam on the battle, is set;
    But enough of its glory remains on each sword
      To light us to victory yet!"

So sings Thomas Moore in one of his inspiring "Irish Melodies"; and when
hereafter you hear or read of Brian Boru, remember him not only as
Ireland's greatest king, but also as the dauntless lad who held the ford
at Killaloe, and preferred the privations of an outlaw's life to a
disgraceful peace; and who, dying an old, old man, still kept his love of
country undiminished, and sealed with his blood the liberty of his native
land, declaring, as the poet Moore puts it in his glowing verse:

    "No, Freedom! whose smiles we shall never resign,
      Go tell our invaders, the Danes,
    That 't is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrines
      Than to sleep but a moment in chains!"

Kincora, the royal home of Brian the King, is now so lost in ruins that
travellers cannot tell the throne-room from the cow-house; Cashel's high
rock is deserted and dismantled; and on the hill of Tara the palace of the
ancient Irish kings is but a grass-grown mound. But, though palaces
crumble and nations decay, the remembrance of truth and valor and glowing
patriotism lives on forever, and to the boys and girls of this more
favored time the stories of noble lives and glorious deeds come as a
priceless legacy, bidding them be stout-hearted in the face of danger and
strong-souled in spite of temptation. So to every lover of daring deeds
and loyal lives time cannot dim the shining record of the great King of
Ireland, Brian Boru--Brian of Munster: the Boy Chieftain.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[E] _Boru_, or _Borumha_, the tribute; therefore "Brian of the Tribute."




                       [Illustration]

                            III.

               OLAF OF NORWAY: THE BOY VIKING.

     (_Afterward King Olaf II., of Norway--"St. Olaf."_)

                        [A.D. 1010.]


Old Rane, the helmsman, whose fierce mustaches and shaggy shoulder-mantle
made him look like some grim old northern wolf, held high in air the great
bison-horn filled with foaming mead.

"Skoal to the Viking! Hael; was-hael!"[F] rose his exultant shout. From a
hundred sturdy throats the cry re-echoed till the vaulted hall of the
Swedemen's conquered castle rang again.

"Skoal to the Viking! Hael; was-hael!" and in the centre of that throng of
mail-clad men and tossing spears, standing firm and fearless upon the
interlocked and uplifted shields of three stalwart fighting-men, a
stout-limbed lad of scarce thirteen, with flowing light-brown hair and
flushed and eager face, brandished his sword vigorously in acknowledgment
of the jubilant shout that rang once again through the dark and
smoke-stained hall, "Was-hael to the sea-wolf's son! Skoal to Olaf the
King!"

Then above of the din and clash of shouting and of steel rose the voice of
Sigvat the saga-man, or song-man of the young viking, singing loud and
sturdily:

    "Olaf the King is on his cruise,
        His blue steel staining,
        Rich booty gaining,
    And all men trembling at the news.
    Up, war-wolf's brood! our young fir's name
    O'ertops the forest trees in fame,
    Our stout young Olaf knows no fear.
        Though fell the fray,
        He's blithe and gay,
    And warriors fall beneath his spear.
    Who can't defend the wealth they have
    Must die or share with the rover brave!"

A fierce and warlike song, boys and girls, to raise in honor of so young a
lad. But those were fierce and warlike days when men were stirred by the
recital of bold and daring deeds--those old, old days, eight hundred years
ago, when Olaf, the boy viking, the pirate chief of a hundred mail-clad
men, stood upon the uplifted shields of his exultant fighting-men in the
grim and smoke-stained hall of the gray castle of captured Sigtun, oldest
of Swedish cities.

Take your atlas, and, turning to the map of Sweden, place your finger on
the city of Stockholm. Do you notice that it lies at the easterly end of a
large lake? That is the Maelar, beautiful with winding channels,
pine-covered islands, and rocky shores. It is peaceful and quiet now, and
palace and villa and quaint northern farm-house stand unmolested on its
picturesque borders. But channels, and islands, and rocky shores have
echoed and re-echoed with the war-shouts of many a fierce sea-rover since
those far-off days when Olaf, the boy viking, and his Norwegian ships of
war plowed through the narrow sea-strait, and ravaged the fair shores of
the Maelar with fire and sword.

Stockholm, the "Venice of the North," as it is called, was not then in
existence; and little now remains of old Sigtun save ruined walls. But
travellers may still see the three tall towers of the ancient town, and
the great stone-heap, alongside which young Olaf drew his ships of war,
and over which his pirate crew swarmed into Sigtun town, and planted the
victorious banner of the golden serpent upon the conquered walls.

For this fair young Olaf came of hardy Norse stock. His father, Harald
Graenske, or "Greymantle," one of the tributary kings of Norway, had
fallen a victim to the tortures of the haughty Swedish queen; and now his
son, a boy of scarce thirteen, but a warrior already by training and from
desire, came to avenge his father's death. His mother, the Queen Aasta,
equipped a large dragon-ship or war-vessel for her adventurous son, and
with the lad, as helmsman and guardian, was sent old Rane, whom men called
"the far-travelled," because he had sailed westward as far as England and
southward to Nörvasund (by which name men then knew the Straits of
Gibraltar). Boys toughened quickly in those stirring days, and this lad,
who, because he was commander of a dragon-ship, was called Olaf the
King--though he had no land to rule,--was of viking blood, and quickly
learned the trade of war. Already, among the rocks and sands of Sodermann,
upon the Swedish coast, he had won his first battle over a superior force
of Danish war-vessels.

Other ships of war joined him; the name of Olaf the Brave was given him by
right of daring deeds, and "Skoal to the Viking!" rang from the sturdy
throats of his followers as the little sea-king of thirteen was lifted in
triumph upon the battle-dented shields.

But a swift runner bursts into the gray hall of Sigtun. "To your ships, O
King; to your ships!" he cries. "Olaf, the Swedish king, men say, is
planting a forest of spears along the sea-strait, and, except ye push out
now, ye may not get out at all!"

The nimble young chief sprang from the upraised shields.

"To your ships, vikings, all!" he shouted. "Show your teeth, war-wolves!
Up with the serpent banner, and death to Olaf the Swede!"

Straight across the lake to the sea-strait, near where Stockholm now
stands, the vikings sailed, young Olaf's dragon-ship taking the lead. But
all too late; for, across the narrow strait, the Swedish king had
stretched great chains, and had filled up the channel with stocks and
stones. Olaf and his Norsemen were fairly trapped; the Swedish spears
waved in wild and joyful triumph, and King Olaf, the Swede, said with grim
satisfaction to his lords: "See, jarls and lendermen, the Fat Boy is caged
at last!" For he never spoke of his stout young Norwegian namesake and
rival save as "Olaf Tjocke,"--Olaf the Thick, or Fat.

The boy viking stood by his dragon-headed prow, and shook his clenched
fist at the obstructed sea-strait and the Swedish spears.

"Shall we, then, land, Rane, and fight our way through?" he asked.

"Fight our way through?" said old Rane, who had been in many another tight
place in his years of sea-roving, but none so close as this. "Why, King,
they be a hundred to one!"

"And if they be, what then?" said impetuous Olaf. "Better fall as a viking
breaking Swedish spears, than die a straw-death[G] as Olaf of Sweden's
bonder-man. May we not cut through these chains?"

"As soon think of cutting the solid earth, King," said the helmsman.

"So; and why not, then?" young Olaf exclaimed, struck with a brilliant
idea. "Ho, Sigvat," he said, turning to his saga-man, "what was that
lowland under the cliff where thou didst say the pagan Upsal king was
hanged in his own golden chains by his Finnish queen?"

"'T is called the fen of Agnefit, O King," replied the saga-man, pointing
toward where it lay.

"Why, then, my Rane," asked the boy, "may we not cut our way out through
that lowland fen to the open sea and liberty?"

"'T is Odin's own device," cried the delighted helmsman, catching at his
young chief's great plan. "Ho, war-wolves all, bite ye your way through
the Swedish fens! Up with the serpent banner, and farewell to Olaf the
Swede!"

It seemed a narrow chance, but it was the only one. Fortune favored the
boy viking. Heavy rains had flooded the lands that slope down to the
Maelar Lake; in the dead of night the Swedish captives and stout Norse
oarsmen were set to work, and before daybreak an open cut had been made in
the lowlands beneath Agnefit, or the "Rock of King Agne," where, by the
town of Södertelje, the vikings' canal is still shown to travellers; the
waters of the lake came rushing through the cut, and an open sea-strait
waited young Olaf's fleet.

"Unship the rudder; hoist the sail aloft!" commanded Rane the helmsman
"Sound war-horns all! Skoal to the Viking; skoal to the wise young Olaf!"

A strong breeze blew astern; the Norse rowers steered the rudderless ships
with their long oars, and with a mighty rush, through the new canal and
over all the shallows, out into the great Norrström, or North Stream, as
the Baltic Sea was called, the fleet passed in safety while the loud
war-horns blew the notes of triumph.

So the boy viking escaped from the trap of his Swedish foes, and, standing
by the "grim gaping dragon's head" that crested the prow of his war-ship,
he bade the helmsman steer for Gotland Isle, while Sigvat the saga-man
sang with the ring of triumph:

    "Down the fiord sweep wind and rain;
    Our sails and tackle sway and strain;
              Wet to the skin
              We're sound within.
    Our sea-steed through the foam goes prancing,
    While shields and spears and helms are glancing.
              From fiord to sea,
              Our ships ride free,
    And down the wind with swelling sail
    We scud before the gathering gale."

What a breezy, rollicking old saga it is. Can't you almost catch the spray
and sea-swell in its dashing measures, boys?

Now, turn to your atlases again and look for the large island of Gotland
off the south-eastern coast of Sweden, in the midst of the Baltic Sea. In
the time of Olaf it was a thickly peopled and wealthy district, and the
principal town, Wisby, at the northern end, was one of the busiest places
in all Europe. To this attractive island the boy viking sailed with all
his ships, looking for rich booty, but the Gotlanders met him with fair
words and offered him so great a "scatt," or tribute, that he agreed not
to molest them, and rested at the island, an unwelcome guest, through all
the long winter. Early in the spring he sailed eastward to the Gulf of
Riga and spread fear and terror along the coast of Finland. And the old
saga tells how the Finlanders "conjured up in the night, by their
witchcraft, a dreadful storm and bad weather; but the king ordered all
the anchors to be weighed and sail hoisted, and beat off all night to the
outside of the land. So the king's luck prevailed more than the
Finlanders' witchcraft."

Then away "through the wild sea" to Denmark sailed the young pirate king,
and here he met a brother viking, one Thorkell the Tall. The two chiefs
struck up a sort of partnership; and coasting southward along the western
shores of Denmark, they won a sea-fight in the Ringkiobing Fiord, among
the "sand hills of Jutland." And so business continued brisk with this
curiously matched pirate firm--a giant and a boy--until, under the cliffs
of Kinlimma, in Friesland, hasty word came to the boy viking that the
English king, Ethelred "The Unready," was calling for the help of all
sturdy fighters to win back his heritage and crown from young King Cnut,
or Canute the Dane, whose father had seized the throne of England. Quick
to respond to an appeal that promised plenty of hard knocks, and the
possibility of unlimited booty, Olaf, the ever ready, hoisted his blue and
crimson sails and steered his war-ships over sea to help King Ethelred,
the never ready. Up the Thames and straight for London town he rowed.

"Hail to the serpent banner! Hail to Olaf the Brave!" said King Ethelred,
as the war-horns sounded a welcome; and on the low shores of the Isle of
Dogs, just below the old city, the keels of the Norse war-ships grounded
swiftly, and the boy viking and his followers leaped ashore. "Thou dost
come in right good time with thy trusty dragon-ships, young King," said
King Ethelred; "for the Danish robbers are full well entrenched in London
town and in my father Edgar's castle."

And then he told Olaf how, "in the great trading place which is called
Southwark," the Danes had raised "a great work and dug large ditches, and
within had builded a bulwark of stone, timber and turf, where they had
stationed a large army."

"And we would fain have taken this bulwark," added the King, "and did in
sooth bear down upon it with a great assault; but indeed we could make
naught of it."

"And why so?" asked the young viking.

"Because," said King Ethelred, "upon the bridge betwixt the castle and
Southwark have the ravaging Danes raised towers and parapets, breast high,
and thence they did cast down stones and weapons upon us so that we could
not prevail. And now, Sea-King, what dost thou counsel? How may we avenge
ourselves of our enemies and win the town?"

Impetuous as ever, and impatient of obstacles, the young viking said:
"How? why, pull thou down this bridge, King, and then may ye have free
river-way to thy castle."

"Break down great London Bridge, young hero?" cried the amazed king. "How
may that be? Have we a Duke Samson among us to do so great a feat?"

"Lay me thy ships alongside mine, King, close to this barricaded bridge,"
said the valorous boy, "and I will vow to break it down, or ye may call me
caitiff and coward."

"Be it so," said Ethelred, the English king; and all the war-chiefs
echoed: "Be it so!" So Olaf and his trusty Rane made ready the war-forces
for the destruction of the bridge.

Old London Bridge was not what we should now call an imposing structure,
but our ancestors of nine centuries back esteemed it quite a bridge. The
chronicler says that it was "so broad that two wagons could pass each
other upon it," and "under the bridge were piles driven into the bottom of
the river."

So young Olaf and old Rane put their heads together, and decided to wreck
the bridge by a bold viking stroke. And this is how it is told in the
"Heimskringla," or Saga of King Olaf the Saint:

     "King Olaf ordered great platforms of floating wood to be tied
     together with hazal bands, and for this he took down old
     houses; and with these, as a roof, he covered over his ships so
     widely that it reached over the ships' sides. Under this screen
     he set pillars, so high and stout that there both was room for
     swinging their swords, and the roofs were strong enough to
     withstand the stones cast down upon them."

"Now, out oars and pull for the bridge," young Olaf commanded; and the
roofed-over war-ships were rowed close up to London Bridge.

And as they came near the bridge, the chronicle says:

"There were cast upon them, by the Danes upon the bridge, so many stones
and missile weapons, such as arrows and spears, that neither helmet nor
shield could hold out against it; and the ships themselves were so greatly
damaged that many retreated out of it."

But the boy viking and his Norsemen were there for a purpose, and were not
to be driven back by stones or spears or arrows. Straight ahead they
rowed, "quite up under the bridge."

"Out cables, all, and lay them around the piles," the young sea-king
shouted; and the half-naked rowers, unshipping their oars, reached out
under the roofs and passed the stout cables twice around the wooden
supports of the bridge. The loose end was made fast at the stern of each
vessel, and then, turning and heading down stream, King Olaf's twenty
stout war-ships waited his word:

"Out oars!" he cried; "pull, war-birds! Pull all, as if ye were for
Norway!"

Forward and backward swayed the stout Norse rowers; tighter and tighter
pulled the cables; fast down upon the straining war-ships rained the
Danish spears and stones; but the wooden piles under the great bridge were
loosened by the steady tug of the cables, and soon with a sudden spurt the
Norse war-ships darted down the river, while the slackened cables towed
astern the captured piles of London Bridge. A great shout went up from the
besiegers, and "now," says the chronicle, "as the armed troops stood thick
upon the bridge, and there were likewise many heaps of stones and other
weapons upon it, the bridge gave way; and a great part of the men upon it
fell into the river, and all the others fled--some into the castle, some
into Southwark." And before King Ethelred, "The Unready," could pull his
ships to the attack, young Olaf's fighting-men had sprung ashore, and,
storming the Southwark earthworks, carried all before them, and the battle
of London Bridge was won.

And the young Olaf's saga-man sang triumphantly:

    "London Bridge is broken down--
    Gold is won and bright renown;
        Shields resounding,
        War-horns sounding,
      Hildar shouting in the din!
        Arrows singing,
        Mail-coats ringing,
      Odin makes our Olaf win!"

And perhaps, who knows, this wrecking of London Bridge so many hundred
years ago by Olaf, the boy viking of fifteen, may have been the origin of
the old song-game dear to so many generations of children:

    "London Bridge is fallen down, fallen down, fallen down--
    London Bridge is fallen down, my fair lady!"

So King Ethelred won back his kingdom, and the boy viking was honored
above all others. To him was given the chief command in perilous
expeditions against the Danes, and the whole defence of all the coast of
England. North and south along the coast he sailed with all his war-ships,
and the Danes and Englishmen long remembered the dashing but dubious ways
of this young sea-rover, who swept the English coast and claimed his dues
from friend and foe alike. For those were days of insecurity for merchant
and trader and farmer, and no man's wealth or life was safe except as he
paid ready tribute to the fierce Norse allies of King Ethelred. But soon
after this, King Ethelred died, and young Olaf, thirsting for new
adventures, sailed away to the south and fought his way all along the
French coast as far as the mouth of the river Garonne. Many castles he
captured; many rival vikings subdued; much spoil he gathered; until at
last his dragon-ships lay moored under the walls of old Bordeaux, waiting
for fair winds to take him around to the Straits of Gibraltar, and so on
"to the land of Jerusalem."

One day, in the booty-filled "fore-hold" of his dragon-ship, the young
sea-king lay asleep; and suddenly, says the old record, "he dreamt a
wondrous dream."

"Olaf, great stem of kings, attend!" he heard a deep voice call; and,
looking up, the dreamer seemed to see before him "a great and important
man, but of a terrible appearance withal."

"If that thou art Olaf the Brave, as men do call thee," said the vision,
"turn thyself to nobler deeds than vikings' ravaging and this wandering
cruise. Turn back, turn back from thy purposeless journey to the land of
Jerusalem, where neither honor nor fame awaits thee. Son of King Harald,
return thee to thy heritage; for thou shalt be King over all Norway."

Then the vision vanished and the young rover awoke to find himself alone,
save for the sleeping foot-boy across the cabin door-way. So he quickly
summoned old Rane, the helmsman, and told his dream.

"'T was for thy awakening, King," said his stout old follower. "'T was the
great Olaf, thine uncle, Olaf Tryggvesson the King, that didst call thee.
Win Norway, King, for the portent is that thou and thine shall rule thy
fatherland."

And the war-ships' prows were all turned northward again, as the boy
viking, following the promise of his dream, steered homeward for Norway
and a throne.

Now in Norway Earl Eric was dead. For thirteen years he had usurped the
throne that should have been filled by one of the great King Olaf's line;
and, at his death, his handsome young son, Earl Hakon the Fair, ruled in
his father's stead. And when young King Olaf heard this news, he shouted
for joy and cried to Rane:

"Now, home in haste, for Norway shall be either Hakon's heritage or mine!"

"'T is a fair match of youth 'gainst youth," said the trusty helmsman;
"and if but fair luck go with thee, Norway shall be thine!"

So, from "a place called Furovald," somewhere between the mouths of Humber
and of Tees, on the English coast, King Olaf, with but two stout war-ships
and two hundred and twenty "well-armed and chosen persons," shook out his
purple sails to the North Sea blasts, and steered straight for Norway.

As if in league against this bold young viking the storm winds came
rushing down from the mountains of Norway and the cold belt of the Arctic
Circle and caught the two war-ships tossing in a raging sea. The storm
burst upon them with terrific force, and the danger of shipwreck was
great. "But," says the old record, "as they had a chosen company and the
king's luck with them all went on well.

    "Thou able chief!"

sings the faithful saga-man,

            "With thy fearless crew
    Thou meetest with skill and courage true
        The wild sea's wrath
        On thy ocean path.
    Though waves mast-high were breaking round,
    Thou findest the middle of Norway's ground,
        With helm in hand
        On Saelö's strand."

Now _Sael_ was Norse for "lucky" and Saelö's Island means the lucky
island.

"I'll be a lucky king for landing thus upon the Lucky Isle," said rash
young Olaf, with the only attempt at a joke we find recorded of him, as,
with a mighty leap, he sprang ashore where the sliding keel of his
war-ship ploughed the shore of Saelö's Isle.

"True, 't is a good omen, King," said old Rane the helmsman, following
close behind.

But the soil of the "lucky isle" was largely clay, moist and slippery,
and as the eager young viking climbed the bank his right foot slipped, and
he would have fallen had not he struck his left foot firmly in the clay
and thus saved himself. But to slip at all was a bad sign in those old,
half-pagan, and superstitious times, and he said, ruefully: "An omen; an
omen, Rane! The king falls!"

"Nay, 't is the king's luck," says ready and wise old Rane. "Thou didst
not fall, King. See; thou didst but set fast foot in this thy native soil
of Norway."

"Thou art a rare diviner, Rane," laughed the young king much relieved, and
then he added solemnly: "It may be so if God doth will it so."

And now news comes that Earl Hakon, with a single war-ship, is steering
north from Sogne Fiord; and Olaf, pressing on, lays his two ships on
either side of a narrow strait, or channel, in Sandunga Sound. Here he
stripped his ships of all their war-gear, and stretched a great cable deep
in the water, across the narrow strait. Then he wound the cable-ends
around the capstans, ordered all his fighting-men out of sight, and waited
for his rival. Soon Earl Hakon's war-ship, crowded with rowers and
fighting-men, entered the strait. Seeing, as he supposed, but two harmless
merchant-vessels lying on either side of the channel, the young earl bade
his rowers pull between the two. Suddenly there is a stir on the quiet
merchant-vessels. The capstan bars are manned; the sunken cable is drawn
taut. Up goes the stern of Earl Hakon's entrapped war-ship; down plunges
her prow into the waves, and the water pours into the doomed boat. A loud
shout is heard; the quiet merchant-vessels swarm with mail-clad men, and
the air is filled with a shower of stones, and spears, and arrows. The
surprise is complete. Tighter draws the cable; over topples Earl Hakon's
vessel, and he and all his men are among the billows struggling for life.
"So," says the record, "King Olaf took Earl Hakon and all his men whom
they could get hold of out of the water and made them prisoners; but some
were killed and some were drowned."

Into the "fore-hold" of the king's ship the captive earl was led a
prisoner, and there the young rivals for Norway's crown faced each other.
The two lads were of nearly the same age--between sixteen and
seventeen,--and young Earl Hakon was considered the handsomest youth in
all Norway. His helmet was gone, his sword was lost, his ring-steel suit
was sadly disarranged, and his long hair, "fine as silk," was "bound about
his head with a gold ornament." Fully expecting the fate of all captives
in those cruel days--instant death,--the young earl nevertheless faced his
boy conqueror proudly, resolved to meet his fate like a man.

"They speak truth who say of the house of Eric that ye be handsome men,"
said the King, studying his prisoner's face. "But now, Earl, even though
thou be fair to look upon, thy luck hath failed thee at last."

"Fortune changes," said the young earl. "We both be boys; and thou, king,
art perchance the shrewder youth. Yet, had we looked for such a trick as
thou hast played upon us, we had not thus been tripped upon thy sunken
cables. Better luck next time."

"Next time!" echoed the king; "dost thou not know, Earl, that as thou
standest there, a prisoner, there may be no 'next time' for thee?"

The young captive understood full well the meaning of the words. "Yes,
King," he said; "it must be only as thou mayst determine. Man can die but
once. Speak on; I am ready!" But Olaf said: "What wilt thou give me, Earl,
if at this time I do let thee go, whole and unhurt?"

"'T is not what I may give, but what thou mayst take, King," the earl made
answer. "I am thy prisoner; what wilt thou take to free me?"

"Nothing," said the generous young viking, advancing nearer to his
handsome rival. "As thou didst say, we both be boys, and life is all
before us. Earl, I give thee thy life, do thou but take oath before me to
leave this my realm of Norway, to give up thy kingdom, and never to do
battle against me hereafter."

The conquered earl bent his fair young head.

"Thou art a generous chief, King Olaf," he said. "I take my life as thou
dost give it, and all shall be as thou wilt."

So Earl Hakon took the oath, and King Olaf righted his rival's capsized
war-ship, refitted it from his own stores of booty, and thus the two lads
parted; the young earl sailing off to his uncle, King Canute, in England,
and the boy viking hastening eastward to Vigen, where lived his mother,
the Queen Aasta, whom he had not seen for full five years.

It is harvest-time in the year 1014. Without and within the long, low
house of Sigurd Syr, at Vigen, all is excitement; for word has come that
Olaf the sea-king has returned to his native land, and is even now on his
way to this, his mother's house. Gay stuffs decorate the dull walls of the
great-room, clean straw covers the earth-floor, and upon the long,
four-cornered tables is spread a mighty feast of mead and ale and coarse
but hearty food, such as the old Norse heroes drew their strength and
muscle from. At the door-way stands the Queen Aasta with her maidens,
while before the entrance, with thirty "well-clothed men," waits young
Olaf's stepfather, wise Sigurd Syr, gorgeous in a jewelled suit, a scarlet
cloak, and a glittering golden helmet. The watchers on the house-tops hear
a distant shout, now another and nearer one, and soon, down the highway,
they catch the gleam of steel and the waving of many banners; and now they
can distinguish the stalwart forms of Olaf's chosen hundred men, their
shining coats of ring-mail, their foreign helmets, and their crossleted
shields flashing in the sun. In the very front rides old Rane, the
helmsman, bearing the great white banner blazoned with the golden serpent,
and, behind him, cased in golden armor, his long brown hair flowing over
his sturdy shoulders, rides the boy viking, Olaf of Norway.

It was a brave home-coming; and as the stout young hero, leaping from his
horse, knelt to receive his mother's welcoming kiss, the people shouted
for joy, the banners waved, the war-horns played their loudest; and thus,
after five years of wandering, the boy comes back in triumph to the home
he left when but a wild and adventurous little fellow of twelve.

The hero of nine great sea-fights, and of many smaller ones, before he was
seventeen, young Olaf Haraldson was a remarkable boy, even in the days
when all boys aimed to be battle-tried heroes. Toughened in frame and
fibre by his five years of sea-roving, he had become strong and
self-reliant, a man in action though but a boy in years.

"I am come," he said to his mother and his stepfather, "to take the
heritage of my forefathers. But not from Danish nor from Swedish kings
will I supplicate that which is mine by right. I intend rather to seek my
patrimony with battle-ax and sword, and I will so lay hand to the work
that one of two things shall happen: Either I shall bring all this kingdom
of Norway under my rule, or I shall fall here upon my inheritance in the
land of my fathers."

These were bold words for a boy of seventeen. But they were not idle
boastings. Before a year had passed, young Olaf's pluck and courage had
won the day, and in harvest-time, in the year 1015, being then but little
more than eighteen years old, he was crowned King of Norway in the
Drontheim, or "Throne-home," of Nidaros, the royal city, now called on
your atlas the city of Drontheim. For fifteen years King Olaf the Second
ruled his realm of Norway. The old record says that he was "a good and
very gentle man"; but history shows his goodness and gentleness to have
been of a rough and savage kind. The wild and stern experiences of his
viking days lived again even in his attempts to reform and benefit his
land. When he who had himself been a pirate tried to put down piracy, and
he who had been a wild young robber sought to force all Norway to become
Christian, he did these things in so fierce and cruel a way that at last
his subjects rebelled, and King Canute came over with a great army to
wrest the throne from him. On the bloody field of Stiklestad, July 29,
1030, the stern king fell, says Sigvat, his saga-man,

                  "beneath the blows
    By his own thoughtless people given."

So King Canute conquered Norway; but after his death, Olaf's son, Magnus
the Good, regained his father's throne. The people, sorrowful at their
rebellion against King Olaf, forgot his stern and cruel ways, and
magnified all his good deeds so mightily, that he was at last declared a
saint, and the shrine of Saint Olaf is still one of the glories of the old
cathedral in Drontheim. And, after King Magnus died, his descendants ruled
in Norway for nearly four hundred years; and thus was brought to pass the
promise of the dream that, in the "fore-hold" of the great dragon-ship,
under the walls of old Bordeaux, came so many years before to the daring
and sturdy young Olaf of Norway, the Boy Viking.

FOOTNOTES:

[F] "Hail and Health to the Viking!"

[G] So contemptuously did those fierce old sea-kings regard a peaceful
life, that they said of one who died quietly on his bed at home: "His was
but a straw-death."




                       [Illustration]

                             IV.

            WILLIAM OF NORMANDY: THE BOY KNIGHT.

   (_Afterward William the Conqueror, King of England._)

                        [A.D. 1040.]


It was a time of struggle in France. King and barons, lords and vassals,
were warring against each other for the mastery. Castles were besieged,
cities sacked, and fertile fields laid waste; and in that northern section
of France known as the Duchy of Normandy the clash and crush of conflict
raged the fiercest around the person of one brave-hearted but sorely
troubled little man of twelve--William, Lord of Rouen, of the Hiesmos and
of Falaise, and Duke of Normandy.

Left an orphan at eight by the death of his famous father--whom men called
Robert the Magnificent before his face and Robert the Devil behind his
back--the boyhood of the young duke had been full of danger and distress.
And now in his gloomy castle at Rouen--which his great-grandfather,
Richard the Fearless, had built nearly a hundred years before--new trouble
threatened him, as word came that King Henry of France, the "suzerain," or
overlord of Normandy, deeming his authority not sufficiently honored in
his Norman fief, had invaded the boy's territories, and with a strong
force was besieging the border castle of Tillieres,[H] scarce fifty miles
to the south.

The beleaguering hosts of France swarmed round the strong-walled castle,
and the herald of France demanded entrance. In the audience-hall the
warden of the marches, or borders of Normandy, received him.

"Gilbert of Crispin," said the herald, "thy master and suzerain, King
Henry of France, demands from thee the keys and possession of this his
fortress of Tillieres, granting therefor, to thee and thy followers,
pardon and safe conduct. But and if thou failest, then will he raze these
walls to the ground, and give to thee and thy followers the sure and
speedy death of traitors."

Bluff old Gilbert of Crispin, with scarcely restrained rage, made instant
answer:

"Sir herald," he said, "tell thy master, the King of France, that Gilbert
of Crispin defies and scorns him, and that he will hold this castle of
Tillieres for his liege and suzerain, Duke William of Normandy, though all
the carrion kites of France should flap their wings above it."

Defiance begets defiance, and both besiegers and besieged prepared for a
stubborn conflict. Suddenly the watcher from the donjon spied a flurry of
dust toward the north, out of the distance came hurrying forms, then the
sun played on shield and lance and banneret, and the joyful shout of the
watchman in the tower rang out: "Rescue! rescue and succor from our Duke!"

A band of knights rode from the French camp to intercept the new-comers.
Then came a halt and parley, and just as doughty Gilbert of Crispin was
preparing a sally for the support of his friends the parley ceased, the
Norman knights rode straight to the castle, and a loud trumpet-peal
summoned the warder to the gates. "Open; open in the name of the Duke!"
came the command.

The ponderous drawbridge slowly fell, the grim portcullis rose with creak
and rattle, the great gate swung open wide, and into the castle yard rode
Duke William himself.

A handsome, ruddy, stalwart lad of twelve; old-looking for his years, and
showing, even then, in muscle and in face, the effect of his stormy
boyhood. An open, manly brow, wavy chestnut hair, and a face that told of
thoughtful purpose and a strong will.

"Good Crispin," said the boy duke as his faithful liegeman came forward to
greet him, "suffer me to have my will. 'T is wiser to fly your hawk at a
stag-royal than a fox. Henry of France may be fair or false to us of
Normandy but 't is safer in these troublous times to have him as friend
rather than foe. You, in whose charge my father Duke Robert left me years
ago, know well how when scarce seven years old I placed my hands between
this same King Henry's and swore to be his man. I will be true to my
fealty vows hap what may, and though it cometh hard to your stout Norman
heart to give up without a blow what you are so loyal to defend, suffer
me, as your suzerain, to give up this my fortress to my overlord. Trust me
't will be best for Normandy and for your duke."

Gilbert of Crispin grumbled and chafed at the command of his young lord,
but he obeyed, and the castle which he had hoped to defend was handed over
to King Henry as hostage for Normandy's faith.

And when the crafty king, who as the boy duke had wisely said was fox
rather than stag-royal, was safely in possession he said, with all the
stately courtesy he could assume when occasion served: "Fair Cousin
William, so loyal and loving a concession as is this of thine, at a time
when blows were far easier to give, merits more from me than thanks. The
fealty of vassal to suzerain is well, but so fair a deed as this of thine
is the height of knightly valor. And where such knightly valor doth live
the knightly spurs should follow. Kneel before thy lord!"

And as the boy knelt bareheaded before him King Henry with drawn sword
gave him the _accolade_--three smart taps with the flat of the sword on
the shoulder and one with the palm of the hand on the cheek. Then said the
king: "William of Normandy, in the name of God, St. Michael, and St.
George, I dub thee knight. Be valiant, bold, and loyal. Speak the truth;
maintain the right; protect the defenceless; succor the distressed;
champion the ladies; vindicate thy knightly character, and prove thy
knightly bravery and endurance by perilous adventures and valorous deeds.
Fear God, fight for the faith, and serve thy suzerain and thy fatherland
faithfully and valiantly."

So Duke William was made a knight at the earliest age at which knighthood
was conferred. And he rode back to his castle at Rouen; and both there and
at his neighboring castle of Vaudreuil, farther down the valley of the
Seine, it was a day of pleasure and feasting for vassals and retainers
when the boy knight first donned his armor and sprang to his saddle
without aid of stirrup--"so tall, so manly in face, and so proud of
bearing," says the old record, "that it was a sight both pleasant and
terrible to see him guiding his horse's career, flashing with his sword,
gleaming with his shield, and threatening with his casque and lance."

But soon, boy though he was, he had terrible work to do. Rebellion was
abroad in his realm, and King Henry's foxy qualities were shown when,
in spite of his promises, he still farther invaded the Norman land, and
gave support to the boy's rebellious subjects. And, worse still, as if to
heap additional insult on his young life, Thurstan Goz, charged with the
defence of a portion of the Norman borders, rose in open rebellion and
garrisoned with recreant Normans and purchased Frenchmen the castle of
Falaise--not only the birthplace, but the favorite castle of the boy
duke,--insolently declaring that if the lad dared attempt its release that
he, Thurstan the rebel, had a plenty of raw hides with which to "tan the
tanner."[I]

Frequent dangers and distresses had taught the boy to curb his sometimes
fiery temper. But this special insult was past all endurance, and even his
self-control was lost in indignation.

Scarce had the courserman, who had sped with the news to the duke's castle
at Rouen, delivered his message than the boy flamed with rage, and turning
to his guardian, Ralph of Wacey, captain-general of the armies of
Normandy, he cried:

"Good cousin, this is not to be borne. I have done King Henry's will, and
been faithful to my fealty vows, but this passeth even my bent. Fling out
our standard. Summon every loyal Norman to our aid--knight and archer and
cross-bowman. Cry '_Maslon!_' and '_Dix aie!_'[J] and let us straight
against this dastard rebel at Falaise."

Quick to act whenever the need arose, the boy duke was soon leading his
army of loyal Normans against the massive castle in which he first saw the
light.

From one of those very turret windows which to-day still look down from
this old castle on the cliffs upon the lovely valley or glen of the Ante,
where Norman peasant women still wash their clothes as they did in Duke
William's day, the recreant Thurstan saw the banners of the approaching
host, and laughed grimly to think how he had outwitted the boy, and how
those steep cliffs, or _felsens_ (which give the place its name of
Falaise), could never be scaled by the armor-encased troops of his young
lord.

[Illustration: THE CASTLE OF FALAISE--BIRTHPLACE OF WILLIAM THE
CONQUEROR.]

But Thurstan reckoned without his host. Friendship is an even better ally
than battering-rams and scaling-ladders. Duke William had played as a
little child in this very town and castle of Falaise, and not a Norman
peasant girl but loved and petted him, not a Norman peasant lad but was
proud of the daring and muscle of the brave young duke. At one of those
very washing booths in which it was said Duke Robert first saw and loved
the beautiful Herleva, the tanner's daughter, a peasant girl, pounding her
wash on the sloping board, saw across the treeless slopes the advancing
banners of the duke. The clothes were left unpounded, and speeding to the
little town, she told her news; the loyal men of Falaise flocked to meet
their duke, the gates of the town were opened to him, and from the most
accessible side the Norman host advanced to the assault of the massive
castle walls.

Spurred on to fresh energy and immediate action by the loyalty of his
townsmen and the sight of the rebel standard floating from the walls of
his own castle, the boy knight led the assault upon the outworks, and
proved in this, his first deed of arms, the truth of his biographer that
he was one who "knew when to strike and how to strike." Catapult and
balista, battering-ram and arbalast, cloth-yard shaft and javelin did
their work, a breach was made in the walls, and only the darkness put a
stop to the assault.

Then, spent with the conflict and fearful as to the result, Thurstan saw
that rebellion against this determined boy was no child's play, and with
his haughty spirit considerably humbled he sought an audience with the
duke and craved pardon and easy terms of surrender.

No boy of thirteen, even in this refined and enlightened nineteenth
century, can refrain from "crowing" over a defeated antagonist. It is
human nature and boy-nature especially. What then must it have been in
those cruel and vindictive days eight hundred years ago, when every man's
hand was ready to strike, and every victor's sword was quick to destroy.
But see how in even an ignoble age the manly boy can still be noble.

"Thurstan Goz," said the duke, "that you have warred against me I can
forgive; that you have disgraced this the dearest estate of Duke Robert,
my father, and of me his son, I can also forgive. But that you should
forfeit your vows of fealty and rebelliously conspire against this your
home-land of Normandy I can never forgive. I give you your life. Depart in
peace. But, as you hope for life, never show yourself in this our realm
again. You are banished from Normandy forever!"

The boyhood of William of Normandy seems to have been full of just such
evidences as this of his love of justice, his kind-heartedness, his moral
and physical courage--qualities which even in these days of universal
education and grander opportunities would stamp a boy as noble and manly,
and which were especially remarkable in that age of narrower views and
universal ignorance, when even this just and wise boy prince could simply
make a rude cross as his ducal signature.

So desirous was he for peace and quietness in his realm that, boy though
he was, he stood among the foremost advocates of the measure by which the
Church sought to limit crime and violence and bloodshed, by instituting
what was known as the "Truce of God," and by the terms of which all men
agreed to abstain from violent deeds (except in cases of actual warfare)
from the night of Wednesday to the following Monday morning in each week.

All of William's biographers, however they criticise his later acts, unite
in speaking of the excellences of his boyhood: of his wisdom in the choice
of counsellors, and his willingness to listen to and follow their advice;
of his personal goodness in an age of widespread viciousness; of his grace
and skill in athletic sports and warlike exercises, and his expertness
beyond all his companions in the excitements and successes of the chase.

Of this last-named pastime he was passionately fond, even from early
boyhood, and few excelled him, either in the eagerness with which he
followed the game, or the skill which he displayed in the hunt.

This thought came also to the two mail-clad watchers who, shielded from
view by a group of large trees, looked with interest upon a youthful
hunter, who, in one of the glades that broke the great stretch of forest
near to beautiful Valognes, sped his cloth-yard shaft from his mighty
longbow of English yew, and sent it whizzing full four hundred feet,
straight to the heart of a bounding buck that dashed across the glade
scarce forty yards from the ambushed watchers.

"By the mass, a wondrous hit!" exclaimed the older knight. "Why, man, he
drew that shaft from nocking-point to pile.[K] I would have sworn that
mortal man--let alone a lad like that--could not have drawn such a bow, or
sped so true a shaft."

"There is but one lad that can do it in all Normandy, and that is yonder
hunter," said the younger knight enthusiastic in spite of himself. "Hast
thou not known that none but Duke William can bend Duke William's bow--a
murrain on him too!"

"So, is it our quarry--is it the duke, say'st thou?" hurriedly asked the
older knight. "Then the saints keep me out of range of his shaft. Draw
off, he comes this way"; and grizzled Grimald de Plessis, the Saxon baron,
drew still farther behind the tree-trunks as the young duke and his only
companion, Golet, his merryman or fool, dashed across the glade to where
the stricken stag lay dead.

But his companion, young Guy of Burgundy, fingered his light cross-bow
nervously. "Ten thousand curses on this coward Truce!" he exclaimed
beneath his breath as the duke, all unconscious of his danger, hurried
past the ambush. "But for that I might even now speed my shaft and wing
the tanner where he stoops above his game. Did'st ever see a fairer
chance?"

But wary De Plessis caught the lad's uplifted arm. "Have down thy hand and
bethink thee of that same Truce," he said. "'T is a wise restriction on
your wayward wits, my lord count. The duke's men are much too nigh at hand
to make such a bow-shot safe even for thee, and to-morrow's venture which
we have in hand may be made without breaking this tyrant Truce or braving
the ban of Holy Church. I would have a score of good men at my back ere I
try to wing so stout a bird as he," and De Plessis and the hot-headed Guy
withdrew from their dangerous ambush, while the duke, calling in his
lagging followers, turned over his prize to his huntsmen and rode on to
his castle.

"To-morrow's venture," of which the Saxon baron spoke, was to be the
sorriest chance that had yet happened to the brave young duke. For this
very Guy of Burgundy, cousin and comrade to William since his earliest
days, brought up in his court, and beholden to him for many favors, and
even for his knighthood, had--moved by jealousy--conspired with the
foremost barons of Western Normandy to put the young duke to death. That
very next night was the attempt to be made here in the duke's own castle
of Valognes, away up in the north-western corner of France, some fifteen
miles or so to the south of Cherbourg town--the modern naval and
shipbuilding city, off which the _Kearsarge_ and the _Alabama_ had their
famous sea-fight in the days of the American civil war--June 19, 1864.

But a well-known poet has told us that

    "The best laid schemes o' mice and men
                Gang aft a-gley,"

and this even the over-confident conspirators discovered. For, before they
could reach the castle on the night appointed, Golet, the duke's faithful
fool, had fathomed their plans, and with fleetest foot dashed into the
castle and up the narrow stairway to the bedchamber of the sleeping duke.

Bang, bang, bang, came a noisy pounding on the closed door, rousing the
lad, sorely tired from his day's hunting. Again and again the _pel_, or
jester's staff, clamored against the door, and now the fully aroused duke
caught his faithful servant's words:

"Up, up, my lord duke! Open, open! Where art thou, Duke William? Wherefore
dost thou sleep? Flee, flee, or thou art a dead man! Up, up, I say! All
are armed; all are marshalled; and if they capture thee, never, never wilt
thou again see the light of day!"

So earnest a warning was not calculated to allow even the most tired of
huntsmen to sleep. William sprang from his bed, and with nothing but a
_capa_, or short, hooded cloak thrown over his half-clad body, without
even clapping on his inseparable spurs, he leaped to his horse and rode
for his life. All unattended he galloped through the night, fording now
the shallow Doure and now the ebbing Vire, stopping for one short prayer
for safety at the shrine of St. Clement, near Isigny, and speeding along
the unfrequented road between Bayeux and the sea, until just before
sunrise he galloped into the little hamlet of Rie or Rye, close to the
shore. Foam-flecked and mud-bespattered, his flagging horse dashed past
the _manoir_ or castle of the lord of the hamlet whose name was Hubert.

[Illustration: "SO, HOLLO, MY LORD DUKE," SAID HUBERT, "WHAT TAKETH THEE
ABROAD IN THIS GUISE SO EARLY?"]

The old Norman was an early riser, and was standing at his castle gate
sniffing the morning air. His ear caught the sound of hoofs, and as the
lad galloped up, the stout old baron rubbed his eyes in surprise to see
his sovereign in such sorry plight.

"So, hollo, my lord duke," he cried; "what taketh thee abroad in this
guise so early? Is aught of danger afoot?"

"Hubert," said the duke, "dare I trust thee?"

"And why not," was the reply. "Have I ever played thee false? Speak, and
speak boldly."

Then William told his story, and without a moment's hesitation the loyal
baron hurried his early guest into the castle, summoned his three sons,
gave the lad a fresh horse, and said to his boys: "Mount, and mount
quickly. Behold your lord in dire stress. Leave him not till you have
lodged him safely in Falaise."

He bade them God-speed and hurried them off none too soon, for scarce had
the sounds of their horses' hoofs died away before the duke's pursuers
came riding hard behind. And Hubert, apparently as good a conspirator as
any of them, sent them on a wild-goose chase over the wrong road, while
the boy duke, with his faithful escort of Hubert's sons, crossed the ford
of Folpendant and reached Falaise at last in safety--in not a very
presentable condition after his hard all-night ride for his life, but,
says the old record, "what mattered that so that he was safe?"

Such a break-neck race with death[L] could have but one result. The young
duke realized at last the fierceness and relentlessness of his rivals and
enemies, and, sorrowing most of all at the treachery of the lad who had
been his playmate and comrade in arms in mimic fight and serious quarrel,
at the chase and in the tourney, he turned reluctantly for succor to the
only man to whom he might rightly look for aid--his liege lord and
suzerain, Henry, King of France.

That crafty and unscrupulous king, whose relations with his boy vassal had
been one continual game of "fast and loose," as desire dictated or
opportunity served, gave a secret chuckle of joy as Duke William and his
slender escort of knights and men-at-arms rode into the palace yard at
Poissy, only a few miles north-west of modern Versailles. And when at last
he saw the youth an actual suppliant at his throne his thought was: "Ah
ha! Duke William and Normandy are in my power at last."

But King Henry's lips seldom spoke his thoughts.

"Cousin of Normandy," he said, "you have done well and wisely to pray my
aid against your rebel barons and this wicked boy of Burgundy. To whom
else should you turn but to the overlord to whom your great father, Duke
Robert, confided you as a sacred trust years ago?"

The lad might justly have inquired how King Henry had kept the trust his
father had confided in him. But he only said:

"'T is not for me but for my father's duchy that I plead. The very life of
Normandy is in jeopardy, my liege."

"And right valiantly will we relieve it, lad," the king exclaimed. "Send
out your rallying-call. Summon your loyal vassals. Join force and arm with
me, and the banners of France and Normandy shall wave above conquered
rebels and a victorious field."

Action quickly succeeded words. An army was speedily raised. The loyal
Normans of the eastern counties hurried to the standard of their young
lord, and at the head of a combined French and Norman force, king and
duke, in the summer of the year 1047, confronted the rebel knights under
Guy of Burgundy, Grimbald de Plessis, Neel of St. Savior, and Randolf of
Bayeux, on the open slopes of Val-es-dunes, or the valley of the
sand-hills, not far from the town of Caen, and almost within sight of the
English Channel.

Duke William led the left wing and King Henry the right. There was a
shouting of battle-cries--the _Dix aie_ of the loyal Normans and the
_Montjoye-St. Denys_ of France mingling with _St. Savior_ and _St. Armand_
from the rebel ranks. Then, as in a great tournament, horse and rider,
shield, sword, and lance closed in desperate combat. It was a battle of
the knights. King Henry went down twice beneath the thrust of Norman
lances, but was on his horse again fighting valiantly in his vassal's
cause, and Duke William, in this his first pitched battle, by a day of
mingled courage, good fortune, prowess, and personal success, laid the
basis of that wonderful career that filled his daring and victorious
future, and fitted him to bear the proud though bloody title of the
Conqueror. Hand to hand, not with lance but with sword, he vanquished in
open conflict the champion of the rebel knights, Hardrez of Bayeux, and
ere darkness fell his enemies were vanquished and in desperate flight for
life, and his power as Duke of Normandy was established finally and
forever.

Great in his victory the boy knight was greater still in his generous
treatment of the conquered rebels. Only one, Grimbald de Plessis, who had
been the prime mover in the treason, suffered imprisonment and death. All
were pardoned, and young Guy of Burgundy, like the coward he seems to have
been, slipped sullenly away rather than face his generous rival and
old-time playfellow, and in his distant court of Burgundy spent his after
years in unsuccessful plots against his always successful rival.

And here our story of the boy William ends. Conqueror at Val-es-dunes,
when yet scarcely nineteen, his course from that time on through his busy
manhood, was one of unvarying success in battle and in statecraft. The
wonderful victory at Senlac, or Hastings, which, on the 14th of October,
1066, gave him the throne of England, and made him both king and
conqueror, has placed his name in the foremost rank of the military heroes
of the world. From this point his story is known to all. It is a part of
the history of our race. It is, indeed, as Palgrave the historian says:

"Magnificent was William's destiny. Can we avoid accepting him as the
Founder of the predominating empire now existing in the civilized world?
Never does the sun set upon the regions where the British banner is
unfurled. Nay, the Stars and Stripes of the Transatlantic Republic would
never have been hoisted, nor the Ganges flow as a British stream, but for
Norman William's gauntleted hand."

Eight hundred years of progress have removed us far from the savagery of
Duke William's day. The nations of the world are, each year, less and less
ready to fly at each other's throats like "dogs of war," whenever any
thing goes wrong or their "angry passions rise." The desires of to-day are
largely in the direction of universal peace and brotherhood. But still we
honor valor and courage and knightly and noble deeds. And though, as we
study the record of that remarkable life that so changed the history of
the world eight centuries back, we can see faults and vices, shortcomings
and crimes even, in the stirring life of William, Duke of Normandy and
King of England, still, as we look upon his spirited statue that now
stands in the market-place of Falaise, almost beneath the ruined walls of
the grim old castle in which he was born, and which he stormed and carried
when a boy of scarce fourteen, our thoughts go back to his stormy and
turbulent boyhood. And, as we do so, we see, not the Conqueror of England,
the enslaver of the Saxons, the iron-handed tyrant of the Curfew-bell and
the Doomsday-book, but the manly, courageous, true-hearted, perplexed, and
persecuted little fellow of the old Norman days, when, spite of trouble
and turmoil, he kept his heart brave, and true, and pure, and was in all
things the real boy knight--in those fresh and generous days of youth,
when, as Mr. Freeman, the brilliant historian of the Norman Conquest,
says: "He shone forth before all men as the very model of every princely
virtue."

FOOTNOTES:

[H] Tillieres, the Tuileries or tile-kiln, was old French for clay-pit or
brick-yard, and is the name also of a famous French palace.

[I] Young William's mother, Herleva of Falaise, was the daughter of
Fulbert, a prosperous tanner of the town, and the boy was taunted with
what was esteemed his low birth--as if, indeed, an honest tanner was not
the superior of a robber baron!

[J] The old Norman battle-cries.

[K] "Nocking-point to pile" in old-time archery meant the full length of
the arrow from the point where it "notched" the bow-string to the
arrowhead itself.

[L] The place at which young William in his flight from Valognes forded
the river Vire is still called "_la voie du Duc_."--the Duke's Way.




                       [Illustration]

                             V.

          BALDWIN OF JERUSALEM: THE BOY CRUSADER.

(_Known as Baldwin III., the Fifth of the Latin Kings of Jerusalem._)

                        [A.D. 1147.]


[Illustration]

Through a flood of sunlight, cooled by mountain breezes, breaks a
straggling mass of hill and plain and deep ravine crowded with gray-walled
buildings, crumbling ruins, dismantled towers, glittering minarets and
crosses, stout walls and rounded domes. A palace here, a broken arch or
cross-crowned chapel there; narrow and untidy streets thronged with a
curious crowd drawn from every land and race--Syrian and Saxon, Norman and
Nubian, knight and squire, monk and minstrel,--such was Jerusalem, "city
of ruins," when, seven hundred years ago, the Red-Cross banner floated
from its towered walls and the Holy City stood as the capital of the
short-lived and unfortunate realm of the Crusaders--the Latin kingdom of
Jerusalem.

I take it for granted that most of my young readers know something of the
history of the Crusades--those wonderful religious wars, when Europe
overflowed into Asia and under the banner of the Cross sought by blood and
blows and daring deeds to gain possession from the Saracen conquerors--or,
as they were called, the "Infidel,"--of the tomb of Him whose mission was
"Peace on Earth; Good-Will to Men." But how many of them know any thing of
that eventful and romantic chapter in the history of Palestine, when, for
eighty-eight years, from the days of Duke Godfrey, greatest of the
Crusaders, to the time of Saladin, greatest of the Sultans, the Holy City
was governed by Christian nobles and guarded by Christian knights, drawn
from the shores of Italy, the downs of Normandy, and the forests of Anjou?
It is a chapter full of interest and yet but little known, and it is at
about the middle of this historic period, in the fall of the year 1147,
that our sketch opens.

In the palace of the Latin kings, on the slopes of Mount Moriah, a boy of
fifteen and a girl of ten were leaning against an open casement and
looking out through the clear September air toward the valley of the
Jordan and the purple hills of Moab.

"Give me thy gittern, Isa," said the boy, a ruddy-faced youth, with gray
eyes and auburn hair; "let me play the air that Réné, the troubadour,
taught me yesterday. I'll warrant thee 't will set thy feet a-flying, if I
can but master the strain," and he hummed over the gay Provençal measure:

    "O Magali! thy witcheries
      In vain shall try me!
    When thou art fish, I'll fisher be
      And fish for thee!"

But, bewitching little maiden though she was, the fair young Isabelle had
no thought of becoming a fish. She had now found something more absorbing
than the song of the troubadour.

"Nay, my lord, rather let me try the gittern," she said. "See, now will I
charm this snaily from its cell with the air that Réné taught _me_," and
together the two heads bent over one of the vicious little "desert snails
of Egypt," which young Isabelle of Tyre had found crawling along the
casement of the palace.

    "Snaily, snaily, little nun,
    Come out of thy cell, come into the sun;
    Show me thy horns without delay,
    Or I'll tear thy convent-walls away,"

sang the girl merrily, as she touched the strings of her gittern. But his
snailship continued close and mute, and the boy laughed loudly as he
picked up the snail and laid it on his open palm.

"'T is in vain, Isa," he said; "this surly snail is no troubadour to come
out at his lady's summons. Old Hassan says the sluggards can sleep for
full four years, but trust me to waken this one. So, holo! See, Isa, there
be his horns--ah! oh! the Forty Martyrs grind thy Pagan shell!" he cried,
with sudden vehemence, dancing around the room in pain, "the beast hath
bitten me! Out, Ishmaelite!" and he flung the snail from him in a rage,
while Isabelle clung to the casement laughing heartily at her cousin's
mishap.

But the snail flew across the room at an unfortunate moment, for the arras
parted suddenly and a tall and stalwart man, clothed in the coarse woollen
gown of a palmer, or pilgrim to Jerusalem, entered the apartment just in
time to receive the snail full against his respected and venerated nose.

"The saints protect us!" exclaimed the palmer, drawing back in surprise
and clapping a hand to his face. "Doth the king of Jerusalem keep a
catapult in this his palace with which to greet his visitors?" Then,
spying the two young people, who stood in some dismay by the open
casement, the stranger strode across the room and laid a heavy hand upon
the boy's shoulder, while little Isa's smothered laugh changed to an
alarmed and tremulous "Oh!"

"Thou unmannerly boy," said the palmer, "how dar'st thou thus assault a
pilgrim to the holy shrines?"

But the lad stood his ground stoutly. "Lay off thine hand, sir palmer," he
said. "Who art thou, forsooth, that doth press thy way into the private
chambers of the king?"

"Nay, that is not for thee to know," replied the palmer. "Good faith, I
have a mind to shake thee well, sir page, for this thy great
impertinence."

But here little Isa, having recovered her voice, exclaimed hurriedly: "O
no,--not page, good palmer. He is no page; he is----"

"Peace, Isa," the lad broke in with that peculiar wink of the left eyelid
well known to every boy who deals in mischief and mystery. "Let the gray
palmer tell us who _he_ may be, or, by my plume, he goeth no farther in
the palace here."

The burly pilgrim looked down upon the lad, who, with arms akimbo and
defiant face, barred his progress. He laughed a grim and dangerous laugh.
"Thou rare young malapert!" he said. "Hath, then, the state of great King
Godfrey fallen so low that chattering children keep the royal doors?"
Then, seizing the boy by the ear, he whirled him aside and said: "Out of
my path, sir page. Let me have instant speech with the king, thy master,
ere I seek him out myself and bid him punish roundly such a saucy young
jackdaw as thou."

"By what token askest thou to see the king?" the boy demanded, nursing his
wounded ear.

"By this same token of the royal seal," replied the palmer, and he held
out to the lad a golden signet-ring, "the which I was to show to
whomsoever barred my path and crave due entrance to the king for the gray
palmer, Conradin."

"So, 't is the queen-mother's signet," said the boy. "There is then no
gainsaying thee. Well, good palmer Conradin, thou need'st go no farther.
_I_ am the King of Jerusalem."

The palmer started in surprise. "Give me no more tricks, boy," he said,
sternly.

"Nay, 't is no trick, good palmer," said little Isabelle, in solemn
assurance. "This is the king."

The palmer saw that the little maid spoke truly, but he seemed still full
of wonder, and, grasping the young king's shoulder, he held him off at
arm's length and looked him over from head to foot.

"Thou the king!" he exclaimed. "Thou that Baldwin of Jerusalem whom men do
call the hero of the Jordan, the paladin of the Sepulchre, the young
conqueror of Bostra? Thou--a boy!"

"It ill beseemeth me to lay claim to hero and paladin," said young King
Baldwin, modestly. "But know, sir pilgrim, that I am as surely King
Baldwin of Jerusalem as thou art the palmer Conradin. What warrant, then,
hast thou, gray palmer though thou be, to lay such heavy hands upon the
king?" And he strove to free himself from the stranger's grasp.

[Illustration: "THOU THE KING!" HE EXCLAIMED; "THOU THAT BALDWIN OF
JERUSALEM WHOM MEN DO CALL THE HERO OF THE JORDAN!"]

But the palmer caught him round the neck with a strong embrace. "What
warrant, lad?" he exclaimed heartily. "Why, the warrant of a brother, good
my lord. Thousands of leagues have I travelled to seek and succor thee.
Little brother of Jerusalem, here am I known only as a gray palmer at the
holy shrines, but from the Rhine to Ratisbon and Rome am I hailed as
Conrad, King of Germany and Holy Roman Emperor!"

It was now the boy's turn to start in much surprise. "Thou the great
emperor--and in palmer's garb?" he said. "Where, then, are thy followers,
valiant Conrad?"

"Six thousand worn and weary knights camp under the shadow of Acre's
walls," replied the emperor, sadly, "the sole remains of that gallant
train of close on ninety thousand knights who followed the banner of the
Cross from distant Ratisbon. Greek traitors and Arab spears have slain the
rest, and I am come, a simple pilgrim, to do deep penance at the holy
shrines, and thereafter to help thee, noble boy, in thy struggles 'gainst
the Saracen."

"And the King of France?" asked Baldwin.

"King Louis is even now at Antioch, with barely seven thousand of his
seventy thousand Frankish knights," the emperor replied. "The rest fell,
even as did mine, by Greek craft, by shipwreck, and by Infidel device."

It is a sad story--the record of the Second Crusade. From first to last it
tells but of disaster and distress amidst which only one figure stands out
bright and brave and valorous--the figure of the youthful king, the boy
Crusader, Baldwin, of Jerusalem. It was a critical time in the Crusader's
kingdom. The old enthusiasm that had burned in Duke Godfrey's followers
had been dulled by forty years of Syrian listlessness. Fierce foes without
and treacherous feuds within harassed and weakened the Christian kingdom.
Edessa, its strongest outpost, fell before the Saracens. Jerusalem was
threatened. The Holy Sepulchre was in danger; and though King Baldwin was
a valiant lad the old Bible saying was fast being proved: "Every kingdom
divided against itself is brought to desolation." France and Germany,
roused at last to action by the glowing eloquence of St. Bernard, poured
their thousands eastward, and Europe felt again the tramp of armies
marching under the Red-Cross banner on a new Crusade. But from Hungary to
Syria disaster followed disaster, and of the thousands of knights and
spearmen who entered the Crusade only a miserable remnant reached
Palestine, led on by Conrad, Emperor of Germany, and Louis, King of
France. The land they came to succor was full of jealousy and feud, and
the brave boy king alone gave them joyful welcome. But young Baldwin had
pluck and vigor enough to counterbalance a host of laggards.

"Knights and barons of Jerusalem," he said, as he and the pilgrim emperor
entered the audience-hall, "'t is for us to act. Lay we aside all paltry
jealousy and bickering. Our brothers from the West are here to aid us. 'T
is for us to wield the sword of Godfrey and raise the banner of the Cross,
and marching in the van deal death to the pagan Saracen. Up, guardians of
the Holy Sepulchre, strike for the Kingdom and the Cross!"

The Syrian climate breeds laziness, but it also calls out quick passion
and the fire of excitement. Catching the inspiration of the boy's earnest
spirit, the whole assemblage of knights and barons, prelates and people,
shouted their approval, and the audience-chamber rang again and again with
the war-cry of the Crusaders, "_Dieu li volt! Dieu li volt!_"[M]

Erelong, within the walls of Acre, the three crusading kings, the monarchs
of Germany, of France, and of Jerusalem, resolved to strike a sudden and
terrible blow at Saracen supremacy, and to win glory by an entirely new
conquest, full of danger and honor--the storming of the city of Damascus.
Oldest and fairest of Syrian cities, Damascus, called by the old Roman
emperors the "eye of all the East," rises from the midst of orchards and
gardens, flowering vines, green meadows, and waving palms; the mountains
of Lebanon look down upon it from the west, and far to the east stretches
the dry and sandy plain of the great Syrian desert. Full of wealth and
plenty, deemed a paradise by Saracens and Christians alike, the beautiful
city offered to the eager crusading host a rich and wonderful booty.

With banners streaming and trumpets playing their loudest, with armor and
lance-tips gleaming in the sun, the army of the Crusaders, a hundred
thousand strong, wound down the slopes and passes of the Lebanon hills and
pitched their camp around the town of Dareya, in the green plain of
Damascus, scarce four miles distant from the city gates. Then the princes
and leaders assembled for counsel as to the plan and manner of assault
upon the triple walls.

The camp of King Baldwin and the soldiers of Jerusalem lay in advance of
the allies of France and Germany, and nearer the beleaguered city, as the
place of honor for the brave young leader who led the van of battle. From
the looped-up entrance to a showy pavilion in the centre of King Baldwin's
camp, the fair young maiden, Isabelle of Tyre, who, as was the custom of
the day, had come with other high-born ladies to the place of siege,
looked out upon the verdant and attractive gardens that stretched before
her close up to the walls of Damascus. A lovelier scene could scarcely be
imagined, and to the Crusaders, wearied with their march, under a burning
July sun, across the rugged and tedious steeps of Lebanon, the rich
landscape, bright with golden apricots, brilliant pomegranate blossoms,
full-leaved foliage and flowering vines, all springing from a carpet of
living green, was wonderfully attractive. To the little Lady Isabelle the
temptation was too strong to be resisted, and she readily yielded to a
suggestion from young Renaud de Chatillon, a heedless and headstrong
Frankish page, who "double-dared" her, even as boys and girls do nowadays,
to go flower-picking in the enemy's gardens. Together they left the
pavilion, and, passing the tired outposts unperceived, strolled idly down
to the green banks of the little river that flowed through the gardens and
washed the walls of Damascus. The verdant river-bank was strewn thick with
flowers and the fallen scarlet blossoms of the pomegranate, while luscious
apricots hung within easy reach, and the deep shade of the walnut trees
gave cool and delightful shelter. What wonder that the heedless young
people lost all thought of danger in the beauty around them, and,
wandering on a little and still a little farther from the protection of
their own camp, were soon deep in the mazes of the dangerous gardens.

But suddenly they heard a great stir in the grove beyond them; they
started in terror as a clash of barbaric music, of cymbals and of atabals,
sounded on their ears, and, in an instant, they found themselves
surrounded by a swarm of swarthy Saracens. The Lady Isabelle was soon a
struggling prisoner, but nimble young Renaud, swifter-footed and more wary
than his companion, escaped from the grasp of his white-robed captor,
tripped up the heels of a fierce-eyed Saracen with a sudden twist learned
in the tilt-yard, and sped like the wind toward King Baldwin's camp,
shouting as he ran: "Rescue, rescue from the Infidels!" Out of the
Crusader's camp poured swift and speedy succor: a flight of spears and
arrows came from either band, but the dividing distance was too great, and
with a yell of triumph the Saracens and their fair young captive were lost
in the thick shadows. Straight into King Baldwin's camp sped Renaud, still
shouting: "Rescue, rescue! the Lady Isabelle is prisoner!" Straight
through the aroused and swarming camp to where, within the walls of
Dareya, the crusading chiefs still sat in council. Down at King Baldwin's
feet he dropped, and cried breathlessly: "My lord King, the Lady Isabelle
is prisoner to the Saracens!"

"Isa a prisoner!" exclaimed the young king, springing to his feet.
"Rescue, rescue, my lords, for the sweet little lady of Tyre! Let who
will, follow me straight to the camp of the Unbelievers!"

There was a hasty mounting of steeds among the Crusader's tents; a hasty
bracing-up of armor and settling of casques; shields were lifted high and
spears were laid in rest, and, followed by a hundred knights, the boy
Crusader dashed impetuously from his camp and charged into the thick
gardens that held his captive cousin. His action was quicker than
Isabelle's captors had anticipated; for, halting ere they rode within the
city, the Saracens had placed her within one of the little palisaded
towers scattered through the gardens for the purpose of defence.
Quick-witted and ready-eared, the little lady ceased her sobs as she heard
through the trees the well-known "_Beausant!_" the war-cry of the Knights
of the Temple, and the ringing shout of "A Baldwin to the rescue!" Leaning
far out of the little tower, she shook her crimson scarf, and cried
shrilly: "Rescue, rescue for a Christian maiden!" King Baldwin saw the
waving scarf and heard his cousin's cry. Straight through the hedgeway he
charged, a dozen knights at his heels; a storm of Saracen arrows rattled
against shield and hauberk, but the palisades were soon forced, the
swarthy captors fell before the levelled lances of the rescuers, the lady
Isabelle sprang from the grasp of a Saracen rider to the arms of the king,
and then, wheeling around, the gallant band sped back toward the camp ere
the bewildered Saracens could recover from their surprise. But the
reaction comes full soon, and now from every quarter flutter the white
_bournous_, the striped _aba_, the red and yellow _keffiah_ of the Saracen
horsemen. They swarm from garden, and tower, and roadway, and through the
opened city gates fresh troops of horsemen dash down the wide causeway
that crosses the narrow river. With equal speed the camp of the Crusaders,
fully roused, is pouring forth its thousands, and King Baldwin sees, with
the joy of a practised warrior, that the foolish freak of a thoughtless
little maiden has brought about a great and glorious battle. The rescued
Isabelle is quickly given in charge of a trusty squire, who bears her back
to camp, and then, at the head of the forward battle, the boy Crusader
bears down upon the Saracen host, shouting: "Ho, knights and barons,
gallant brothers of the Cross, follow me, and death to the Infidel."

The battle is fairly joined. The great Red-Cross banner flames out upon
the breeze; behind it stream the black war-flag of the Temple and the
eight-pointed Cross of the Hospital; right and left press the Oriflamme of
France and the Imperial Eagle of Germany, while above the tossing mass of
spears and pennons and mail-clad knights rise the mingling war-cries of
"_Beausant!_" "St. Denys!" and "St. George!" and the deeper and more
universal shout of the Crusaders' battle-cries: "_Christus vincit!_" and
"_Dieu li volt!_"[N]

Rank on rank, with spears in rest and visors closed, the crusading knights
charge to the assault. Fast behind the knights press the footmen--De
Mowbray's English archers, King Louis' cross-bowmen, Conrad's spearmen,
and the javelin-men of Jerusalem. Before the fury of the onset the mass of
muffled Arabs and armored Saracens break and yield, but from hedge and
tower and loop-holed wall fresh flights of arrows and of javelins rain
down upon the Christian host, and the green gardens of Damascus are torn
and trampled with the fury of the battle. Above King Baldwin's head still
streams the sacred banner; his cross-handled sword is dyed with Saracen
blood, and his clear young voice rings loud above the din: "Christian
warriors; generous defenders of the Cross; fight--fight on as fought our
fathers!"

"_Beausant!_" rings the cry of the Templars; "A Baldwin--a Baldwin for
Jerusalem!" shout the boy king's knights. The "_Allah il Allah!_" and the
wild war-shouts of the Saracens grow less and less defiant; the
entrenchments are stormed, the palisades and towers are forced, the enemy
turn and flee, and by the "never-failing valiancy" of the boy Crusader and
his followers the gardens of Damascus are in the hands of the Christian
knights.

But now fresh aid pours through the city gates. New bodies of Saracens
press to the attack, and, led in person by Anar, Prince of Damascus, the
defeated host rallies for a final stand upon the verdant river-banks of
the clear-flowing Barada.

Again the battle rages furiously. Still Baldwin leads the van, and around
his swaying standard rally the knights of Jerusalem and the soldier-monks
of the Temple and the Hospital. Twice are they driven backward by the
fury of the Saracen resistance, and young Renaud de Chatillon, battling
bravely to retrieve his thoughtless action, which brought on the battle,
is forced to yield to another lad of eleven, a brown-faced Kurdish boy,
who in after years is to be hailed as the conqueror of the
Crusaders--Saladin, the greatest of the Sultans. The battle wavers. The
French knights can only hold their ground in stubborn conflict; the
heathen mass grows denser round the Red-Cross banner, the soldiers of
Jerusalem are thrown into disorder, and the boy-leader's horse, pierced by
a spear-thrust, falls with his rider on a losing field. "_Allah il
Allah!_" rings the shrill war-cry of the Turkish host, and the Crescent
presses down the Cross. But hark! a new cry swells upon the air. "A
Conrad! Ho, a Conrad! Rescue for the Cross!" and through the tangled and
disordered mass of the cavalry of France and Palestine bursts the stalwart
German emperor and a thousand dismounted knights. The Saracen lines fall
back before the charge, while in bold defiance the sword of the emperor
gleams above his crest. As if in acceptance of his unproclaimed challenge,
a gigantic Saracen emir, sheathed in complete armor, strides out before
the pagan host, and the fiercely raging battle stops on the instant, while
the two great combatants face each other alone. Their great swords gleam
in the air. With feint and thrust, and stroke and skilful parry the
champions wage the duel of the giants, till suddenly, in one of those
feats of strength and skill that stand out as a marvellous battle-act,
the sword of the emperor with a single mighty stroke cleaves through the
Saracen's armor-covered body, and the gigantic emir, cut completely in
twain, falls bleeding at his conqueror's feet. The Turks break in dismay
as their champion falls. Young Baldwin rallies his disordered forces, the
war-cries mingle with the trumpet-peal, and, on foot, at the head of their
knights, the two kings lead one last charge against the enemy and drive
the fleeing host within the city walls. With shouts of victory, the
Christian army encamp upon the field their valor has conquered, and
Damascus is almost won.

Within the city, now filled with fears of plunder and of death,
preparations for flight were made, and in the great mosque women and
children invoked the aid of Mahomet to shield them from an enemy more
relentless than Arab or Saracen--a host whose banner-cry was dark and
terrible: "Cursed be he who does not stain his sword with blood." The city
seemed doomed to capture. But--"there is many a slip 'twixt the cup and
the lip." In the camp of the Crusaders the exultant leaders were already
quarrelling over whose domain the conquered city should be when once its
gates were opened to Christian victors. The Syrian princes, the great
lords of the West, the monkish Knights of the Temple and of the Hospital,
alike claimed the prize, and the old fable of the hunters who fought for
the possession of the lion's skin even before the lion was captured was
once more illustrated. For, meantime, in the palace at Damascus, the
captive page Renaud stood before the Saracen Prince Anar, and the Prince
asked the boy: "As between thine honor and thy head, young Christian,
which wouldst thou desire to keep?"

"So please your Highness," replied the wise and politic young page, "my
honor, if it may be kept with my head; but if not--why then, what were
mine honor worth to me without my head?"

"Thou art a shrewd young Frank," said the Prince Anar. "But thou mayst
keep thy head and, perchance, thine honor too, if that thou canst hold thy
ready tongue in check. Bear thou this scroll in secret to the Nazarene
whom men do call Bernard, Grand Master of those dogs of Eblis, the Knights
of the Temple, and, hark ye, see that no word of this scroll cometh to the
young King Baldwin, else shall the bow-strings of my slaves o'ertake thee.
Go; thou art free!"

"My life upon the safe delivery of thy scroll, great Prince," said young
Renaud, overjoyed to be freed so easily, and, soon in the Crusaders' camp,
he sought the Grand Master and handed him the scroll in secret. The face
of the Templar was dark with envy and anger, for his counsels and the
claims of the Syrian lords had been set aside, and the princedom of
Damascus which he had coveted had been promised to a Western baron.

"So," said the Grand Master, as he read the scroll, "the Count of Flanders
may yet be balked. What says the emir? Three casks of bezants and the
city of Cæsarea for the Templars if this siege be raised. 'T is a princely
offer and more than can be gained from these Flemish boors."

"Gallant lords and mighty princes," he said, with well-assumed candor,
returning to the council. "'T is useless for us to hope to force the gates
through this mass of gardens, where men do but fight in the dark. Rather
let us depart to the desert side of the city, where, so say my spies, the
walls are weaker and less stoutly protected. These may soon be carried.
Then may we gain the city for the noble Count of Flanders, ere that the
Emir Noureddin, who, I learn, is coming with a mighty force of Infidels,
shall succor the city and keep it from the soldiers of the Cross."

This craftily given advice seemed wise, and the crusading camp was quickly
withdrawn from the beautiful and well-watered gardens to the dry and arid
desert before the easterly walls of the city. Fatal mistake! the walls
proved stout and unassailable, the desert could not support the life of so
large an army, whose supplies were speedily wasted, and through the
gardens the Christians had deserted fresh hosts of Arabs poured into the
city. Victory gave place to defeat and rejoicing to despair. Days of
fruitless assault were followed by nights of dissension, and finally the
crusading host, worn by want and divided in counsel, abruptly ended a
siege they could no longer maintain. But in the final council young
Baldwin pleaded for renewed endeavor.

"And is it thus, my lords," he said, "that ye do give up the fairest prize
in Syria, and stand recreant to your vows as valiant soldiers of the
Cross?"

[Illustration: Conrad the Emperor quitting the Crusade.]

"King Baldwin," said Conrad, "thou art a brave and gallant youth, and were
all like thee, our swords had not been drawn in vain. But youth and valor
may not hope to cope with greed. We are deceived. We have suffered from
treason where it should have least been feared, and more deadly than
Saracen arrows are the secret stabs of thy barons of Syria."

"Now, by the Forty Martyrs," cried the young king hotly, "what thou dost
claim I may not disprove by words; for here have been strange and secret
doings. But for the honor of my country and my crown I may not idly
listen to thy condemning speech. I dare thee to the battle-test, emperor
and champion though thou be. Conrad of Germany, there lies my gage!"

"Brave youth," said Conrad, picking up the boy's mailed glove, so
impetuously flung before him, and handing it to Baldwin with gentle
courtesy, "this may not be. For even did not our vows under the 'Truce of
God' forbid all personal quarrels, it is not for such a noble-hearted lad
as thou to longer stand the champion for traitors."

So the victory, almost assured by the intrepidity of the boy Crusader, was
lost through the treachery of his followers; but it is at least some
satisfaction to know that the betrayers were themselves betrayed, and that
the three casks of golden bezants proved to be when opened but worthless
brass.

King Louis and Conrad the Emperor returned to their European dominions in
anger and disgust.

The Second Crusade, which had cost so terribly in life and treasure, was a
miserable failure, with only a boy's bravery to light up its dreary
history. Sadly disappointed at the result of his efforts, young Baldwin
still held his energy and valor unsubdued. For years he maintained his
kingdom intact in the midst of intrigue and corruption, and, victorious
over the Saracens at the battle of the Mount of Olives and at the Siege of
Ascalon, he proved his right to be entitled a successful leader and "the
model knight."

Free-handed, chivalrous, handsome, brave, and generous, he is a pleasant
picture to contemplate amidst the darkness, distrust, and greed of those
old crusading days. Beloved by all alike--Saracen as well as
Christian--his name has come down to us as that of "the most high-minded
of the Latin kings of Jerusalem."

Poisoned by his Arab physician, who loved the young king while hating so
stout a foe to the cause of Mahomet, he died at thirty-three, mourned by
all Jerusalem; even his generous foe, the Saracen Noureddin, refusing to
take advantage of his rival's death. "Allah forbid," said this chivalrous
Oriental, "that I should disturb the proper grief of a people who are
weeping for the loss of so good a king, or fix upon such an opportunity to
attack a kingdom which I have now no reason to fear."

The history of the Crusades is the story of two hundred years of strife
and battle, relieved only by some bright spots when the flash of a heroic
life lights up the blackness of superstition and of cruelty. And among its
valiant knights, equal in honor and courage and courtesy with Godfrey and
Tancred and Richard of England and Saladin and St. Louis, will ever stand
the name and fame of this gallant young ruler of the short-lived Latin
kingdom of Jerusalem--Baldwin, the Boy Crusader.

FOOTNOTES:

[M] "It is the will of God!"

[N] "Christ conquers," and "It is the will of God."




                       [Illustration]

                             VI.

         FREDERICK OF HOHENSTAUFEN: THE BOY EMPEROR.

   (_Afterward Frederick the Second, Emperor of Germany._)

                        [A.D. 1207.]


Gleaming with light and beauty, from the wavy sea-line where the blue
Mediterranean rippled against the grim fortress of Castellamare to the
dark background of olive groves and rising mountain walls, Palermo, "city
of the golden shell," lay bathed in all the glory of an Italian afternoon
one bright spring day in the year 1207.

Up the Cassaro, or street of the palace, and out through the massive
gate-way of that curious old Sicilian city,--half Saracen, half Norman in
its looks and life,--a small company of horsemen rode rapidly westward to
where the square yellow towers of La Zisa rose above its orange groves.
Now La Zisa was one of the royal pleasure-houses, a relic of the days when
the swarthy Saracens were lords of Sicily.

In the sun-lit gardens of La Zisa, a small but manly-looking lad of
thirteen, with curly, golden hair and clear blue eyes, stood beneath the
citron trees that bordered a beautiful little lake. A hooded falcon
perched upon his wrist, and by his side stood his brown-skinned attendant,
Abderachman the Saracen.

"But will it stay hooded, say'st thou?" the boy inquired, as he listened
with satisfaction to the tinkling bells of the nodding bird which
Abderachman had just taught him to hood. "Can he not shake it off?"

"Never fear for that, little Mightiness," the Saracen replied. "He is as
safely blinded as was ever the eagle of Kairewan, whose eyes the Emir took
for his crescent-tips, or even as thou art, O _el Aaziz_,[O] by thy barons
of Apulia."[P]

The look of pleasure faded from the boy's face.

"Thou say'st truly, O Abderachman," he said. "What am I but a hooded
falcon? I, a king who am no king! Would that thou and I could fly far from
this striving world, and in those great forests over sea of which thou
hast told me, could chase the lion like bold, free hunters of the Berber
hills."

"Wait in patience, O _el Aaziz_; to each man comes his day," said the
philosophic Saracen. "What says the blessed Koran: 'Allah is
all-sufficient and propitious to such as put their trust in him.'"

But now there was heard a rustle of the citron hedge, a clatter of hoofs
rang on the shell-paved roadway, and the armed band that we saw spurring
through Palermo's gates drew rein at the lake-side. The leader, a burly
German knight, who bore upon his crest a great boar's head with jewelled
eyes and gleaming silver tusks, leaped from his horse and strode up to the
boy. His bow of obeisance was scarcely more than a nod.

"Your Highness must come with me," he said, "and that at once."

The boy looked at him in protest. "Nay, Baron Kapparon,--am I never to be
at my ease?" he asked. "Let me, I pray thee, play out my day here at La
Zisa, even as thou didst promise me."

"Tush, boy; promise must yield to need," said the Knight of the Crested
Boar. "The galleys of Diephold of Acerra even now ride in the Cala port,
and think'st thou I will yield thee to his guidance? Come! At the palace
wait decrees and grants which thou must sign for me ere the Aloe-stalk
shall say us nay."

"Must!" cried the boy, as an angry flush covered his face; "who sayeth
'_must_' to the son of Henry the Emperor? Who sayeth 'must' to the
grandson of Barbarossa? Stand off, churl of Kapparon! To me, Sicilians
all! To me, sons of the Prophet!" and, breaking away from the grasp of the
burly knight, young Frederick of Hohenstaufen dashed across the small
stone bridge that led to the marble pavilion in the little lake. But only
Abderachman the Saracen crossed to him. The wrath of the Knight of
Kapparon was more dreaded than the commands of a little captive king.

The burly baron laughed a mocking laugh. "Well blown, _ser Sirocco_!"[Q]
he said, insolently, "but for all that, your Mightiness, I fear me, must
bide with me, churl though I be. Come, we waste words!" and he moved
toward the lad, who stood at bay upon the little bridge.

Young Frederick slipped his falcon's leash. "Cross at thy peril, Baron
Kapparon!" he cried; "one step more, and I unhood my falcon and send him
straight to thy disloyal eyes. Ware the bird! His flight is certain, and
his pounce is sharp!" The boy's fair face grew more defiant as he spoke,
and William of Kapparon, who knew the young lad's skill at falconry,
hesitated at the threat.

But as boy and baron faced each other in defiance, there was another stir
of the citron hedge, and another rush of hurrying hoofs. A second armed
band closed in upon the scene, and a second knightly leader sprang to the
ground. A snow-white plume trailed over the new-comer's crest, and on his
three-cornered shield was blazoned a solitary aloe-stalk, sturdy, tough,
and unyielding.

"Who threatens the King of Sicily?" he demanded, as, sword in hand, he
stepped upon the little bridge.

The German baron faced his new antagonist. "So! is it thou, Count
Diephold; is it thou, Aloe of Acerra?" he said. "By what right dar'st thou
to question the Baron of Kapparon, guardian of the king, and Chief
Captain of Sicily?"

"'Guardian,' forsooth! 'Chief Captain,' say'st thou?" cried the Count of
Acerra, angrily. "Pig of Kapparon, robber and pirate, yield up the boy! I,
who was comrade of Henry the Emperor, will stand guardian for his son. Ho,
buds of the Aloe, strike for your master's weal!"

There is a flash of steel as the two leaders cross ready swords. There is
a rush of thronging feet as the followers of each prepare for fight. There
is a mingling of battle-cries--"Ho, for the Crested Boar of Kapparon!"
"Stand, for the Aloe of Acerra!"--when for the third time the purple
citron-flowers sway and break, as a third band of armed men spur to the
lake-side. Through the green of the foliage flashes the banner of
Sicily,--the golden eagle on the blood-red field,--and the ringing voice
of a third leader rises above the din. "Ho, liegemen of the Church! rescue
for the ward of the Pope! Rescue for the King of Sicily!"

The new-comer, Walter of Palear, the "fighting Bishop of Catania" (as he
was called) and Chancellor of Sicily, reined in his horse between the
opposing bands of the Boar and the Aloe. His richly broidered cope,
streaming back, showed his coat of mail beneath, as, with lifted sword, he
shouted:

"Hold your hands, lords of Apulia! stay spears and stand aside. Yield up
the king to me--to me, the Chancellor of the realm!"

[Illustration: "CROSS AT THY PERIL, BARON KAPPARON," CRIED FREDERICK OF
HOHENSTAUFEN.]

"Off now, thou false Chancellor!" cried Count Diephold. "Think'st thou
that the revenues of Sicily are for thy treasure-chest alone? Ho, Boars
and Aloes both; down with this French fox, and up with Sicily!"

"Seize the boy and hold him hostage!" shouted William of Kapparon, and
with extended arm he strode toward poor little Frederick. With a sudden
and nimble turn, the boy dodged the clutch of the baron's mailed fist, and
putting one hand on the coping of the bridge, without a moment's
hesitation, he vaulted over into the lake. Abderachman the Saracen sprang
after him.

"How now, thou pig-headed pirate of Kapparon," broke out Count Diephold;
"thou shalt pay dearly for this, if the lad doth drown!"

But Frederick was a good swimmer, and the lake was not deep. The falcon on
his wrist fluttered and tugged at its jess, disturbed by this unexpected
bath; but the boy held his hand high above his head and, supported by the
Saracen, soon reached the shore. Here the retainers of the Chancellor
crowded around him, and springing to the saddle of a ready war-horse, the
lad shouted: "Ho, for Palermo, all! which chief shall first reach St.
Agatha's gate with me, to him will I yield myself!" and, wheeling his
horse, he dashed through the mingled bands and sped like an arrow through
the gardens of La Zisa.

The three contesting captains looked at one another in surprise.

"The quarry hath slipped," laughed Count Diephold. "By St. Nicholas of
Myra, though, the lad is of the true Suabian eagle's brood. Try we the
test, my lords."

There was a sudden mounting of steeds, a hurrying gallop after the flying
king; but the Chancellor's band, being already in the saddle, had the
advantage, and as young King Frederick and Walter the Chancellor passed
under St. Agatha's pointed arch, the knights of the Crested Boar and of
the Aloe-stalk saw in much disgust the great-gate close in their faces,
and they were left on the wrong side of Palermo's walls,--outwitted by a
boy.

But the baffled knights were not the men to give up the chase so easily.
Twenty Pisan galleys, manned by Count Diephold's fighting men, lay in the
Cala port of Palermo. That very night, they stormed under the walls of
Castellamare, routed the Saracens of the royal guard, sent Walter the
Chancellor flying for his life toward Messina; and, with young Frederick
in his power, Diephold, the usurping Count of Acerra, ruled Sicily in the
name of the poor little king.

In the royal palace at Palermo, grand and gorgeous with columns and
mosaics and gilded walls, this boy of thirteen--Frederick of Hohenstaufen,
Emperor-elect of Germany, King of Sicily, and "Lord of the World"--sat,
the day after his capture by Count Diephold, sad, solitary, and forlorn.

The son of Henry the Sixth of Germany, the most victorious but most cruel
of the Hohenstaufen emperors, and of Constance the Empress, daughter of
Roger, the great Norman King of Sicily, Frederick had begun life on
December the twenty-sixth, 1194, as heir to two powerful kingdoms. His
birth had been the occasion of great rejoicings, and vassal princes and
courtier poets had hailed him as "the Imperial Babe, the Glory of Italy,
the Heir of the Cæsars, the Reformer of the World and the Empire!" When
but two years old he had been proclaimed King of the Romans and
Emperor-elect of Germany, and, when but three, he had, on the death of his
father, been crowned King of Sicily and Apulia, in the great cathedral of
Palermo.

But in all those two sovereignties, no sadder-hearted nor lonelier lad
could have been found than this boy of thirteen, this solitary and
friendless orphan, this Frederick of Hohenstaufen, the boy emperor. In
Germany his uncle, Philip of Suabia, disputed with Otho of Brunswick for
the imperial crown. And beautiful Sicily, the land of his birth, the land
over which he was acknowledged as king, was filled with war and blood.
From the lemon groves of Messina to the flowery slopes of Palermo, noble
and priest, Christian and Saracen, French and German, strove for power and
ravaged the land with fire and sword. Deprived sometimes of even the
necessities of life, deserted by those who should have stood loyal to him,
often hungry and always friendless, shielded from absolute want only by
the pity of the good burghers of Palermo, used in turn by every faction
and made the excuse for every feud, this heir to so great power was
himself the most powerless of kings, the most unhappy of boys. And now, as
he sits in his gleaming palace, uncertain where to turn for help, all his
sad young heart goes into an appealing letter which has come down to us
across the centuries, and a portion of which is here given to complete the
dismal picture of this worried young monarch of long ago:

"To all the kings of the world and to all the princes of the universe, the
innocent boy, King of Sicily, called Frederick: Greeting in God's name!
Assemble yourselves, ye nations; draw nigh, ye princes, and see if any
sorrow be like unto my sorrow! My parents died ere I could know their
caresses, and I, a gentle lamb among wolves, fell into slavish dependence
upon men of various tribes and tongues. My daily bread, my drink, my
freedom, all are measured out to me in scanty proportion. No king am I. I
am ruled, instead of ruling. I beg favors, instead of granting them. Again
and again I beseech you, O ye princes of the earth, to aid me to withstand
slaves, to set free the son of Cæsar, to raise up the crown of the
kingdom, and to gather together again the scattered people!"

But it is a long lane that has no turning, and before many months another
change came in the kaleidoscope of this young king's fortunes. Pope
Innocent the Third had been named by the Empress Constance as guardian of
her orphaned boy. To him Walter the Chancellor appealed for aid. Knights
and galleys were soon in readiness. Palermo was stormed. Count Diephold
was overthrown and imprisoned in the castle dungeon. Kapparon and his
Pisan allies and Saracen serfs were driven out of Sicily, and the "Son of
Cæsar" reigned as king once more. Then came a new alliance. Helped on by
the Pope, a Spanish friendship ripened into a speedy marriage. Frederick
was declared of age when he reached his fourteenth birthday, and a few
months after, on the fifteenth of August, 1209, amid great rejoicings
which filled Palermo with brilliancy and crowded its narrow and crooked
streets with a glittering throng, the "Boy of Apulia," as he was called,
was married to the wise and beautiful Constance, the daughter of Alfonso,
King of Arragon. This alliance gave the young husband the desired
opportunity; for, with five hundred foreign knights at his back he
asserted his authority over his rebellious subjects as King of Sicily. The
poor little prince, whose childhood had known only misfortune and
unhappiness, became a prince indeed, and, boy though he was, took so manly
and determined a stand that, ere the year was out, his authority was
supreme from the walls of Palermo to the Straits of Messina.

Meantime, in Germany, affairs had been going from bad to worse.
Frederick's uncle, Philip of Suabia, had been assassinated at Bamberg, and
Otho of Brunswick, head of the House of Guelf, crossed the Alps, was
crowned Emperor at Rome in defiance of young Frederick's claim to the
Imperial throne, and marched into Southern Italy, threatening the conquest
of his boy rival's Sicilian kingdom.

Again trouble threatened the youthful monarch. Anxious faces looked
seaward from the castle towers; and, hopeless of withstanding any attack
from Otho's hardy and victorious troops, Frederick made preparations for
flight when once his gigantic rival should thunder at Palermo's gates.

"Tidings, my lord King; tidings from the north!" said Walter the
Chancellor, entering the king's apartment one bright November day in the
year 1211. "Here rides a galley from Gaeta in the Cala port, and in it
comes the Suabian knight Anselm von Justingen, with a brave and trusty
following. He beareth word to thee, my lord, from Frankfort and from
Rome."

"How, then; has Otho some new design against our crown?" said Frederick.
"I pray thee, good Chancellor, give the Knight of Suabia instant
audience."

And soon, through the Gothic door-way of that gorgeous palace of the old
Norman and older Saracen lords of Sicily, came the bluff German knight
Anselm von Justingen, bringing into its perfumed air some of the strength
and resoluteness of his sturdy Suabian breezes. With a deep salutation, he
greeted the royal boy.

"Hail, O King!" he said. "I bring thee word of note. Otho, the Guelf, whom
men now call Emperor, is speeding toward the north. Never more need Sicily
fear his grip. The throne which he usurps is shaken and disturbed. The
world needs an emperor who can check disorders and bring it life and
strength. Whose hand may do this so surely as thine--the illustrious Lord
Frederick of the grand old Hohenstaufen line, the elect King of the
Romans, the Lord of Sicily?"

Frederick's eye flashed and his cheek flushed at the grand prospect thus
suddenly opened before him. But he replied slowly and thoughtfully.

"By laws human and by right divine," he said, "the Holy Roman Empire is my
inheritance. But canst thou speak for the princes of the empire?"

"Ay, that can I," said the knight; "I bear with me papers signed and sent
by them. We have each of us examined as to our will. We have gone through
all the customary rights. And we all in common, O King, turn our eyes to
thee."

"I thank the princes for their faith and fealty," said Frederick; "but can
they be trusty liegemen to a boy emperor?"

"Though young in years, O King," said the Suabian, "thou art old in
character; though not fully grown in person, thy mind hath been by nature
wonderfully endowed. Thou dost exceed the common measure of thine equals;
thou art blest with virtues before thy day, as doth become one of the true
blood of that august stock, the Cæsars of Germany. Thou wilt surely
increase the honor and might of the empire and the happiness of us, thy
loyal subjects."

"And the Pope?" queried the boy; for in those days the Pope of Rome was
the "spiritual lord" of the Christian world. To him all emperors, kings,
and princes owed allegiance as obedient vassals. To assume authority
without the Pope's consent and blessing meant trouble and excommunication.
Frederick knew this, and knew also that his former guardian, Pope
Innocent, had, scarce two years before, himself crowned his rival Otho of
Brunswick as Emperor of Germany.

"I am even now from Rome," replied Von Justingen; "and the Holy Father,
provoked beyond all patience at the unrighteous ways of this emperor,
falsely so called, hath excommunicated Otho, hath absolved the princes
from their oath of fealty, and now sends to thee, Frederick of
Hohenstaufen, his blessing and his bidding that thou go forward and enter
upon thine inheritance."

The young Sicilian sat for some moments deep in thought. It was a tempting
bait--this of an imperial crown--to one who felt it to be his by right,
but who had never dared to expect nor aspire to it.

"Von Justingen," he said at last, "good knight and true I know thou art,
loyal to the House of Staufen, and loyal to thy German fatherland. 'T is a
royal offer and a danger-fraught attempt. But what man dares, that dare I!
When duty calls, foul be his fame who shrinketh from the test. The blood
of kings is mine; like a king, then, will I go forward to my heritage, and
win or die in its achieving!"

"There flashed the Hohenstaufen fire," said the delighted Von Justingen;
"there spoke the spirit of thy grandsire, the glorious old Kaiser Red
Beard! Come thou with me to Germany, my prince. We will make thee Cæsar
indeed, though the false Otho and all his legions are thundering at
Frankfort gates."

So, in spite of the entreaties of his queen, and the protests of his
Sicilian lords, who doubted the wisdom of the undertaking, the young
monarch hurried forward the preparations for his perilous attempt. The
love of adventure, which has impelled many another boy to face risk and
danger, flamed high in the heart of this lad of seventeen, as, with
undaunted spirit, he sought to press forward for the prize of an imperial
throne. On March the eighteenth, 1212, the "Emperor of the Romans Elect,"
as he already styled himself, set out from orange-crowned Palermo on the
"quest for his heritage" in the bleak and rugged north. The galley sped
swiftly over the blue Mediterranean to the distant port of Gaeta, and upon
its deck the four chosen comrades that formed his little band gathered
around the fair-haired young prince, who, by the daring deeds that drew
him from Palermo's sun-lit walls, was to make for himself a name and fame
that should send him down to future ages as _Stupor Mundi
Fredericus_--"Frederick, the Wonder of the World!" In all history there is
scarcely to be found a more romantic tale of wandering than this story of
the adventures of young Frederick of Hohenstaufen in search of his empire.

From Palermo to strong-walled Gaeta, the "Gibraltar of Italy," from Gaeta
on to Rome, he sailed with few adventures, and here he knelt before the
Pope, who, as he had crowned and discrowned Otho of Brunswick, the big and
burly rival of his fair young ward, now blessed and aided the "Boy from
Sicily," and helped him on his way with money and advice. From Rome to
Genoa, under escort of four Genoese galleys, the boy next cautiously
sailed; for all the coast swarmed with the armed galleys of Pisa, the
staunch supporter of the discrowned Otho. With many a tack and many a turn
the galleys headed north, while the watchful look-outs scanned the horizon
for hostile prows. On the first of May, the peril of Pisa was past, and
Genoa's gates were opened to receive him. Genoa was called the "door" to
his empire, but foes and hardships lay in wait for him behind the friendly
door. On the fifteenth of July, the boy and his escort of Genoese lancers
climbed the steep slopes of the Ligurian hills and struck across the
plains of Piedmont for the walls of Pavia, the "city of the hundred
towers." The gates of the grand old Lombard capital flew open to welcome
him, and royally attended, with a great crimson canopy held above his
head, and knights and nobles following in his train, the "Child of Apulia"
rode through the echoing streets.

But Milan lay to the north, and Piacenza to the south, both fiercely
hostile cities, while the highway between Pavia and Cremona rang with the
war-cries of the partisans of Otho, the Guelf. So, secretly, and at
midnight, the Pavian escort rode with the boy out through their city
gates, and moved cautiously along the valley of the Po, to where, at the
ford of the Lambro, the knights of Cremona waited in the dark of an early
Sunday morning to receive their precious charge. And none too soon did
they reach the ford; for, scarcely was the young emperor spurring on
toward Cremona, when the Milanese troops, in hot pursuit, dashed down upon
the returning Pavian escort, and routed it with great loss. But the boy
rode on unharmed; and soon Cremona, since famous for its wonderful
violins, hailed the young adventurer, so says the record, "as if he were
an angel of the Lord."

From Cremona on to Mantua, and then on to Verona, the boy was passed along
by friendly hands and vigilant escorts, until straight before him the
mighty wall of the Alps rose, as if to bar his further progress. But
through the great hill-rifts stretched the fair valley of the Adige; and
from Verona, city of palaces, to red-walled Trent, the boy and his
Veronese escort hurried on along the banks of the swift-flowing river.
Midway between the two cities, his escort turned back; and with but a
handful of followers the young monarch demanded admittance at the gates of
the old Roman town, which, overhung by great Alpine precipices, guards the
southern entrance to the Tyrol. Trent received him hesitatingly; and,
installed in the bishop's palace, he and his little band sought fair
escort up the valley and over the Brenner pass, the highway into Germany.
But now came dreary news.

"My lord King," said the wavering Bishop of Trent, undecided which side to
favor, "'t is death for you to cross the Brenner. From Innspruck down to
Botzen the troops of Otho of Brunswick line the mountain ways, and the
Guelf himself, so say my coursermen, is speeding on to trap your
Mightiness within the walls of Trent."

Here was a dilemma. But trouble, which comes to "Mightinesses," as well as
to untitled boys and girls, must be boldly faced before it can be
overcome.

"My Liege," said the Knight of Suabia, stout Anselm von Justingen, "before
you lie the empire and renown; behind you Italy and defeat. Which shall it
be?"

"The empire or death!" said the resolute boy.

"But Otho guards the Brenner pass, my lords," said the bishop.

"Is there none other road but this?" asked Frederick.

"None," replied Von Justingen, "save, indeed, the hunter's track across
the western mountains to the Grisons and St. Gall. But it is beset with
perils and deep with ice and snow."

"The greater the dangers faced, the greater the glory gained," said plucky
young Frederick. "Now, who will follow me, come danger or come death,
across the mountains yonder to the empire and to fortune?" and every man
of his stout little company vowed to follow him, and to stand by their
young master, the Emperor-elect.

So it was that, in the first months of the early fall, with a meagre train
of forty knights, the boy emperor boldly climbed the rugged Alpine
slopes, mounting higher and higher, and braving the dangers of glacier and
avalanche, blind paths and storm and cold, pressed manfully on toward the
peril of an uncertain empire.

But though the risk was great, no one was merrier than he. His inseparable
falcon flew at many a quarry, and his hunting-horn echoed gayly from cliff
to cliff. And when a mighty _urus_, almost the last of the great Alpine
elks, fell beneath his spear, a shout of joy went up, as German and
Italian knights hailed him as a worthy successor of the greatest of
Hohenstaufen huntsmen, his grandfather Barbarossa, the old Kaiser Red
Beard.

Thus, in much peril, but safely and swiftly, the Alpine heights were
crossed, and down the rugged slopes the travel-worn band descended to the
valley of the Plessaur and the quaint old town of Coire. Coming all
unannounced into the little town, the fair face and frank ways of the boy
captivated the good Bishop of Coire, whose word was law in that mountain
land. Still they pushed on, and, winding along the fair valley of the
Rhine, struck across the hills toward the queer old abbey-town of St.
Gall; and, with only sixty knights and a few spearmen of Appenzell, the
young monarch climbed the steps of the Ruppen, the last of the Alpine
passes that had separated him from the land of his forefathers.

But now comes the word that Otho and his knights, hurrying around from
Bregenz, are on the track of the boy, and certain of his capture. On
through St. Gall and along the gleaming lake-side the young emperor
hurries, and, riding down the last of the Alpine slopes, he sees in the
distance the walls of the strong old city of Constance glittering in the
sun.

"Ride ye forward, my lords," said the sturdy Von Justingen to the Bishop
of Coire and the Abbot of St. Gall, who rode with the king. "Gain ye due
welcome for the emperor. For if the Bishop of Constance waver in his
allegiance, and we may not win fair entrance into Constance town, we are
lost indeed," and accompanied by the Archbishop of Bari and ten trusty
knights the two mountain prelates rode on ahead.

Soon a messenger who has been sent forward comes spurring back. "Haste ye,
my Liege!" he cries. "Otho is already in sight; his pennons have been seen
by the look-out on the city towers."

The hurrying hoofs of the royal train clatter over the drawbridge and
through the great gate. Constance is won! but, hard behind, a cloud of
dust marks the swift approach of young Frederick's laggard rival, Otho,
the Guelf.

His herald's trumpet sounds a summons, and the still hesitating Bishop of
Constance with the Archbishop of Bari and the Abbot of St. Gall, backed by
the spearmen of the city band, stand forward on the walls.

"What ho, there, warders of the gate!" came the summons of the herald;
"open, open ye the gates of Constance to your master and lord, Otho the
Emperor!"

The thronging spear-tips and the swaying crests of Otho's two hundred
knights flashed in the sun, and the giant form of the big Brunswicker
strode out before his following. The sight of his dreaded master almost
awed the Bishop of Constance into submission, but the voice of young
Frederick's stanch friend and comrade, Berard, Archbishop of Bari, rang
out clear and quick.

"Tell thy master, Otho of Brunswick," he said, "that Constance gates open
only at the bidding of their rightful lord, Frederick of Hohenstaufen,
Emperor of the Romans and King of Sicily. And say thou, too, O herald,
that I, Berard, Archbishop of Bari, and Legate of our lord the Pope, do at
his command now cut off and excommunicate Otho of Brunswick from the
fellowship of all true men and the protection of the Church!"

Otho, deeply enraged at this refusal and denunciation, spurred furiously
forward, and his knights laid spears in rest to follow their leader; but
the words of excommunication decided the wavering Bishop of Constance to
side with the boy sovereign, and he commanded hastily: "Ho, warders; up
drawbridge--quick!"

The great chains clanked and tightened, the heavy drawbridge rose in air,
and Otho of Brunswick saw the portcullised gate of Constance drop heavily
before his very eyes, and knew that his cause was lost.

By just so narrow a chance did young Frederick of Hohenstaufen win his
empire.

And now it was won indeed. From every part of Germany came princes,
nobles, and knights flocking to the imperial standard. Otho retired to his
stronghold in Brunswick; and on the fifth of December, 1212, in the old
Römer, or council-house, of Frankfort, five thousand knights with the
electors of Germany welcomed the "Boy from Sicily." Four days after, in
the great cathedral of Mayence, the pointed arches and rounded dome of
which rose high above the storied Rhine, the sad little prince of but five
years back was solemnly crowned in presence of a glittering throng, which
with cheers of welcome hailed him as Emperor supreme.

And here we leave him. Only seventeen, Frederick of Hohenstaufen--the
beggar prince, the friendless orphan of Palermo, after trials and dangers
and triumphs stranger than those of any prince of fairy tales or "Arabian
Nights"--entered upon a career of empire that has placed him in history as
"one of the most remarkable figures of the Middle Ages."

Schooled by the hardships and troubles of his unhappy childhood, the poor
little "Child of Apulia" developed into a courageous and energetic youth,
and into a man of power and action and imperial renown. Years passed away,
and, on the thirteenth of December, 1250, he died at his hunting-lodge of
Firenzuola, in his loved Apulian kingdom. A gray old man stood beside the
dying monarch's bed--Berard, Archbishop of Palermo and Bari, the only
survivor of that dauntless band which, nearly forty years before, had
crossed the trackless Alps determined to win Germany or die. The "Boy
from Sicily," who had started upon the "quest for his heritage" unheralded
and almost unknown, died the most powerful monarch of his day in all the
Christian world, unsurpassed in outward splendor, the possessor of six
royal crowns--Germany, Burgundy, Lombardy, Sicily, Jerusalem, and the Holy
Roman Empire.

A man of magnificent gifts--a great scholar, a far-seeing statesman and
law-maker, a valiant and victorious Crusader, a mighty Emperor, but with
all the weaknesses and cruel ways that marked the monarchs of those hard
old days--this story of his remarkable and romantic boyhood comes down to
us as a lesson of triumph over obstacles, showing us, as do so many nobler
lives than his, how out of distress and trouble and actual hardships, any
boy of energy and spirit may rise to eminence and lofty achievement. The
age is passed when kings and princes rise so far above their fellow-men.
All may be kings and princes in their special callings if they but have
persistent and unflinching determination, and the boy of to-day has it in
his power to become, even as did young Frederick of Hohenstaufen, the Boy
Emperor, something great in his day and generation--perhaps even be
acknowledged, as was he, though from far higher motives, _Stupor Mundi
Fredericus_--"Frederick the Wonder of the World!"

FOOTNOTES:

[O] _El Aaziz_, an Arabic phrase for "the excellent" or "most noble one."

[P] Apulia--Southern Italy.

[Q] The _Sirocco_ is a fierce south-easterly wind of Sicily and the
Mediterranean.




                       [Illustration]

                            VII.

             HARRY OF MONMOUTH: THE BOY GENERAL.

       (_Afterward King Henry the Fifth of England._)

                        [A.D. 1402.]


A tapestried chamber in the gray old pile known as Berkhampstead Castle.
The bright sunlight of an early English spring streaming through the
latticed window plays upon the golden head of a fair young maid of ten,
who, in a quaint costume of gold-striped taffeta and crimson velvet, looks
in evident dismay upon the antics of three merry boys circling around her,
as she sits in a carved and high-backed oaken chair. In trim suits of
crimson, green, and russet velvet, with curious hanging sleeves and long,
pointed shoes, they range themselves before the trembling little maiden,
while the eldest lad, a handsome, lithe, and active young fellow of
fourteen, sings in lively and rollicking strain:

        "Oh, I am King Erik of Denmark,
          _Tarran, tarran, tarra_!
        Oh, I am King Erik of Denmark,
          _Tarran, tarran, tarra_!
    Oh, I am King Erik of Denmark shore--
    A frosty and crusty old Blunderbore--
    With ships and knights a-sailing o'er,
    To carry Philippa to Elsinore!"

And then with a rousing shout the three boys swooped down upon the
beleaguered little damsel and dragged her off to the dim stone staircase
that led to the square tower of the keep.

"Have done, have done, Harry," pleaded the little girl as she escaped from
her captors. "Master Lionel, thou surely shouldst defend a princess in
distress."

"Ay, Princess, but our tutor, Master Rothwell, says that I am to obey my
Liege and Prince, and him alone," protested gay young Lionel, "and sure he
bade me play the trumpeter of King Erik."

"A plague on King Erik," cried Philippa, seeking refuge behind the
high-backed chair. "I wish I had ne'er heard of him and his kingdom of
Denmark. O Harry! nurse Joanna tells me that they do eat but frozen
turnips and salted beef in his dreadful country, and that the
queen-mother, Margaret, wears a gambison[R] and hauberk[S] like to a
belted knight."

"Why, of course she does," assented the mischievous Harry; and, drawing a
solemn face he added: "Yes--and she eats a little girl, boiled with
lentils, every saint's day as a penance. That's why they want an English
wife for Erik, for, seest thou, there are so many saints' days that there
are not left in Denmark wee damsels enough for the queen's penance."

But the sight of pretty Philippa's woful tears stayed her brother's
teasing.

"There, there," he said, soothingly; "never mind my fun, Philippa. This
Erik is not so bad a knight I'll warrant me, and when thou art Queen of
Denmark, why, I shall be King of England, and my trumpeter, Sir Lionel
here, shall sound a gallant defiance as I come

        "'Sailing the sea to Denmark shore
    With squires and bowmen a hundred score,
    If ever this frosty old Blunderbore
    Foul treateth Philippa at Elsinore,'

and thus will we gallop away with the rescued queen," he added, as seizing
Philippa in his arms he dashed around the room followed by his companions.
But while the four were celebrating, in a wild dance of "all hands
around," the fancied rescue of the misused queen, the tapestry parted and
Sir Hugh de Waterton, the governor of the king's children, entered.

"My lord Prince," he said, "the king thy father craves thy presence in the
council-room."

"So; I am summoned," said the Prince; "good Sir Hugh, I will to the king
at once. That means 'good-by,' Sis; for to-morrow I am off to the Welsh
wars to dance with the lords-marchers and Owen Glendower, to a far
different strain. Yield not to these leaguering Danes, Philippa, but if
thou dost, when I am back from the Welsh wars, I'll hie me over sea

    "'With golden nobles in goodly store
    To ransom Philippa at Elsinore,'"

and, kissing his sister fondly, Harry of Monmouth, Prince of Wales,
parted the heavy arras and descended to the council-room.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now the scene changes. Months have passed since that jolly romp in the
old castle, among the hills of Hertfordshire, and under a wet and angry
sky we stand within the king's tent, glad to escape from the driving
storm.

To young Lionel Langley, as he peeped through the outer curtains of the
tent and watched the floods of rain, it seemed as if all the mountains in
the shires of Brecon and Radnor had turned themselves into water-spouts to
drench and drown the camp of the English invaders, as it lay soaked and
shivering there in the marches[T] of Wales. King Henry's tent, we learn
from an old chronicle, was "picchid on a fayre playne," but Lionel thought
it any thing but fair as he turned from the dismal prospect.

"Rain, rain, rain," he grumbled, throwing himself down by the side of
stout Humfrey Wallys, archer in the king's guard; "why doth it always rain
in this fateful country? Why can it not blow over? Why,--why must we stay
cooped up under these soaking tent-tops, with ne'er a sight of fun or
fighting?"

"Ah, why, why, why?" said the good-natured archer, "'t is ever why? with
thee, Sir Questioner. But, if thou be riddling, ask us something easier.
Why doth a cow lie down? Why is it fool's fun to give alms to a blind man?
How many calves' tails doth it take to reach to the moon?"

"H'm," grunted Lionel, "thy riddles be as stale as Michaelmas mutton. I
can answer them all."

"So--canst thou, young shuttle-brain?" cried the archer, "then, by the
mass, thou shalt. Answer now, answer," he demanded, as he tripped up young
Lionel's feet and pinned him to the ground with a pikestaff, "answer, or I
will wash thy knowing face in my sack-leavings. Why doth a cow lie down?"

"Faith, because she cannot sit," lazily answered Lionel.

"Hear the lad! He doth know it, really. Well--why is it not wise to give
alms to a blind man?" demanded Humfrey.

"Because," responded the boy, "even if thou didst, he would be glad could
he see thee hanged--as would I also!"

"Thou young knave! Now--how many calves' tails will it take to reach the
moon?"

"O Humfrey, ease up thy pikestaff, man; I can barely fetch my breath--how
many? Why, one,--if it be long enough," and, wriggling from his captor,
the nimble Lionel tripped him up in turn, and, in sheer delight at his
discomfiture, turned a back somersault and landed almost on the toes of
two unhelmeted knights, who came from the inner pavilion of the royal
tent.

"Why, how now, young tumble-foot--dost thou take this for a mummer's
booth, that thou dost play thy pranks so closely to thy betters?" a quick
voice demanded, and in much shame and confusion Lionel withdrew himself
hastily from the royal feet of his "most dread sovereign and lord," King
Henry the Fourth, of England.

"Pardon, my Liege," he stammered, "I did but think to stretch my stiffened
legs."

"So; thou art tent-weary, too," said the king; and then asked: "And where
learn'dst thou that hand-spring?"

"So please your Majesty, from my lord Prince," the boy replied.

"Ay, that thou didst, I'll warrant me," said the king, good-humoredly. "In
aught of prank or play, or tumbler's trick, 't is safe to look to young
Harry of Monmouth as our pages' sponsor. But where lags the lad, think
you, my lord?" he asked, turning to his companion, the Earl of
Westmoreland. "We should, methinks, have had post from him ere this."

"'T is this fearful weather stays the news, your Majesty," replied the
earl. "No courserman could pass the Berwyn and Plinlimmon hills in so wild
a storm."

"Ay, wild indeed," said the king, peering out through the parted curtains.
"I am fain almost to believe these men of Wales, who vaunt that the false
Glendower is a black necromancer who can call to his aid the dread demons
of the air. Hark to that blast," he added, as a great gust of wind shook
the royal tent. "'T is like a knight's defiance, and, like true knights,
let us answer it. Hollo, young Lionel, be thou warder of thy king, and
sound an answering blast."

Lionel, who was blest with the strong lungs of healthy boyhood, grasped
the trumpet, and a defiant peal rang through the royal tent. But it was an
unequal contest, for instantly, as chronicles old Capgrave, "there blew
suddenly so much wynd, and so impetuous, with a gret rain, that the Kyng's
tent was felled, and a spere cast so violently, that, an the Kyng had not
been armed, he had been ded of the strok."

From all sides came the rush of help, and the king and his attendants were
soon rescued, unharmed from the fallen pavilion. But Humfrey, the stout
old archer, muttered, as he rubbed his well-thumped pate: "Good sooth, 't
is, truly, the art magic of Glendower himself. It payeth not to trifle
with malignant spirits. Give me to front an honest foe, and not these
hidden demons of the air."

As if satisfied with its victory over a mortal king, the fury of the storm
abated, and that afternoon Lionel entered the royal presence with the
announcement: "Tidings, my lord King; tidings from the noble Prince of
Wales! a courier waits without."

"Bid him enter," said the king, and, all bespattered and dripping from his
ride through the tempest, the courier entered and, dropping on his knee,
presented the king a writing from the prince.

"At last!" said Henry, as he hastily scanned the note; "a rift in these
gloomy clouds. Break we our camp, my lord Westmoreland, and back to
Hereford town. We do but spend our strength to little use awaiting a wily
foe in these flooded plains. This billet tells me that Sir Harry Percy
and my lord of Worcester, with our son the Prince, have cooped up the
rebels in the Castle of Conway, and that Glendower himself is in the
Snowdon Hills. As for thee, young Sir Harlequin," he added, turning to
Lionel, "if thou wouldst try thy mettle in other ways than in tumbler's
tricks and in defiance of the wind, thou mayst go with Sir Walter Blount
to thy tutor, the Prince, and the Welsh wars in the north."

Next day, the camp was broken up, and, in high spirits, Lionel, with the
small company of knights and archers detached for service in the north,
left the southern marches for the camp of the prince.

It was the year of grace 1402. Henry of Lancaster, usurping the crown and
power of the unfortunate King Richard II., ruled now as Henry IV., "by the
grace of God, King of England and of France and Lord of Ireland." But
"uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," and, king though he was--"Most
Excellent, Most Dread, and Most Sovereign Lord," as his subjects addressed
him--he was lord and sovereign over a troubled and distracted realm.
Scotland, thronging the Lowlands, poured her bonnets and pikes across the
northern border; France, an ever-watchful enemy, menaced the slender
possessions in Calais and Aquitaine; traitors at home plotted against the
life of the king; and the men of Wales, rallying to the standard of their
countryman, Owen Glendower, who styled himself the Prince of Wales, forced
the English to unequal and disadvantageous battle among their hills and
valleys. So the journey of Lionel to the north was a careful and cautious
one; and, constantly on their guard against ambushes, surprises, and
sudden assaults, the little band of archers and men-at-arms among whom he
rode pushed their watchful way toward the Vale of Conway. They were just
skirting the easterly base of the Snowdon Hills, where, three thousand
feet above them, the rugged mountain peaks look down upon the broad and
beautiful Vale of Conway, when a noise of crackling branches ahead
startled the wary archer, Wallys, and he said to Lionel:

"Look to thine arms, lad; there may be danger here. But no," he added, as
the "view halloo" of the hunters rose in air, "'t is but the merry chase.
Hold here, and let us see the sport."

Almost as he spoke, there burst from the thicket, not a hundred yards
away, a splendid red deer, whose spreading antlers proclaimed him to be a
"stag of twelve" or "stag-royal." Fast after him dashed the excited
hunters; but, leading them all, spurred a sturdy young fellow of eager
fifteen--tall and slender, but quick and active in every movement, as he
yielded himself to the free action of his horse and cheered on the hounds.
The excitement was contagious, and Lionel, spite of the caution of his
friend the archer, could not restrain himself. His "view halloo" was
shouted with boyish impetuosity as, fast at the heels of the other young
hunter, he spurred his willing horse. But now the deer turned to the right
and made for a distant thicket, and Lionel saw the young hunter spring
from his lagging steed, and, with a stout cord reeled around his arm, dash
after the stag afoot, while hounds and hunters panted far behind.

It was a splendid race of boy and beast. The lad's quick feet seemed
scarcely to touch the ground, every spring bringing him nearer and nearer
to his noble prey. There is a final spurt; the coil of cord flies from the
hunter's arm, as his quick fling sends it straight in air; the noose
settles over the broad antlers of the buck; the youth draws back with a
sudden but steady jerk, and the defeated deer drops to earth, a doomed and
panting captive.

"There is but one lad in all England can do that!" cried enthusiastic
Lionel, as with a loud huzza, he spurred toward the spot so as to be "in
at the death."

"Lend me thy knife, page," the boy hunter demanded, as Lionel sprang from
his horse, "mine I think hath leaped from my belt into yonder pool."

Flash! gleamed the sharp steel in air; deep to the hilt it plunged into
the victim's throat, and, kneeling on the body of the dying stag, Harry of
Monmouth, Prince of Wales, the fleetest and most fearless of England's
youthful hunters, looked up into Lionel's admiring face.

"Hey O!" he cried. "Sure, 't is Lionel Langley! Why, how far'st thou, lad,
and how cam'st thou here?"

"I come, my Lord," Lionel replied, "with Sir Walter Blount's following of
squires and archers, whom his Majesty, the King, hath sent to thy
succour."

"You are right welcome all," said Prince Harry, "and you come in good
stead, for sure we need your aid. But wind this horn of mine, Lionel, and
call in the hunt." And as Lionel's notes sounded loud and clear, the rest
of the chase galloped up, and soon the combined trains rode on to the
English camp in the Vale of Conway.

There, in the train of Prince Harry, Lionel passed the winter and spring;
while his young leader, then scarce sixteen, led his hardy troops, a
miniature army of scarce three thousand men, up and down the eastern
marches of Wales, scouring the country from Conway Castle to Harlech Hold,
and from the Irish Sea to Snowden and to Shrewsbury gates. The battles
fought were little more than forays and skirmishes,--the retaliations of
fire and sword, now in English fields and now on Welsh borders; but it was
a good "school of the soldier," in which Lionel learned the art of war,
and Harry of Monmouth bore himself right gallantly.

But greater troubles were brewing, and braver deeds in store. On a fair
July morning in the year 1403, Lionel, who now served the prince as squire
of the body, entering his pavilion hastily, said, in much excitement:

"My Lord, my Lord, the Earl of Worcester has gone!"

"Gone?" echoed the prince. "What dost thou mean? Gone? When--where--how?"

"None know, my Lord," Lionel replied. "This morning his pavilion was found
deserted, and with him are fled Sir Herbert Tressell, and the squires and
archers of my lord of Worcester's train."

Now, the Earl of Worcester was the "tutor," or guardian, of the prince, a
trusted noble of the House of Percy, and appointed by the king to have the
oversight or guidance of young Harry; and his sudden flight from camp
greatly surprised the prince.

"My lord Prince," said Sir Walter Blount, entering as hastily as had
Lionel, "here is a courier from the worshipful Constable of Chester, with
secret tidings that the Percies are in arms against my lord the king."

"The Percies up, and my lord of Worcester fled?" exclaimed the prince.
"This bodes no good for us. Quick, get thee to horse, Lionel. Speed like
the wind to Shrewsbury. Get thee fair escort from my lord of Warwick, and
then on to the king at Burton." And in less than ten minutes Lionel was
a-horse, bearing the prince's billet that told the doleful news of the new
rebellion, spurring fast to Shrewsbury and the King.

Before three days had passed the whole great plot was known, and men shook
their heads in dismay and doubt at the tidings that the great houses of
Percy and of Mortimer, rebelling against the king for both real and
fancied grievances, had made a solemn league with the Welsh rebel, Owen
Glendower, to dethrone King Henry, whom the Percies themselves had helped
to the throne. A fast-growing army, led by the brave Sir Henry
Percy,--whom men called Hotspur, from his mighty valor and his impetuous
temper,--and by the Earl of Douglas, most valiant of the Scottish knights,
was even now marching upon Shrewsbury to raise the standard of revolt.

"Hotspur a rebel? Worcester a traitor?" exclaimed the king in amazement,
as he read Lionel's tidings. "Whom may we trust if these be false?"

But Henry the Fourth of England was not one to delay in action, nor to
"cry over spilled milk." His first surprise over, he sent a fleet courier
to London announcing the rebellion to his council, but bravely assuring
them for their consolation that he was "powerful enough to conquer all his
enemies." Then he gave orders to break the camp at Burton and march on
Shrewsbury direct; and, early next morning, Lionel was spurring back to
his boy general, Prince Harry, with orders from the king to meet him at
once with all his following at Bridgenorth Castle.

So, down from the east marches of Wales to Bridgenorth towers came Prince
Harry speedily, with his little army of trusty knights and squires,
stalwart archers and men-at-arms,--hardy fighters all, trained to service
in the forays of the rude Welsh wars, in which, too, their gallant young
commander had himself learned coolness, caution, strategy, and unshrinking
valor--the chief attributes of successful leadership.

Where Bridgenorth town stands upon the sloping banks of Severn, "like to
old Jerusalem for pleasant situation," as the pilgrim travellers reported,
there rallied in those bright summer days of 1403 a hastily summoned army
for the "putting down of the rebel Percies." With waving banners and with
gleaming lances, with the clank of heavy armor and ponderous engines of
war, with the royal standard borne by Sir Walter Blount and his squires,
out through the "one mighty gate" of Bridgenorth Castle passed the
princely leaders, marshalling their army of fourteen thousand men across
the broad plain of Salop toward the towers and battlements of the
beleaguered town of Shrewsbury.

The king himself led the right wing, and young Harry of Monmouth, Prince
of Wales, the left. So rapidly did the royal captains move, that the
impetuous Hotspur, camped under the walls of the stout old castle, only
knew of their near approach when, on the morning of July 20th, he saw upon
the crest of a neighboring hill the waving banners of King Henry's host.
The gates of Shrewsbury opened to the king, and across the walls of the
ancient town royalist and rebel faced each other, armed for bloody fight.

Lionel's young heart beat high as he watched the warlike preparations,
and, glancing across to where near Haughmond Abbey floated the rebel
standard, he found himself humming one of the rough old war tunes he had
learned in Wales:

    "Oh, we hope to do thee a gleeful thing
    With a rope, a ladder, and eke a ring;
    On a gallows high shalt thou swing full free--
    And thus shall the ending of traitors be."

"Nay, nay, Lionel, be not so sure of that," said the prince, as he, too,
caught up the spirited air. "Who faces Hotspur and Douglas, as must we,
will be wise not to talk rope and gallows till he sees the end of the
affair. But come to the base-court. I'll play thee a rare game of--hark,
though," he said, as a loud trumpet-peal sounded beyond the walls, "there
goeth the rebel defiance at the north gate. Come, attend me to the king's
quarters, Lionel." And hastening across the inner court of the castle, the
two lads entered the great guard-room just as the warders ushered into the
king's presence the knights who, in accordance with the laws of battle,
bore to the king the defiance of his enemies.

"Henry of Hereford and Lancaster!" said the herald, flinging a steel
gauntlet on the floor with a ringing clash, "there lieth my lord of
Percy's gage! thus doth he defy thee to battle!"

The Prince Harry, with the flush of excitement on his fair young face,
sprang from his father's side and picked up the gage of battle. "This
shall be my duty," he said, and then the herald read before the king the
paper containing the manifesto, or "defiance," of the Percies.

[Illustration: PRINCE HENRY PICKS UP THE GAGE OF THE PERCIES'
DEFIANCE.--"THIS SHALL BE MY DUTY," HE SAID.]

In spirited articles the missive accused the king of many wrongs and
oppressions, each article closing with the sentence: "Wherefore, thou art
forsworn and false," while the following hot and ringing words concluded
the curious paper: "For the which cause, we defy thee, thy fautores,[U]
and complices, as common traytoures and destroyers of the realme and the
invadours, oppressors, and confounders of the verie true and right heires
to the crown of England, which thynge we intende with our handes to
prove this daie, Almighty God helping us."

The king took the paper from the herald's hand and simply said:

"Withdraw, sir herald, and assure your lord that we will reply to him with
the sword, and prove in battle his quarrel to be false and traitorous and
feigned."

And then the herald withdrew, courteously escorted; but it is said that
King Henry, saddened at the thought of the valiant English blood that must
be shed, sent, soon after, gentle words and offers of pardon to the
Percies if they would return to their allegiance--all of which the Earl of
Worcester, envious of the king, misreported to his generous but hot-headed
nephew, Sir Harry Percy. So wrong a message did the false earl give, that
both Hotspur and the Douglas flamed with rage, and without waiting for
Owen Glendower's forces and the expected reënforcements from the north,
gave orders for instant battle, thus hastening the conflict before they
were really ready. "The more haste, the less speed" is a strong old adage,
boys, that holds good both in peace and war, and bitterly was it repented
of on that "sad and sorry field of Shrewsbury."

So, out through the north gate of Shrewsbury, on a Friday afternoon, swept
the army of the king, fourteen thousand strong, and, back from the abbey
foregate and the Severn's banks, dropped the Percies' host, thirteen
thousand banded English, Scotch, and Welsh. In a space of open, rolling
country known as Hately Field--fit name for a place of battle between
former friends,--three miles from Shrewsbury town, the rival armies
pitched their tents, drew their battle lines, and waited for the dawn.

It is the morning of Saturday, the twenty-second of July, 1403. Both camps
are astir, and in the gray light that precedes the dawn the preparation
for battle is made. The sun lights up the alder-covered hills, the trumpet
sounds to arms, the standards sway, the burnished armor gleams and rings
as knights and squires fall into their appointed places; the cloth-yard
shafts are fitted to the archer's bows, and then, up from a sloping field,
sweet with the odor of the pea-blossoms that cover it, there comes in loud
defiance the well-known war-cry of the Percies: "_Esperance, esperance!_
Percy, ho, a Percy!" and Hotspur with his Northumbrian archers sweeps to
the attack amidst a terrible flight of arrows and of spears.

"Play up, sir trumpeter!" shouted Harry of Monmouth, rising in his
stirrups. "Play up your answering blast. Shake out our standard free. Now,
forward all! Death to traitors! St. George--St. George for England!"

"St. George for England!" came the answering echo from King Henry's line;
"_Esperance_, Percy!" sounded again from the rebel ranks, and "in a place
called Bullfield," both armies closed in conflict.

"So furiously, the armies joined," runs the old chronicle: "the arrows
fell as fall the leaves on the ground after a frosty night at the
approach of winter. There was no room for the arrows to reach the ground;
every one struck a mortal man." The first attack was against the king's
own ranks. Hotspur, with his Northumbrian arrows, and Douglas, with his
Scottish spears, pressed hotly upon them, while Worcester's Cheshire
archers from a slope near by sent their whizzing messengers straight into
the king's lines. Though answering valiantly, the terrible assault was too
severe for the king's men. They wavered, staggered, swayed, and broke--a
ringing cheer went up from the enemy, when, just at the critical moment,
with an "indignant onset," Harry of Monmouth dashed to his father's aid.
His resistless rush changed the tide of battle, and the king's line was
saved.

A sorry record is the story of that fearful fight. For three long hours
the battle raged from Haughmond Abbey on to Berwick Bridge, and ere the
noon of that bloody day, twelve thousand valiant Englishmen fell on the
fatal field. "So faute thei, to gret harm of this nacion," says one queer
old chronicle; and another says: "It was more to be noted vengeable, for
there the father was slain of the son and the son of the father." The
great historian Hume tells us that "We shall scarcely find any battle in
those ages where the shock was more terrible and more constant."

The fire of passion and of fight spread even to the youngest page and
squire, and as Lionel pressed close after the "gilded helmet and the
three-plumed crest" of his brilliant young prince, his face flamed with
the excitement of the battle-hour. Again and again he saw the king
unhorsed and fighting desperately for his crown and life; again and again
he saw the fiery Hotspur and Douglas, the Scot, charge furiously on the
king they had sworn to kill. Backward and forward the tide of battle
rolls; now royalist, now rebel seems the victor. Hark! What shout is that?

"The king, the king is down!"

And where Hotspur and the Douglas fight around the hillock now known as
the "King's Croft," Lionel misses the golden crest, he misses the royal
banner of England!

"Sir Walter Blount is killed! the standard is lost!" is now the sorry cry.

But now the prince and his hardy Welsh fighters charge to the rescue, and
Lionel gave a cry of terror as he saw a whizzing arrow tear into the face
of his beloved prince. Young Harry reeled with his hurt, and Lionel with
other gentlemen of the guard caught him in their arms. There was confusion
and dismay.

"The prince is hurt!" cried Lionel, and almost as an echo rose those other
shouts:

"The king is slain!"

"Long live the Percy!"

"Back to the rear, my lord!" pleaded Lionel, as he wiped the blood from
the fair young face of the prince.

"Back, back, my lord Prince. Back to my tent," urged the Earl of
Westmoreland, and "Back, back, while there is yet safety," said the other
knights, as the tide of battle surged toward the bleeding prince.

"Stand off!" cried young Harry, springing to his feet. "Stand off; my
lords! Far be from me such disgrace as that, like a poltroon, I should
stain my arms by flight. If the prince flies, who will wait to end the
battle?"

And just then another shout arose--a joyous, ringing cry:

"Ho, the king lives! the standard is safe! St. George for England!" And
the brave young Harry, turning to his guard, said:

"What, my lords? to be carried back before the victory? 'T would be to me
a perpetual death! Lead me, I implore you, to the very face of the foe. I
may not say to my friends: 'Go ye on first to the fight!' Be it mine to
say: 'Follow me, my friends!'"

Then, as the royal standard waved once more aloft, he burst with his
followers into the thick of the fight, his unyielding valor giving new
strength to all.

And now the end is near. An archer's arrow, with unerring aim, pierces the
valiant Hotspur, and he falls dead upon the field.

"Harry Percy is dead! Victory, victory! St. George and victory!" rings the
cry from thousands of the loyal troops, and, like a whirlwind, a panic of
fear seizes the rebel ranks. Douglas is a prisoner; the Earl of Worcester
surrenders; the rout is general.

"Then fled thei that myte fle," says the chronicle, or, as Hall, another
of the old chroniclers records: "The Scots fled, the Welshmen ran, the
traitors were overcome; then neither woods hindered nor hills stopped the
fearful hearts of them that were vanquished."

So ended the "sad and sorry field of Shrewsbury," a fitting prelude to
that bloody era of strife known as the Wars of the Roses, which,
commencing in the sad reign of the son of this boy general, Harry of
Monmouth, was to stain England with the blood of Englishmen through fifty
years.

And now the dust and roar of battle die away, and we find ourselves amidst
the Christmas-tide revels in royal Windsor, where, in one of the lordly
apartments, our friend Lionel, like a right courtly young squire, is
paying duteous attention to his liege lady, the fair Princess Philippa. As
we draw near the pair, we catch the words of the princess, now a mature
and stately young damsel of twelve, as she says to Lionel, who, gorgeous
in a suit of motley velvet, listens respectfully:

"And let me tell thee, Master Lionel, that, from all I can make of good
Master Lucke's tedious Latin letters, King Erik is a right noble prince,
and a husband meet and fit for a Princess of England."

"Oh, ho! sits the wind in that quarter?" a gay voice exclaims, and Prince
Harry comes to his sister's side. "Well, here be I in a pretty mess. Was I
not prepared to deny in council, before all the lords, this petition of
King Erik for our Princess,--ay, and to back it up with my stout bowmen
from the marches? Beshrew me, Sis, but since when didst thou shift to so
fair a taste for--what was it? frozen turnips and salted beef? And--how is
the queen-mother's appetite?"

But with a dignified little shrug, the princess disdains her brother's
banter, and the merry prince goes on to say:

"Well, I must use my ready bows and lances somewhere, and if not to right
the wrongs of the fair Philippa against this frosty and crusty--pardon me,
your Highness, this _right noble_ King Erik of Denmark,--then against that
other 'most dread and sovereign lord, Owen, Prince of Wales,' as he doth
style himself. To-morrow will this betrothal be signed; and then, Lionel,
hey for the southern marches and the hills and heaths of Wales!"

       *       *       *       *       *

So, amidst siege and skirmish and fierce assault the winter passed away,
and grew to spring again; and so well and vigilantly did this boy leader
defend the borders of his principality against the forays of Glendower's
troops, that we find the gentry of the county of Hereford petitioning the
king to publicly thank "our dear and honored Lord and Prince, your son,"
for his "defence and governance of this your county of Hereford." And, out
of all the vigilance and worry, the dash and danger of this exciting life,
Harry of Monmouth was learning those lessons of patience, fortitude,
coolness, self-denial, and valor that enabled him, when barely
twenty-eight, to win the mighty fight at Agincourt, and to gain the proud
title of Henry the Victorious. For war, despite its horrors and terrors,
has ever been a great and absorbing game, in which he who is most skilful,
most cautious, and most fearless, makes the winning moves.

"Tidings, tidings, my lord Prince!" came the message from one hard-riding
courserman, as his foam-flecked steed dashed through the great gate of the
castle of Hereford. "My lord of Warwick hath met your Welsh rebels near
the Red Castle by Llyn Du, and hath routed them with much loss." But a few
days later, came another horseman with the words: "Tidings, tidings, my
lord Prince! Sir William Newport hath been set upon at Craig y Dorth by
your rebels of Wales, 'with myty hand,' and so sore was his strait that he
hath fled into Monmouth town, while many gallant gentlemen and archers lie
dead of their hurt, by the great stones of Treleg."

"Sir William routed?" exclaimed the prince, "'t is ours, then, to succor
him. Lionel, summon Lord Talbot." That sturdy old fighter was soon at
hand. "Fare we to Monmouth straight, my lord," said the prince. "Here is
sorry news, but we will right the day."

Very speedily the little army of the prince was on the move along the
lovely valley of the Wye; and, on the tenth of March, 1405, they were
lodged within the red walls of that same great castle of Monmouth, "in the
which," says the old chronicle, "it pleased God to give life to the noble
King Henry V., who of the same is called Harry of Monmouth."

"Tidings, tidings, my lord Prince," came the report of the scouts; "the
false traitor, Glendower, with your rebels of Glamorgan and Usk, of
Netherwent and Overwent, have lodged themselves, to the number of eight
thousand, in your town of Grosmont, scarce six miles away."

Eight thousand strong! and Prince Harry had with him barely five thousand
men. But with the morning sun the order "Banners advance!" was given, and
the fearless young general of seventeen drew his little army along the
banks of the winding Monnow to the smoking ruins of the plundered town of
Grosmont.

But the difference in numbers did seem a serious obstacle to success.

"Is it wise, my lord Prince," cautioned Lord Talbot, "to pit ourselves
bodily against so strong a power? They be eight thousand strong and count
us nearly two to one."

"Very true, my lord," said the intrepid prince, "but victory lieth not in
a multitude of people, but in the power of God. Let us help to prove it
here, and by the aid of Heaven and our good right arms, may we this day
win the unequal fight!"

"Amen!" said Lord Talbot; "none welcome the day and duty more than I."

Out from the castle on its lofty rock and forth from the smoking ruins of
the town swarmed the men of Wales confident of easy victory. The armies of
the rival princes of Wales stood face to face. Then the trumpets sounded;
the red cross of St. George and the odd-looking banner of the Trinity
fluttered above the English ranks; stout Lord Talbot rode before the lines
and tossing his truncheon in air shouted: "Now--strike!" There is a sudden
rush, and as the battle-cries "St. George and England!" "St. David for
Wales!" rise in air the opposing armies join in deadly fight. Short, but
stubborn and bloody was the conflict. Victory rested with the little army
of Prince Harry, and before the sun went down Glendower and his routed
forces were in full retreat, leaving a thousand sturdy Welshmen dead upon
the field.

Following up his victory with quick and determined action, the boy general
hurried at the heels of Glendower's broken ranks, and on Sunday, the
fifteenth of March, 1405, faced them again under the old towers of the
castle of Usk. Swift and sudden fell his attack. The Welsh ranks broke
before the fury of his onset, and, with over fifteen hundred lost in
killed or prisoners, with his brother Tudor slain and his son Gruffyd a
captive in the hands of the English, Owen Glendower fled with the remnant
of his defeated army into the grim fastnesses of the Black Hills of
Brecon.

It was a sad day for Wales, for it broke the power and sway of their
remarkable and patriotic leader, Glendower, and made them, erelong,
vassals of the English crown. But the bells of London rang loud and
merrily when, three days after the fight, a rapid courserman spurred
through the city gates, bearing to the council a copy of the modest
letter in which the young general announced his victory to his "most
redoubted and most sovereign lord and father," the king.

Lionel, close in attendance on his much-loved leader, followed him through
all the troubles and triumphs of the Welsh wars; followed him when, a few
months after, before the gates of Worcester, the French allies of the
Welsh rebels were driven from the kingdom; and followed him, "well and
bravely appareled," when, in May, 1406, the king, with a brilliant company
of lords and ladies, gathered at the port of Lynn to bid farewell to the
young Princess Philippa, as she sailed with the Danish ambassadors, "in
great state," over the sea, "to be joyned in wedlok" to King Erik of
Denmark.

       *       *       *       *       *

And here we must leave our gallant young prince. A boy no longer, his
story is now that of a wise and vigorous young manhood, which, in prince
and king, bore out the promise of his boyish days. Dying at
thirty-five--still a young man--he closed a career that stands on record
as a notable one in the annals of the world.

But when you come to read in Shakespeare's matchless verse the plays of
"King Henry IV." and "King Henry V.," do not, in your delight over his
splendid word-pictures, permit yourself to place too strong a belief in
his portrait of young "Prince Hal," and his scrapes and follies and wild
carousals with fat old Falstaff and his boon companions. For the facts of
history now prove the great poet mistaken; and "Prince Hal," though full
of life and spirit, fond of pleasure and mischief, and, sometimes, of
rough and thoughtless fun, stands on record as a valiant, high-minded,
clear-hearted, and conscientious lad. "And when we reflect," says one of
his biographers, "to what a high station he had been called whilst yet a
boy; with what important commissions he had been intrusted; how much
fortune seems to have done to spoil him by pride and vain-glory from his
earliest youth, this page of our national records seems to set him high
among the princes of the world; not so much as an undaunted warrior and
triumphant hero, as the conqueror of himself, the example of a chastened,
modest spirit, of filial reverence, and of a single mind bent on his
duty."

The conqueror of himself! It was this that gave him grace to say, when
crowned King of England in Westminster: "The first act of my reign shall
be to pardon all who have offended me; and I pray God that if He foresees
I am like to be any other than a just and good king, He may be pleased to
take me from the world rather than seat me on a throne to live a public
calamity to my country." It was this that gave him his magnificent courage
at Agincourt, where, with barely six thousand Englishmen, he faced and
utterly routed a French host of nearly sixty thousand men; it was this
that, in the midst of the gorgeous pageant which welcomed him at London as
the hero of Agincourt, made him refuse to allow his battle-bruised helmet
and his dinted armor to be displayed as trophies of his valor. It was
this that kept him brave, modest, and high-minded through all the glories
and successes of his short but eventful life, that made him the idol of
the people and one of the most brilliant figures in the crowded pages of
English history.

It is not given to us, boys and girls, to be royal in name, but we may be
royal in nature, even as was Harry of Monmouth, the brilliant young
English prince, and, knowing now something of his character, we can
understand the loving loyalty of a devoted people that marks this entry of
his death as it stands in the "Acts of Privy Council," the official record
of the public doings of his realm:

"_Departed this life at the Castle of Bois de Vincennes, near Paris, on
the last day of August, in the year 1422, and the tenth of his reign, the
most Christian Champion of the Church, the Bright Beam of Wisdom, the
Mirror of Justice, the Unconquered King, the Flower and Pride of all
Chivalry--Henry the Fifth, King of England, Heir and Regent of France, and
Lord of Ireland._"

FOOTNOTES:

[R] A stuffed doublet worn under armor.

[S] A coat of mail formed of small steel rings interwoven.

[T] The "marches"--frontiers or boundaries of a country. The nobles who
held fiefs or castles in such border-lands were called "the
lords-marchers."

[U] Favorers, or abettors.




                       [Illustration]

                            VIII.

            GIOVANNI OF FLORENCE, THE BOY CARDINAL.

              (_Afterward Pope Leo the Tenth._)

                        [A.D. 1490.]


It was one of the wild carnival days of 1490. From the great Gate of San
Gallo to the quaint old Bridge of the Goldsmiths, the fair city of
Florence blazed with light and rang with shout and song. A struggling mass
of spectators surged about the noble palace of the Medici, as out through
its open gate-way and up the broad street known as the Via Larga streamed
the great carnival pageant of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the head of the
house of Medici.

"Room for the noble Abbot of Passignano! room for my Lord Cardinal!"
shouted a fresh young voice from the head of the grand staircase that led
from the _loggia_ of the palace to the great entrance-hall below.

"So; say'st thou thus, Giulio?" another boyish voice exclaimed. "Then will
I, too, play the herald for thee. Room," he cried, "for the worthy Prior
of Capua! room for the noble Knight of St. John!" And down the broad
staircase, thronged with gallant costumes, brilliant banners, and gleaming
lances, the two merry boys elbowed their way.

Boys? you ask. Yes, boys--both of them, for all their priestly and
high-sounding titles. In those far-off days, as we shall see, honors were
distributed not so much for merit as from policy; and when royalty married
royalty at ten and twelve to serve the ends of state, there was nothing so
very wonderful in a noble prior of eleven or a lord cardinal of thirteen.

"Well, well, my modest young Florentines," said Lorenzo de Medici, in his
harsh but not unkindly voice, as he met the boys in the grand and
splendidly decorated entrance-hall; "if ye do but make your ways in life
with such determination as that, all offices needs must yield to you. A
truce to tattle, though, my fair Giulio. Modesty best becomes the young;
Giovanni's cardinalate, remember, has not yet been proclaimed, and 't is
wisest to hold our tongues till we may wag them truthfully. But, come," he
added in a livelier tone, "to horse, to horse! the Triumph waits for
none,--noble abbot and worshipful knight though they be--like to your
shining selves. To-night be ye boys only. Ho, for fun and frolic; down
with care and trouble! Sing it out, sing it out, my boys, well and
lustily:

    "Dance and carol every one
      Of our band so bright and gay;
    See your sweethearts how they run
      Through the jousts for you to-day."

And with this glee from one of his own gay carnival songs, Lorenzo the
Magnificent sprang to the back of his noble Barbary horse, Morello, and
spurred forward to mingle in the glories of the pageant.

It was a wondrous display--this carnival pageant, or "Triumph," of the
Medici. Great golden cars, richly decorated, and drawn by curious beasts;
horses dressed in the skins of lions and tigers and elephants; shaggy
buffaloes and timorous giraffes from the Medicean villa at Careggi;
fantastic monsters made up of mingled men and boys and horses, with other
surprising figures as riders; dragons and dwarfs, giants and genii;
beautiful young girls and boys dressed in antique costumes to represent
goddesses and divinities of the old mythologies; and a chubby little
gilded boy, seated on a great globe and representing the Golden Age--the
age of every thing beautiful in art and life;--these and many other
attractions made up the glittering display which, accompanied by Lorenzo
the Magnificent and his retinue of over five hundred persons, "mounted,
masked, and bravely apparelled," and gleaming in the light of four hundred
flaring torches, traversed the streets of Florence, "singing in many
voices all sorts of _canzones_, madrigals, and popular songs."

"By the stone nose of the _marzoccho_,[V] but this is more joyous than the
droning tasks we left behind us at Pisa; is it not, my Giovanni?" gayly
exclaimed the younger of the two boys as, glittering in a suit of crimson
velvet and cloth of gold, he rode in advance of one of the great
triumphal cars. "My faith," he continued, "what would grim-eyed old Fra
Bartolommeo say could he see thee, his choicest pupil in pontifical law,
masking in a violet velvet suit and a gold-brocaded vest?"

"I fear me, Giulio," replied his cousin Giovanni, a pleasant-looking,
brown-faced lad of nearly fourteen, "I fear me the good Fra would pull a
long and chiding face at _both_ our brave displays. You know how he can
look when he takes us to task? And tall? Why, he seems always to grow as
high as Giotto's tower there."

"Say, rather, like to the leaning tower in his own Pisa! for he seems as
tall, and threatens to come down full as sure and heavily upon us poor
unfortunates! Ah, yes, I know how he looks, Giovanni; he tries it upon me
full often!" and Giulio's laugh of recollection was tempered with feeling
memories.

Here an older boy, a brisk young fellow of sixteen, in a shining suit of
silver and crimson brocade, rode toward them.

"Messer Giovanni," he said, "what say'st thou to dropping out of the
triumph here by the Vecchio Palace? Then may we go back by the Via Pinti
and see the _capannucci_."

Now, the _capannucci_ was one of the peculiar carnival institutions of the
Florentine boys of old, as dear to their hearts as are the fifth of
November and its 'Guy' to the young Londoner of to-day. A great tree would
be dragged into the centre of some broad street or square by a crowd of
ready youngsters. There it would be set upright and propped or steadied by
great faggots and pieces of wood. This base would then be fired, and as
the blaze flamed from the faggots or crept up the tall tree-trunk, all the
yelling boys danced in the flaring light. Then, when the _capannucci_ fell
with a great crash, the terrible young Florentine urchins never omitted to
wage, over the charred trunk and the glowing embers, a furious
rough-and-tumble fight.

Giovanni and Giulio, for all their high-sounding titles, welcomed exciting
variety as readily as do any other active and wide-awake boys, and they
assented gleefully to the young Buonarotti's suggestion.

"Quick, to the Via Pinti!" they cried, and yielding up their horses to the
silver-liveried grooms who attended them, they turned from the pageant,
and with their black visors, or half masks, partly drawn, they pushed
their way through the crowds that surged under the great bell tower of the
Palazzo Vecchio and thronged the gayly decorated street called the Via
Pinti.

With a ready handful of _danarini_ and _soldi_, small Florentine coins of
that day, they easily satisfied the demands of the brown-skinned little
street arabs who had laid great pieces of wood, called the _stili_, across
the street, and would let none pass until they had yielded to their shrill
demand of "Tribute, tribute! a _soldi_ for tribute at the _stili_ of San
Marco!"

With laugh and shout and carnival jest, the three boys were struggling
through the crowd toward the rising flame of a distant _capannucci_, when
suddenly, with a swish and a thud, there came plump against the face of
the young Giovanni one of the thin sugar eggs which, filled with red wine,
was one of the favorite carnival missiles. Like a flow of blood the red
liquid streamed down the broad, brown cheek of the lad, and streaked his
violet tunic. He looked around dismayed.

"Ha, _bestia_!" he cried, as his quick eye detected the successful
marksman in a group of laughing young fellows a few rods away. "'T was
thou, wast it? Revenge, revenge, my comrades!" and the three lads sent a
well-directed volley of return shots that made their assailants duck and
dodge for safety. Then followed a frequent carnival scene. The shots and
counter-shots drew many lookers-on, and soon the watchers changed to
actors. The crowd quickly separated into two parties, the air seemed full
of the flying missiles, and, in the glare of the great torches that, held
by iron rings, flamed from the corner of a noble palace, the carnival
fight raged fast and furiously. In the hottest of the strife a cheer arose
as the nimble Giulio, snatching a brilliant crimson scarf from the
shoulders of a laughing flower-girl, captured, next, a long pikestaff from
a masker of the opposite side. Tying the crimson scarf to the long
pike-handle, he charged the enemy, crying, "Ho, forward all!" His
supporters followed him with a resistless rush; another volley of carnival
ammunition filled the air, and a shout of victory went up as their
opponents broke before their charge and the excited crowd went surging up
the street. Again a stand was made, again the missiles flew, and now, the
candy bon-bons failing, the reckless combatants kept up the fight with
street refuse,--dust and dirt, and even dangerous stones.

It was in one of those hand-to-hand encounters that a tall and supple
young fellow dashed from the opposing ranks and grappled with Giulio for
the possession of the crimson standard. To and fro the boys swayed and
tugged. In sheer defence the less sturdy Giulio struck out at his
opponent's face, and down dropped the guarded disguise of the small black
visor.

"Ho, an Albizzi!" Giulio exclaimed, as he recognized his antagonist. Then,
as the long pikestaff was wrested from his grasp, he raised the well-known
cry of his house, "_Palle, Palle!_ Medici to the rescue."[W]

"Ha, Medici--is it?" the young Albizzi cried, and, as Giovanni de Medici
pressed to the aid of his cousin, Francesco Albizzi clutched at Giovanni's
mask in turn and tore it from his face.

"Hollo!" shouted the scornful Albizzi. "We have uncovered the game! Look,
boys, 't is Messer Giovanni himself! Hail to My Lord Cardinal! Hail to the
young magnifico!" and, doffing his purple bonnet, as if in reverence to
Giovanni, he struck the lad with it full on his broad, brown cheek.

His followers applauded his deed with a shout, but it was a weak and
spiritless one, for it was scarcely safe to make fun of the Medici then in
Florence, and cowards, you know, always take the stronger side.

The supporters of the Medici hastened to wipe out the insult offered to
the boy cardinal. They pressed forward to annihilate Albizzi's
fast-lessening band, but the young Giovanni interfered.

"Nay, hold, friends," he said, "'t is but a carnival frolic, and 't is
ended now. Messer Francesco did but speak in jest, and, sure, I bear no
malice."

But the hot-headed Albizzi, the son of a house that had ever been rivals
and enemies of the Medici, would listen to no compromise.

"Ho, hark to the smooth-tongued Medici!" he cried. "Boys of Florence, will
ye bow to this baby priest? Your fathers were but boys when they struck
for the liberties of Florence and drove _this_ fellow's father, the lordly
magnifico, like a whipped cur behind the doors of the sacristy, and
scattered the blood of _that_ boy's father on the very steps of the altar
of the Reparata!"[X]

The young Giulio, when he heard this brutal allusion to the murder of his
father, could restrain himself no longer; but, rushing at Francesco
Albizzi, expended all his fierce young strength upon the older boy in
wildly aimed and harmless blows.

Giovanni would have again interceded, but when he saw the vindictive young
Albizzi draw a short dagger from his girdle, he felt that the time for
words had passed. Springing to the relief of his cousin, he clutched the
dagger-arm of the would-be murderer. There was a rallying of adherents on
both sides; young faces grew hot with passion, and a bloody street fight
seemed certain.

But, hark! Across the strife comes the clash of galloping steel. There is
a rush of hurrying feet, a glare of flaming torches, a glimmer of shining
lances, and, around from the Via Larga, in a brilliant flash of color,
swings the banner of Florence, the great white lily on the blood-red
field. Fast behind it presses the well-known escutcheon of the seven
golden balls, and the armed servants of the house of Medici sweeps down
upon the combatants.

"_Palle, palle!_ Medici, ho, a Medici!" rings the shout of rescue. The
flashing Milan sword of young Messer Pietro, the elder brother of
Giovanni, gleams in the torchlight, and the headstrong Albizzi and his
fellow-rioters scatter like chaff before the onward rush of the paid
soldiers of the house of Medici. Then, encompassed by a guard of bristling
lances, liveried grooms, and torch-bearers, and followed by a crowd of
shouting boys, masked revellers, and exultant retainers, the three lads
hurried down the Via Larga; the great gates of the Palace of the Medici
swung open to admit them, and the noise and riot of the carnival died away
in the distance. Through the hall of arches and up the grand staircase the
lads hastened to where, in the spacious _loggia_, or enclosed piazza,
Lorenzo the Magnificent stood waiting to receive them.

"Well, well, my breathless young citizens," he exclaimed, "what news and
noise of strife is this I hear? By San Marco, but you seem in such a sorry
strait that I could almost say, with our excellent rhymester, good Ser
Folgere:

    "'How gallant are ye in your brave attires,
    How bold ye look, true paladins of war,--
    Stout-hearted are ye--as a hare in chase.'"

But his banter changed to solicitude as he noticed the troubled face of
his son. "Who, then, is in fault, my Giovanni?" he asked. "'T was well for
thee that Pietro sallied out in such hot haste; else, from all I hear, the
Black Brothers of the Miserecordia might even now be bearing to Santa
Maria, or the tomb, a prince of Holy Church, a son of the house of Medici,
slain in a vile street brawl."

"Nay, hear, my father, I pray, the whole truth of the matter," Giovanni
replied; and, as he relates, in presence of that brilliant and listening
company, the story of the carnival fight as we already know it, let us,
rather, read hastily the story of the great house of the Medici of
Florence, whose princely head now stands before us--he whom the people
call "_il gran magnifico_," Lorenzo the Magnificent, the father of the boy
cardinal.

Four hundred years, and more, ago there lived in the beautiful Italian
city of Firenze, or Florence, a wealthy family known as the Medici. They
were what we now call capitalists--merchants and bankers, with ventures in
many a land and with banking-houses in sixteen of the leading cities of
Europe. Success in trade brought them wealth, and wealth brought them
power, until, from simple citizens of a small inland republic they
advanced to a position of influence and importance beyond that of many a
king and prince of their day. At the time of our sketch, the head of the
house was Lorenzo de Medici, called the Magnificent, from his wealth, his
power, and his splendid and liberal hospitality. All Florence submitted to
his will, and though the fair city was still, in form, a republic, the
wishes and words of Lorenzo were as law to his fellow-citizens. A man of
wonderful tact and of great attainments, he was popular with young and
old, rich and poor. From a glorious romp with the children, he would turn
to a profound discussion with wise old philosophers or theologians, could
devise means for loaning millions to the king of England, sack a city that
had braved the power of Florence, or write the solemn hymns or gay street
songs for the priests or for the people of his much loved city. Princes
and poets, painters and priests, politicians and philosophers, sat at his
bountiful table in the splendid palace at the foot of the Via Larga, or
walked in his wonderful gardens of San Marco; rode "a-hawking" from his
beautiful villa at Careggi, or joined in the wild frolic of his gorgeous
street pageants. Power, such as his could procure or master any thing,
and we therefore need not wonder that the two boys whose acquaintance we
have made had been pushed into prominence to please the house of Medici.
Look well at them again. The boy, who, with face upturned toward his
father's kindly eyes, is telling the story of the street fight, is the
second son of Lorenzo, Giovanni (or John) de Medici, Abbot of Passignano,
and now, though scarcely fourteen, an unproclaimed cardinal of the Church
of Rome--the future Leo X., the famous pope of Martin Luther's day. His
companion is the young Giulio (or Julius) de Medici, nephew of Lorenzo,
and already at thirteen Grand Prior of Capua and Knight of the Holy Order
of St. John of Jerusalem. He, too, is to be in future years both cardinal
and pope--that Clement VII., of whom you may read in history as the
unfortunate prisoner of San Angelo, the antagonist of bluff King Henry
VIII. of England. And this other lad, this Buonarotti, who is he? A
protégé of Lorenzo, the companion of his sons and a favored guest at his
table, his name is to last through the ages high above priest or prince or
pope, more illustrious than all the Medici, the wonderful Michael-Angelo,
the greatest of all the artists.

"So, so," Lorenzo said, as Giovanni concluded his story; "the matter is
graver than I thought. 'T is another yelp from the Albizzi kennel. The
Signory must look to it. Young Messer Francesco's tongue wags too freely
for the city's good. But back to Pisa must ye go, my lads, for it ill
beseems such as you, prelates and grave students of theology as ye are,
to be ruffling with daggers drawn in any wild street-brawl that these
troublous malcontents may raise against us."

And so back to the quiet University of Pisa went the boys Giovanni and
Giulio to pursue their studies in "theology and ecclesiastical
jurisprudence." Think how you feel, boys and girls, when, after a
particularly jolly vacation, or an entrancing evening at the circus or the
pantomime, you go back to what seem to you dull school studies, and then
consider whether this boy cardinal, after all the glitter and parade and
excitement of the carnival days, could be expected to fully relish his
tasks of dry and laborious study. I imagine his solemn old biographer
tells but half the truth when he writes: "The splendid exhibitions, the
freedom and the songs with which the spectacles of Florence were
accompanied, could scarcely have failed to banish at intervals that
gravity of carriage which the young cardinal was directed to
support";--all of which is a very dry and roundabout way of saying that
"boys will be boys," and that young Giovanni de Medici, cardinal though he
was, loved mischief and excitement and frolic quite as much as have all
healthy young fellows since the days of the very first boy.

Spending his time thus, between his stately Florentine home, his noble old
castle of an abbey at Passignano, and the University of Pisa, Giovanni's
three years of probation were passed. For a cardinal of thirteen was
something out of the common even in those old days of intrigue and
bribery, and Pope Innocent the Eighth, in making the appointment, had
insisted that the ceremony of investment should not take place until
Giovanni's sixteenth year.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Whither so fast, my Maddalena?" asked young Francesco Albizzi, stopping a
dark-haired flower-girl, as on a bright March morning he rode into the
city. "What's astir, _cara mia_, that thou and all the world seem crowding
to meet me, here, at San Gallo's gate?"

"Thou, indeed?" and the flower-girl laughed a merry peal. "Why, brother of
the mole and lord of all the bats, where hast thou been asleep not to know
that to-day our young Messer Giovanni is to be proclaimed a cardinal?"

"So--the little Medici again?" exclaimed the wrathful Albizzi. "May the
_marzoccho_ eat his heart! Must he be always setting the city upside down?
Where is 't to be, Maddalena?"

"Why, where but at the altar of Fiesole? But do not thou keep me longer,"
she said, breaking away from the indignant young patriot. "All Florence
goes forth to meet my lord cardinal at the Bridge of Mugnone, and my
flowers will sell well and rarely to-day. But, hark thee, Messer
Francesco," she added, with warning finger, "we are all _palleschi_[Y]
to-day, and 't were best for thee to swallow thy black words. See, yonder
rides young Messer Pietro, and the Medici lances are ready and sharp for
such as thou."

And, as Albizzi turned sullenly away, Maddalena disappeared in the crowd
that, hurrying through San Gallo's gate, headed toward the flower-crowned
hill of Fiesole. There, overlooking the "Beautiful City," stood the gray
old monastery in which, on that eventful Sunday, the ninth of March, 1492,
the young Giovanni received the vestments--the long scarlet frock, the
mantle, cape, and train--that he was to wear as cardinal. With simple but
solemn words, as one who had known from his very cradle this lad, now
raised to so high a position and dignity, the worthy Fra Matteo Bosso, the
Prior of Fiesole, conducted the rites of investiture, and the
long-expected ceremony was accomplished.

"Illustrissimo," said Pietro de Medici, addressing his brother by the
title which was now his right, "will it please your grace to return to our
father's palace? All Florence waits to accompany thee from the Bridge of
Mugnone."

So, into the city, attended by the Archbishop of Florence and the civil
magistrates, with a glittering retinue, and followed by "an immense
multitude on horseback and on foot," with waving banners and shouts of
joyous welcome, through the great gate of San Gallo, rode Giovanni de
Medici, "on a barded mule housed with trappings of scarlet and gold," to
where, in the arched hall of the palace of the Medici, his father, sick
and reclining on his litter, awaited the coming of the boy cardinal.

"You are not only the youngest of the cardinals, my Giovanni, but the
youngest ever raised to that rank," Lorenzo said, after his warm
congratulations had been given. "Endeavor, then, to alleviate the burthen
of your early dignity by the regularity of your life and by your
perseverance in those studies which are suitable to your profession. Be
vigilant, be unassuming, be cautious, and deliberate every evening on what
you may have to perform the following day, that you may not be unprepared
for whatever may happen."

With these and other words of useful and practical advice did the proud
father counsel the young cardinal, and then, from all the acclamations and
illuminations, the joy, the fireworks, and the feasting that accompanied
the ceremonies at Florence, Giovanni, on the twelfth of March, with a
brilliant retinue, departed for Rome. Here, on the fifteenth of March, the
Pope, with much pomp, received him "in full consistory," as it is called,
welcomed him as a new member of the "College of Cardinals," and gave him
the "holy kiss." Placing the great scarlet hat on the boy's head as he
knelt before him, the Pope next encircled his finger with the sapphire
ring--emblem of fidelity and loyalty,--and the boy arose, by the
appointment and creation of Pope Innocent VIII., "the Most Illustrious and
Most Reverend Lord Cardinal Giovanni de Medici."

       *       *       *       *       *

Thus far we have seen only the bright side of the picture--the carnival
glories, the processions, the ceremonies, the cheers, the frolic, the
feasting. Now comes the darker side; for if ever a boy was to be in
trouble, worried, badgered, and disappointed, that boy was "the Most
Illustrious and Most Reverend Lord Cardinal Giovanni de Medici." For, like
a sudden shock, with many an accompanying "portent" and "sign" that caused
the superstitious Florentines to shake their heads in dismay, came the
news that Lorenzo the Magnificent was dead. Still in the prime of life,
with wealth and power and a host of followers, a mysterious disease laid
hold upon him, and on the eighth of April, 1492, he died at his beautiful
villa among the olive groves of Careggi, where the windows overlooked the
fair valley of the Arno and the "Beautiful Florence" that he had ruled so
long. From Rome to Florence, and from Florence to Rome again, the young
cardinal posted in anxious haste, as following fast upon the death of his
much-loved father came the sudden illness and death of his other patron
and protector, Pope Innocent VIII. This occurred on July 25, 1492, and
soon again was Giovanni posting back to Florence, a fugitive from Rome,
proscribed by the new Pope, Alexander VI., the bitter and relentless enemy
of the house of Medici.

But, in Florence, Lorenzo the Magnificent was dead, and in his place ruled
his eldest son, Messer Pietro. Rash, headstrong, overbearing, vindictive,
wavering, proud, and imprudent, this wayward young man of twenty-one
succeeded to a power he could not wield and to possessions he could not
control. Enemies sprung up, old friends and supporters dropped away, the
people lost confidence, and when, by a final blunder, he unnecessarily
surrendered to the king of France important Florentine fortresses and
territory, the anger of his fellow-citizens broke out in fierce
denunciation and open revolt.

There is no merry shouting of titles, no gay carnival dress, no glittering
pageant now, as, on the morning of Sunday, the ninth of November, 1494,
the young cardinal and his cousin Giulio pass anxiously down the grand
staircase of the Medici palace to where in the great entrance-hall the
pikestaffs and arquebuses of the Swiss guard ring on the marble floor.

"Think you the Signory will admit him?" Giulio asked of his cousin, as
they awaited the return of Pietro from his demand for admittance to the
palace of the Signory, the city hall of Florence.

"'T is a question for an older head than mine, Giulio," replied Giovanni.
"Pietro's hot-headedness and the Signory's unreasonable demands may cause
a conflict, and the people, I fear me, are so excitable that----but hark!
what was that?" he asked hastily as there fell upon their ears the long
_boom_--_boom_--of a tolling bell.

"By San Marco, the people are up!" said Giulio, excitedly. "'T is the
_campana_; 't is the mad bellow of the old cow of the Vacca! Quick, stand
to your arms, Giovanni, for soon all Florence will be at your doors!"

Too well the boys knew the meaning of that tolling bell--the great bell of
the Palazzo Vecchio, "the old cow of the Vacca," as the Florentines
called it. Its loud _boom_--_boom_--meant "Danger for Florence!" And, as
its clang sounded over the city from gate to gate, every citizen, no matter
what he might be doing, answered the summons by snatching up the arms that
were handiest and hastening to the great square of the Vecchio.

"Pietro is lost!" shouted the cardinal. "_Palle, palle!_ Medici to the
rescue!" But, before the guard could rally to his summons, the door burst
open, and in rushed Pietro de Medici, called the Lord of Florence,
white-faced and bespattered with mud, while at his heels followed a dozen
equally terrified men-at-arms. Without, the yells and hootings of an angry
mob filled the air, and the deeper cry of "Liberty, liberty for the
people!" sounded above the din.

"Well, my brother?" was all the cardinal said.

Messer Pietro caught him by the arm. "Quick, send for Orsini and his
troops!" he cried excitedly. "Send now, or all is lost, Giovanni. The
people are up! The Signory refuses me--me, the Lord of Florence--admittance
to the palace. Magistrates whom our father honored and appointed reviled
and insulted me; men and women who have lived on our bounty, nay, even the
very children hooted and pelted me as I turned from the wicket of the
Signory, and now, by the claws of the _marzoccho_! I will have in Orsini's
troops and drench the streets with blood."

"Hold, hold, Pietro; not so fast, I pray," Giovanni exclaimed. "Is there
no loyalty, no respect for the Medici left in Florence? To horse, and
follow me! It shall not be said that the sons of Lorenzo the Magnificent
lost their lordship without a struggle."

Again the palace gates were swung open; again the lily-banner of Florence
and the ball-escutcheon of the Medici flashed through the city streets as,
followed by Giulio and the Swiss halberdiers, the boy cardinal rode toward
the palace of the Signory.

"_Palle, palle!_ Medici! ho, Medici!" rang the well-known cry of the great
house as the armed guard of the cardinal pressed through the crowded
streets.

"Hollo, my Lord Cardinal; well met again!" shouted a mocking voice, and
around from the great square of the Duomo came Francesco Albizzi and a
motley crowd of followers.

"Back, Albizzi, back!" Giovanni commanded. "Our business is with the
Signory and not with feud-breeders such as art thou."

"Ho, hark to the little Illustrissimo! _Popolo! ho, popolo!_" Albizzi
shouted, and the surging and excited mass swarmed around Giovanni's little
band with the ringing cry: "_Popolo, popolo! Liberta, liberta!_" (The
people, the people! Liberty for the people.)

All the stout bravery of the lad flashed into his olive cheeks, and the
power that belonged to his title of cardinal gave him strength and nerve.

"Men of Florence," he cried, as he rose in his stirrups, "have ye no
memories of past benefits received from the house of Medici, ever the
helpers of the people? Have ye no memories of the good Lorenzo, the
brother of the citizens of Florence? Have ye no reverence for the Church
whose instrument I am? Francesco Albizzi, traitor to Florence and the
Church,--back, back, on thy life, or I,--even I,--the Cardinal de Medici,
will cast upon thy head the curse of Holy Church!"

The crowd wavered and fell back before the determined stand of the young
prelate, and even Albizzi's head bent under the priestly threat. But, just
then, there sounded again on the air the sullen _boom_--_boom_--of the
_campana_, and the cry, "_Popolo, popolo!_" rose again from the mob.

"Fly, fly, my Lord Cardinal," said a quick voice, and, turning, Giovanni
saw a masked figure and felt a touch upon his bridle-arm. "'T is I,
Buonarotti," said the new-comer, slightly raising his visor. "The Signory
have declared both thee and Pietro rebels and outlaws! A price is set upon
thy head. Pietro has fled already, and when once the news is known, not
even thy cardinal's robes nor thy noble name can save thee from the mob."

Giovanni looked at the rapidly increasing crowd, looked at his
insufficient guard, already deserting him in fear, and then said, sadly:

"'T were better to die for our house than to desert it, but how will it
avail? Come, Giulio,"--and, slipping from their horses, the two lads,
guided by Buonarotti and a few faithful friends, escaped from the yelling
mob into a small tavern, where disguises were in readiness. The
cardinal's scarlet robes and the knight's crossleted tunic were exchanged
for the gray habits of Franciscan monks, and then, in sorrow and dismay,
the boy cardinal fled from his native city. As he hurried through San
Gallo's massive gate, with the _boom_--_boom_, of that terrible bell still
tolling the doom of his family, and the "_Popolo; liberta!_" of an aroused
and determined people filling the air, he remembered the brilliance and
enthusiasm of other passages through that well-known gate, and with the
words "Ungrateful,--ah, ungrateful," on his lips, he hastened to the villa
at beautiful Careggi, where the defeated Pietro had taken temporary
refuge.

But not long could the banished brothers remain at Careggi. "Two thousand
crowns of gold to him who will bring to the Signory at Florence the head
of either of the outlawed Medici; five thousand crowns to him who will
deliver to the Signory the bodies of these pestilent rebels alive." Thus
read the cruel ban of their native city and, first, Pietro, and next,
Giovanni, turned from the familiar scenes of their loved country-house and
fled in great secrecy toward Bologna. But the hunters were after them, and
for two anxious weeks this young Giovanni, a cardinal of Rome and a prince
of Holy Church, whose boyish days had been filled with pleasure and
brightness, whose slightest wish had ever been gratified, remained
concealed, in the deepest recesses of the Apennines, a rebel and an
outlaw, with a price upon his head.

Eighteen years passed away, and on the morning of the fourteenth of
September, 1512, two full-robed priests, surrounded by a great escort of
glittering lances and a retinue of heavy-armed foot-soldiers, entered the
gate-way of the "Beautiful City." They were the Cardinal de Medici and his
faithful cousin returning to their native city, proudly and triumphantly,
after eighteen years of exile. Boys no longer, but grave and stalwart men,
Giovanni and Giulio rode through the familiar streets and past the old
landmarks that they had never forgotten, to where, at the foot of the Via
Larga, still stood the palace of the Medici. Since the year 1504, when the
unfortunate Messer Pietro--unfortunate to the last--had been drowned on
the disastrous retreat from Garigliano, the Cardinal Giovanni had stood as
the head of the house of Medici. High in favor with the stern old Pope
Julius II., he had, after six years of wandering and anxiety, risen to
eminence and power at Rome. In all these eighteen years, he never gave up
his hope of regaining his native city. Three times did the Medici seek to
return to power; three times were they repulsed. At last, his time has
come. Florence, torn by feud and discontent, with a Spanish army camped
beyond her walls, opens her gates to the conquerors, and the Cardinal
Giovanni rules as Lord of Florence.

So the fair city again lost her liberties; so the exiled family returned
to position and power; so the fickle Florentines, who, in a fury of
patriotism, had sacked the palace of Lorenzo, now shouted themselves
hoarse for "_Palle_ and the Medici!"

And within less than six months comes a still higher triumph. Pope Julius
II. is dead, and, by the unanimous voice of the "College of Cardinals,"
Giovanni, Cardinal de Medici, ascends the papal throne, on the third of
March, 1513, as Pope Leo the Tenth.

With his later life, we need not here concern ourselves. The story of the
boy may perhaps lead you to read in history the interesting story of the
man. Only thirty-seven, the youngest of the popes, as he was the youngest
of the cardinals, he wore the triple tiara in the stormy days of the great
Reformation, and made his court the centre of learning and refinement, so
that his reign has been called "the golden age of Italian art and
letters." He is well worth remembrance also as having been the firm friend
of the American Indians amid the cruel persecutions of their Spanish
conquerors. "The best of all the Medici, save his father," and "the only
pope who has bestowed his own name upon his age,"--so the historians
report,--we may, as we read of him, remember the boyishness,
notwithstanding his high position, the diligence, notwithstanding his love
of pleasure, and the loyalty to the name and fortunes of a once powerful
family, that marked the youthful years of Giovanni de Medici, the Boy
Cardinal.

FOOTNOTES:

[V] The _marzoccho_ was the great stone lion of the Palazzo Vecchio.

[W] The _Palle d' Oro_, or golden balls, were the arms of the house of
Medici, and "_Palle, palle!_" was their rallying cry.

[X] The Church of the Reparata, or Santa Maria Novella, in which Lorenzo
the Magnificent was wounded and his brother Giuliano murdered, in the
conspiracy of the Pazzi, in 1478.

[Y] _Palleschi_ was the name given to the adherents and retainers of the
house of Medici.




                       [Illustration]

                             IX.

            IXTLIL' OF TEZCUCO--THE BOY CACIQUE.

(_Afterward King of Tezcuco, the last of the ruling Aztec princes._)

                        [A.D. 1515.]


A dusky courier, fleet-footed and wary-eyed, dashed swiftly along the
roadway that, three spear-lengths wide, spanned the green plain and led
from the royal city to the Palace of the Hill, the wonderful rural retreat
of the good 'Hualpilli, the 'tzin[Z] or lord of Tezcuco. Through the
sculptured gate-way he sped, past the terraced gardens and the five
hundred porphyry steps, past the three reservoirs of the Marble Women,
past the Winged Lion and the Rock of the Great 'Tzin to where, in the
midst of a grove of giant cedars, rose the fairy-like walls of the
beautiful summer palace of the king.

"At the baths," said a watchful guardsman, upon whose quilted suit of
cotton mail and on whose wooden wolf's-head helmet glistened the feather
badge of the 'tzin. Scarcely slackening his speed the courier turned from
the palace door-way and plunged into the thick shadows of the cypress
forest. He followed the course of the foaming cascade which came rushing
and tumbling over the rocks through a mass of flowers and odorous shrubs,
and stopped suddenly before the marble portico of an airy pavilion, where
a flight of steps cut in the solid porphyry and polished like mirrors, led
down to the baths of the 'tzin. For an instant the courier stood erect and
motionless as a statue, then, swiftly stooping to the earth, he laid the
open palm of his right hand on the ground and next raised it slowly to his
head, offering with downcast eyes the scroll he had carried in the folds
of his maxtlatl[AA] to the inmate of the marble pavilion--'Hualpilli the
Just, the 'tzin of Tezcuco.

"From the Council?" asked the 'tzin, as he took the scroll.

"From the Council, O King," replied the courier, falling prostrate on the
ground as he heard the voice of his lord.

The face of the 'tzin wore a perplexed and troubled expression as he
unrolled the scroll. "Again?" he said; "Is the boy at his tricks again?
How shall hot young blood be tamed for soberer duties?"

And what is it on the soft and polished surface of the maguey[AB] paper
that so disturbs the worthy 'tzin? It seems a series of comic pictures
painted in vivid green and red. First, a blazing sun; then a boy with a
big head and a boy with a small head topped with two flags; then a
misshapen-looking man with a short cloak and a long staff and above his
head a plume; then a low-roofed house, a footprint under a blazing sun;
and, lastly, a man sitting on the ground. What do you make of all this,
as, especially privileged, you peep over the shoulder of 'Hualpilli the
'tzin, in the portico of his porphyry baths? Nothing, of course. But to
the dusky king, skilled in the reading of Aztec hieroglyphics, the message
from his Council is plain enough. And this is what he reads: "Most dread
and mighty lord, the sun of the world! This is to inform you that the
noble young cacique, Ixtlil', at the head of forty of his wild
boy-followers is raiding the streets of Tezcuco, and has already assaulted
and wofully distressed full four hundred of the townspeople. Hasten, then,
we pray you, your royal feet, that you may see and believe our statement,
lest if we may not stop the noble young cacique in this his dangerous
sport, your royal city of Tezcuco shall be disturbed and overturned as if
by an earthquake."

"Runs he so rudely?" said the 'tzin. "I will even see this for myself. So
much of fighting mettle in a little lad must not waste itself upon those
whom he may one day rule," and borne by his slaves to the villa he ordered
that his litter be made ready at once. It soon awaited him, gleaming with
gold and bright with green plumes. Turning with a sigh from the calm
retreat he loved so much, he ascended his litter and commanded: "To the
city, straight," and the trained litter-bearers were soon speeding across
the green plain, bearing their lord to his royal city of Tezcuco, two
leagues distant, near the shores of the great salt lake. But, ere he
reached the city walls, he descended from his litter, dismissed his
slaves, and, drawing over his kingly dress a _tilmatli_, or long purple
cloak of fine cotton, he mingled with the crowd that surged through the
city gate.

Meanwhile, on one of the wide and smoothly cemented streets that traversed
the beautiful city of Tezcuco there was great commotion and excitement.
For at the head of his amateur train-band of forty Aztec boys, Ixtlil',
the young cacique,[AC] or prince, of Tezcuco, was charging in mimic fight,
past palace gate-ways and low _adobe_ walls, across the great square of
the _tinguez_, or market-place, and over the bridges that spanned the main
canal, scattering group after group of unarmed and terrified townspeople
like sheep before his boyish spears, while the older warriors laughed loud
at the dangerous sport, and the staid old "uncles" or councillors of the
king dared not interfere with the pranks and pleasures of this wild and
unruly young son of the 'tzin, their lord and master.

Near the serpent-sculptured wall of the great _teocalli_, or temple to
'Huitzil the Aztec god of war, a number of citizens, unwilling to be
longer badgered and persecuted by a boy, cacique though he was, had
gathered to make a stand against the rough play of the turbulent lads!
Round from the great market-place, with the shrill Aztec whistle that,
years after, the Spanish invaders learned to know so well, swung the corps
of youthful marauders, their uniform a complete mimicry of the brave
Tezcucan warriors. Gay cotton doublets, surcoats of feather-mail,
bristling wolf-crests dyed with cochineal, plumes and lances, banners and
devices, gleamed in the clear Mexican sunlight, and, leading all this
riot, came a boy of scarce fourteen, whose _panache_, or head-dress, of
bright green feathers denoted his royal birth as it drooped over the long
black hair that covered a face of pale bronze. In his hand, he brandished
a broad _maquahuitl_, or sharp Aztec sword made of the polished _itzli_
stone.

"Ho, yield ye, yield ye, slaves!" he cried; "tribute or bodies to the
lords of the streets!"

"Tribute, tribute or bodies to the young cacique!" shouted his
boy-followers. "Way there; way for the grandson of the Hungry-Fox!"[AD]

Their rush was irresistible, and the terrified townsfolk, repenting of
their determination to stand in their own defence, when once they had
caught the gleam of the _maquahuitl_, and faced the fierce presence of the
boy cacique, turned to hurried flight beneath the walls of the great
_teocalli_.

"What, are ye all cowards to flee from a pack of boys! Women and daughters
of women are ye, and not men of proud Tezcuco!"

The taunt came from a tall and well-built man who strode into the midst of
the rout. His _tilmatli_, or cotton cloak completely enveloped his figure,
while the long staff in his hand showed him to be a traveller, a visitor
probably from Tenochtitlan or distant Cholula. "Back, boys, back," he
commanded, "back, I tell you and let me pass!"

The shrill war-whistle of young Ixtlil' rang out loud and clear, and his
fierce young troop with a startling war-cry clattered round the daring
stranger.

"Now by the fire plumes of Quetzal'!"[AE] cried the headstrong young
prince, "who be ye to brave the son of the king? To me, comrades all, and
down with the stranger!"

The be-cloaked unknown backed against the stout walls of the _teocalli_.
With an easy turn of his staff he parried the vicious sword thrust of the
boy cacique and sent his polished _maquahuitl_ spinning through the air.
Then with a swinging sweep he laid lustily about him, right and left,
scattering the throng of boy soldiers until a good dozen or so lay on the
cemented roadway or with aching heads scud out of range of that terrible
staff. With a sudden dash the stranger grasped the young cacique's
feather-cloak, and catching him by the nape of the neck shook him so
roundly that the green _panache_ tumbled from the lad's head and his
princely teeth chattered with the shock.

The timid citizens, reassured by this signal discomfiture of their
boy-pests, had drawn to the aid of the stranger, but they trembled at this
rough handling of the young prince, and the lad's boy-followers, still at
a respectful distance from the stranger's staff, cried loudly: "Ho,
rescue, rescue for Ixtlil' the cacique! Death, death to the sacrilegious
slave who dares lay hand upon the son of the 'tzin!"

The wolf-casques of the king's spearmen came pouring from the
market-place, pressing close behind the royal banner of Tezcuco, the
golden coyatl, or winged fox. A hundred copper lance-heads, aimed for
flight, pointed at the bold stranger's heart. But all unmoved he raised
his staff. "He who lays hands upon the favored of the gods," he said,
"must needs know when and why he does so"; then casting off the purple
_tilmatli_ and drooping hood, that had disguised him, "Now, who shall say
me nay?" he asked, and valiant spearmen, timid citizens, and bold
boy-soldiers, with a startled cry of surprise, went down in the dust in
abject homage before their lord and master, 'Hualpilli the Just, the
'tzin of Tezcuco.[AF]

[Illustration: HUALPILLI THE LORD OF TEZCUCO REVEALS HIMSELF,--"NOW WHO
SHALL SAY ME NAY?" HE ASKED.]

With a loud whistle the 'tzin summoned the slaves who bore his litter.
They came hurrying to his call, and soon, followed by the youthful and
somewhat sobered band of boy-soldiers, wondering townsfolk, and a mass of
royal spearmen, the wild young cacique accompanied his father to the great
palace of the kings of Tezcuco.

Upon the map of modern Mexico you can readily find Tezcuco, now an
insignificant manufacturing town, some sixteen miles north-east of the
city of Mexico, near the shores of the salt lake of Tezcuco. Its _adobe_
or mud houses shelter scarce five thousand squalid inhabitants, and of the
former grandeur of the "Imperial City" of the old Aztec days there
remains, as one traveller remarks, "not a wreck--not even an epitaph."

But, according to the historians of that wonderful achievement of four
centuries back--the Conquest of Mexico--Tezcuco, "City of Rest," was, in
the year of our story, 1515, the mighty capital of one of the most fertile
and lovely sections of the old Aztec land of Anahuac, a city of over one
hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, and second only in population,
power, and magnificence to the royal "City of the Cactus and the
Rock"--Tenochtitlan, known ever to Europeans as the City of Mexico.
Temples and palaces, schools and gardens, aqueducts, causeways, streets,
and walls adorned and defended the beautiful "City of Rest," and so great
was its culture and refinement that, as Tenochtitlan, or Mexico, was
called the Venice, so Tezcuco "claimed the glory of being the Athens of
the New World."

In one of the long and richly decorated arcades which led from the king's
apartments to the baths and gardens of the low-walled but far-reaching
palace of Tezcuco, two boys with their scorers were playing at _totoloque_
the day after young Ixtlil's street combat. Now _totoloque_ was the
favorite ball-game of the Aztecs, young and old. It consisted simply of
pitching balls, made of some hard and polished substance, at a mark, at
long or short distances, according to the expertness of the players, the
first complete score of five throws to take the prize. The game was
frequently close and exciting, as was the case in this particular game in
the arcades of the palace. And the brown-skinned little Tula was scoring
for the cacique Ixtlil', while the young prince Cacama scored for the
cacique Tecocal', the opponent of Ixtlil'. Now the prince Cacama was the
eldest son of the 'tzin 'Hualpilli, and, as older brothers often
will--modern ones as well as ancient--he liked to assert his authority and
superiority over his younger brothers and half-brothers. For that great
palace in old Tezcuco held a large family of boys and girls.

"There, Teco," the cacique Ixtlil' cried triumphantly, as the golden ball
struck fair and square against the golden target; "there's my fifth throw
and the game is mine again. Oh, there is no use in your trying to pitch
against the champion. So, pass over the golden quills, Cacama!"[AG]

"That will I not," exclaimed the prince Cacama. "We know enough not to
trust to your scoring, and I've kept tally too. Show me the maguey, Tula."

The little girl handed the parchment to her brother. "I thought so; I
thought so," he cried. "See here, Teco, she's scored one for the time when
his ball plumped into the fish-fountain, and one for the shot that knocked
over my cup of chocolate! what do you say to that!"

"_Ixoxal; ixoxal!_"[AH] exclaimed the young Teco; "then it's not fair and
the game is ours, Cacama!"

"But, Cacama," pleaded little Tula in her own behalf, "It wasn't my fault;
I only put down what Ixtlil' told me to."

"Ho, Tula," cried young Teco, contemptuously; "haven't you played
_totoloque_ enough with Ixtlil' to know how nimble he is with his score.
Why, he could fool Maxtla the juggler with his eyes open. Don't give him
the gold quills, Cacama. He didn't win them."

"I say I did," shouted the angry Ixtlil', snatching at the gleaming
quills. "Give me the gold quills, Cacama, or I'll order up my boys and
force them from you."

"Oh! will you though!" Cacama said, mockingly; "well, my valorous young
captain, take my advice and don't be quite so ready with your young
ruffians. Our father's councillors have reminded him of the star-men's
prophecy since your frolic of yesterday, and have advised him to do what
the wise men suggested when they cast your horoscope."

"And what was that?" asked the young cacique carelessly, as he tossed the
golden balls in air and caught them dexterously.

"Why, to take your life at once," replied the prince Cacama; "lest when
you grow to manhood you overturn the throne of your fathers and give up
Tezcuco to the strangers and to blood."

"What!" exclaimed the boy, turning quickly upon his elder brother, "the
old dotards dared advise my father to take my life? And you, you, my very
loving brother, stood by and let them live after such rebel words?"

"And why should I not?" coolly answered Cacama. "The boy who can pitch his
poor nurse into a well because she doesn't please his little lordship will
not hesitate to throw a nation into strife if so the fancy takes him. The
boy who tries his hand at _ixoxal_ in _totoloque_ will not stop at darker
work when the prize is a throne. If the king our father were not such a
believer in fate and in this fable of the return of the white god to
Anahuac, my word for it you would ere this have been sacrificed to
''Huitzil' as the old 'uncles' did advise."

"Cacama," burst out the young Ixtlil' now hot with bitter passion, "you
are a coward _tamane_![AI] and, as for those open-mouthed councillors who
would have my father take my life from me--from me, the Cacique
Ixtlil'--from me, the boy captain--by the white robes of Haloc![AJ] I'll
make them rue their words ere yet this day's sun cross the dome of the
Smoking Hill![AK] If I am to overturn the throne of my fathers as the
lying star-men prophesied, then shall not these same babbling 'uncles'
live to see the day!" And ere his brother could stop him the enraged boy
flung the golden _totoloque_ balls into the sparkling fish-fountain,
dashed through the curling clouds of incense that wreathed the wide
door-way of the sculptured arcade, and breathing out threatening and
slaughter against the offending gray-beards, hurried from his father's
palace.

Once again terror and commotion filled the streets of Tezcuco, as, at the
head of his boyish band, Ixtlil' the young cacique, bent on instant
revenge, stormed the houses of the old lords of his father's council and,
one after another, dragged them from their homes. The people, thronging
the _azoteas_, or broad, flat roofs of the low-walled houses, looked down
in wonder and dismay upon this strangest of sights--six gray and honorable
"uncles" or councillors of the king, bound neck to neck by the
"manacles," or poles with leathern yokes, and driven through the city
streets by a band of forty boys.

Young Ixtlil's vengeance was sharp and sudden. Ere night fell upon the
city the dreadful garrote--the strangling stick and cord--plied by the boy
executioners had done its dreadful work, and the six offending councillors
lay dead in the _tinguez_, by the order of the fierce boy whom they had
offended. And only when the last gray head had fallen a victim to boyish
wrath did the stupor of surprise that had held the people give place to
action. Then the bowmen of the king swept down upon the boy's brigade, and
overcoming all resistance, took the young leader captive and dragged him
for speedy sentence before his father, 'Hualpilli the 'tzin.

[Illustration: "I'LL MAKE THEM RUE THEIR WORDS ERE THIS DAY'S SUN CROSS
THE DOME OF THE SMOKING HILL."]

Ixtlil' the cacique knew what to expect. He could hope for no mercy from
the king, who was called by his subjects the Wise and Just. He had
committed an offence against the state that was punishable with death, and
he remembered how, years before, this same wise and just king, his father,
had condemned his eldest son to death for breaking the laws of the realm.
But with the same Indian stoicism that marked the Aztec, as it did the
less cultivated Algonquin and Sioux, the boy went, unresistingly, to meet
his fate.

The 'tzin 'Hualpilli sat upon the "King's Tribunal" in his great hall of
judgment. A gorgeous feather canopy emblazoned with the royal arms of the
lords of Tezcuco hung above his head, and, seated thus, he gave
audience to subjects and embassies, and sent out his fleet runners with
royal dispatches to his governors and vassal rulers. Turning his head as
he heard in the outer court a sudden and great commotion, his face grew
troubled and anxious as he saw the cause of the tumult to be his favorite
son, Ixtlil', bound, and in the hands of his officers of justice. For,
spite of the lad's wild ways, the good 'tzin loved this unruly young
cacique, and saw in his excesses and troublesome pranks the promise of a
courage that might make him, in the years to come, a stalwart soldier and
defender of the throne of his fathers. But justice must take its course
and 'Hualpilli the 'tzin was called the Wise and Just.

"What charge bring you against this lad?" he asked, as captive and captors
prostrated themselves before the "King's Tribunal." And when he had heard
the details of the terrible crime of the young cacique he simply demanded
of his son, "Are these things so?" and the boy boldly answered, "Yes, my
Lord the King."

Then the face of the 'tzin grew stern and sombre. Rising, he said: "This
is now no prank of an idle boy. It is a crime against the state and
against the gods who rule the state. Lead him to the 'Tribunal of the
Gods,'" and, attended by fourteen of his lords of highest rank, the king
walked solemnly to where, across the great judgment-hall, another throne,
called "the Tribunal of the Gods," faced "the King's Tribunal." It was the
seat from which sentence of death was pronounced, and was a marvellous
creation. Above a throne of pure gold was suspended a great feather canopy
of many and brilliant hues, from the centre of which gleamed a blazing
sun, made all of gold and jewels. Rich hangings of rare and colored fans,
looped up with rings of gold and embroidered with many strange devices,
lined the walls of the alcove which held the awful throne. Before the
throne, high on a heap of weapons of war, shields and quivers and bows and
arrows, rested a human skull, circled by an emerald crown and topped with
a crest of feathered plumes and jewels.

Placing the triple crown of Tezcuco upon his head and taking in his hand
the golden arrow of judgment, the 'tzin said to his son: "Ixtlil-o-chitl,
cacique of Tezcuco, I charge you in the presence of the arrow and the
skull to say, if you can, why sentence of death should not now be spoken
against you for this, your wicked deed."

And the boy cacique, first prostrating himself before "the Tribunal of the
Gods," rose and said: "O most dread Lord, my father and my king, I have in
this matter done no more than is my right as a cacique of Tezcuco and as
your son. For you have ever told me that to prepare for the life of a
soldier is the best and noblest work befitting a son of Tezcuco and of
Anahuac. You have said that this ambition was the only one worthy a
cacique who, as I am, is the son and grandson of mighty kings. You have
told me that a soldier is justified in defending his life, for that his
life belongs to the state, and, more than this, that the life of a royal
prince is doubly the state's. These your councillors, whom I have justly
punished, have sought to turn your affection from me, your son, and only
because I wished to prepare for a soldier's life, and to train my band of
boys to deeds of daring and to love of war. They sought to take away my
life, and I have acted but as you, my king and father, did counsel me. If
they have suffered death, then have they only obtained what they had
intended for me. I struck before they could seize the chance to strike at
me--even as in _totoloque_, O King most Just and Wise, the game was
rightly mine, because my score was reached the quickest and my aim was
surest."

And the old Tezcucan chronicler says that "the king found much force in
these reasons." Removing his crown from his head and dropping the arrow of
judgment from his hand, he stepped down from "the Tribunal of the Gods,"
and, taking his son's hand, said: "Hear, people of Tezcuco! I cannot, in
justice or in right, sentence this lad for what was not malice, but simply
the overflow of a boy's daring spirit--a spirit that may in after years do
great deeds in your defence and for the state's security," and so with a
lecture and a stern warning "not to do so again," the boy culprit was set
free--an unjust and far too lenient judgment it seems to us at this
distance for so foul a deed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Years passed away. The words of the good 'tzin proved true enough, as the
boy cacique grew to be so dashing and daring a warrior that, before the
age of seventeen, he had won for himself the rank and insignia of a
valorous and trusted captain in the armies of Tezcuco. Still the years
passed, and now 'Hualpilli the 'tzin, the Wise and Just, was dead. Amid
great pomp and the sacrifice of three hundred slaves his body was cremated
on a funeral pile, rich in jewels and incense and precious stuffs, and his
royal dust, sealed in a golden urn, was placed in the great _teocalli_, or
temple of 'Huitzil. His sons, Cacama and Ixtlil' both claimed the throne
of Tezcuco, and as in duty bound laid the question for settlement before
Montezuma, the lord and sovereign of all Anahuac. The Mexican emperor
decided in favor of the elder brother, and hot with rage and wrath the
defeated Ixtlil' withdrew to his little mountain princedom among the
Cordilleras, biding his time for revenge. For the vindictive spirit of the
boy, you see, never disciplined, increased with his years. The day for
revenge arrived all too soon, for in the year 1519 came the Conquest. The
Spaniards, first hailed as gods by the Aztecs, because of their fair
skins, their "canoes with wings," their armor, their horses, and their
artillery, conquered the country, laid waste the fair cities of the lakes
and the valley, and, with iron heel, stamped out the last vestiges of
Aztec civilization--"a civilization that," as one historian says, "might
have instructed Europe."

And foremost in this work of destruction and of death stood Ixtlilochitl
of Tezcuco, a traitor to his home-land, the vassal and the ally of Cortez
the Spaniard. The prophecies of the "star-men" and the warnings of his
father's councillors were fulfilled. He "united with the enemies of his
country and helped to overturn its institutions and its religion."

Raised to the vacant throne of his father by the sword of Cortez ere yet
he was twenty years old, Ixtlil' the cacique reigned for years as the last
king of Tezcuco, and, converted to Christianity, was baptized under the
Spanish name of Don Fernando, by which he was ever afterward known.
Through all the dreadful days of Spanish conquest and Aztec patriotism he
remained the firm friend and ally of the conquerors of his native land.
For nearly a hundred years, in the grimy little chapel of St. Francis in
the city of Tezcuco, the bones of these two friends lay side by
side--Spaniard and Aztec, Cortez the conqueror and Ixtlil' the vassal, the
once fierce and vindictive boy cacique of Tezcuco, who, wayward and
hot-tempered as a lad, became the recreant as a man. Out of his hatred for
Montezuma and for the brother who had supplanted him, Ixtlil', the last of
the Aztec princes, turned his sword against the brave and beautiful land
that had given him birth, thus achieving, says Prescott, the brilliant
historian of the conquest, "the melancholy glory of having contributed
more than any other chieftain of Anahuac to rivet the chains of the white
man round the necks of his countrymen."

FOOTNOTES:

[Z] 'Tzin is the Aztec for prince, or lord. Thus the last of the
Montezumas, the noblest of Aztec heroes, was Guatemo-tzin, the 'tzin or
prince Guatemo.

[AA] Maxtlatl, the girdle or wide sash worn by runners and soldiers in
battle.

[AB] Maguey, the great Mexican aloe, from the leaves of which the Aztec
made their paper. This wonderful plant indeed was, as Prescott says,
"meat, drink, clothing and writing materials to the Aztecs."

[AC] "Cacique in Mexico and prince in Wales."--Byron.

[AD] "The Hungry Fox" (Nezahual-Cayotl), "the greatest monarch who ever
sat upon an Indian throne," according to Prescott the historian, was the
father of Nezahual-pilli, the 'tzin of Tezcuco and the grandfather of
Ixtlilochitl the boy cacique. The story of his life is full of marvel, and
he was altogether one of the most attractive and remarkable characters in
Aztec history.

[AE] Quetzal-Coatl, the Aztec god of the air. He was said to be
fair-skinned, and the Aztecs had a prophecy that promised his return to
earth. Hence the Spanish invaders were, at first, taken for gods and but
little resistance offered them. Read General Lew Wallace's beautiful Aztec
story: "The Fair God."

[AF] The kings of Tezcuco, like that celebrated Caliph of Arabian story,
Haroun al-Raschid, would often mix in disguise with their people, talking
with all classes, and frequently rewarding merit and punishing
wrong-doers.

[AG] Transparent quills filled with gold dust, bags of cacao, (shining
chocolate beans), and bits of tin cut in the form of a T, made up the
circulating currency, or money, of the Aztecs.

[AH] _Ixoxal_, an Aztec word applied to cheating in the game of
_totoloque_, and signifying false scoring.

[AI] _Tamane_, the lowest order of Aztec slaves. Used as a term of
contempt among the higher classes.

[AJ] Haloc, the Aztec god of the sea.

[AK] "The Smoking Hill," the signification of the name of the great
Mexican volcano, Popocatepetl.




                       [Illustration]

                             X.

               LOUIS OF BOURBON, THE BOY KING.

(_Louis XIV. of France; afterward known as the Grand Monarque._)

                        [A.D. 1651.]


"Hush!" Pretty little Olympia Mancini's night-capped head bobbed
inquiringly out of the door that opened into the corridor of the Gallery
of Illustrious Personages in the old Palais Royal, as a long, low, distant
murmur fell upon her ears.

"Hark!" Through the opposite door popped the sleep-tousled head of the
awakened Armand, the bright young Count of Guiche, as hoarser and higher
rose the angry sound, while, in the Queen's Gallery, stout old Guitat,
captain of the regent's guard, stopped in his rounds to listen. Louder and
nearer it came until it startled even the queen regent herself. Then the
quick, sharp roll of the _rataplan_ sounded through the miserable streets
of the old city, as with ever-increasing shouts of "_Aux armes! aux
armes!_ They are stealing the king!" all Paris swarmed down the Rue de
Honoré, and clamored at the outer gates of the great Palais Royal.

Did you ever hear or see a mob, boys and girls? Probably not; but ask
father, or mother, or uncle, or any one you know who has ever had such an
experience, if he thinks there is any sound more terrifying than that
threatening, far-away murmur that grows each second louder and more
distinct, until it swells and surges up and down the city streets--the
hoarse, mad shouts of a mob. It was such a sound as this that on that
dreary midnight of the tenth of February, 1651, filled the dark and narrow
and dismal streets of old Paris, startling all the inmates of the Palais
Royal, as under the palace windows rose the angry cry:

"The King! the King! Down with Mazarin!" The two anxious-faced young
persons, a girl and a boy of thirteen or thereabout, who were peeping out
into the corridor, looked at one another inquiringly.

"Whatever is the matter, Count?" asked dainty little Olympia, the pretty
niece of the Queen's prime-minister, Mazarin.

But for answer the light-hearted young Armand, Count of Guiche, whom even
danger could not rob of gaiety, whistled softly the air that all
rebellious Paris knew so well:

    "A wind of the Fronde
      Has this evening set in;
    I think that it blows
      'Gainst Monsieur Mazarin.
    A wind of the Fronde
      Has this evening set in!"

"The Fronde!" exclaimed Olympia, hastily; "why, what new trick do they
play?"

"Faith, mam'selle," the boy count replied, "'t is a trick that may set us
all a livelier dance than your delightful _la bransle_. The people are
storming the palace to save the little king from your noble uncle, my lord
cardinal."

"But my uncle, Count Armand, is at St. Germain, as sure all Paris knows,"
Olympia replied, indignantly.

"Ay, 't is so, _ma belle_," young Armand replied, "but they say that the
queen will steal away to St. Germain with his little Majesty, and so here
come the people in fury to stay her purpose. Hark! there they go again!"
and as, before the gates, rose the angry shouts, "The King! the King! Down
with Mazarin!" these sprightly young people drew hastily back into the
security of their own apartments.

"_Down with Mazarin!_" It was the rallying cry that stirred the excitable
people of Paris to riot and violence in those old days of strife and civil
war, over two hundred years ago,--the troublesome time of the Fronde. The
court of the Queen Regent Anne, the Parliament of Paris, and the great
princes of France were struggling for the mastery, in a quarrel so foolish
and unnecessary that history has called it "the war of the children," and
its very nickname, "the Fronde," was taken from the _fronde_, or sling,
which the mischievous boys of Paris used in their heedless street fights.
Probably not one half of those who shouted so loudly "Down with Mazarin!"
understood what the quarrel was about, nor just why they should rage so
violently against the unpopular prime-minister of the queen regent, the
Italian Cardinal Mazarin. But they had grown to believe that the scarcity
of bread, the pinching pains of hunger, the poverty, and wretchedness
which they all _did_ understand were due, somehow, to this hated Mazarin,
and they were therefore ready to flame up in an instant and to shout "Down
with Mazarin!" until they were hoarse.

And now in the great palace all was confusion. Lights flashed from turret
to guard-room, casting flickering shadows in the long passages, and
gleaming on the gay liveries of the guard as it stood to arms in the
gallery where Olympia and Armand had held hurried conversation. Below, the
narrow postern opened hastily, and through the swaying and excited crowd
pressed the Captain Destouches and his escort of Swiss guards, hurrying
with his report to his master, the timorous Duke of Orleans, uncle of the
king, and bitter enemy of Mazarin and the regent.

"The King! the King!" rose the people's cry, as they crowded Destouches'
little band.

"He is in there," said the guardsman, pointing to the palace.

"Can one see him?" demanded a rough fellow, dashing a flambeau close to
the guardsman's face.

Destouches shrugged his shoulders meaningly. "Friend," he said, "I have
just seen his little Majesty asleep. Why should not you?"

"The King! the King! We must see the King!" shout the swaying crowd.
There is a dash against the trellised gates of the palace, a dash and then
a mighty crash, and, as the outer gate falls before the people's assault,
the great alarm bell of the palace booms out its note of danger. Then
guards and gentlemen press hastily toward the royal apartments in defence
of the queen and her sons, while ladies, and pages, and servants scatter
and hide in terror.

But Anne, Queen Regent of France, was as brave as she was shrewd.

"What is the people's wish?" she demanded, as the Duc de Beaufort entered
her apartment.

"To see his Majesty with their own eyes, they say," was the reply.

"But can they not trust their queen, my lord?" she asked.

"Their queen, your Highness? Yes. But not Mazarin," said the blunt duke.

"Ho, there, d'Aumont," said the queen to the captain of the palace guard,
"bid that the portals be opened at once! Draw off your guard. And you, my
lords, stand aside; we will show the king to our good people of Paris and
defeat the plots of our enemies. Bid the people enter."

"But----" said d'Aumont, hesitatingly, fearful as to the result of this
concession to the mob.

"Give me no buts!" said Anne, imperiously. "Bid the people enter," and,
unattended save by M. de Villeroi, the king's governor, and two of her
ladies-in-waiting, she passed quickly through the gallery that led to the
magnificent bedchamber of the little King Louis.

"What now, madame?" was the greeting she received from a handsome,
auburn-haired boy of twelve, who, as she entered the apartment, was
sitting upright in his bed. "Laporte tells me that the rabble are in the
palace."

"Lie down, my son," said the queen, "and if ever you seemed to sleep, seem
to do so now. Your safety, your crown, perhaps your life, depend upon this
masking. The people are crowding the palace, demanding to see with their
own eyes that I have not taken you away to St. Germain."

Young Louis of Bourbon flushed angrily. "The people!" he exclaimed. "How
dare they? Why does not Villeroi order the Swiss guard to drive the
ruffians out?"

"Hush, my Louis," his mother said. "You have other enemies than these
barbarians of Paris. Your time has not yet come. Help me play my part and
these _frondeurs_ may yet feel the force of your sling. Hark, they are
here!"

The angry boy dropped upon his pillow and closed his eyes in pretended
sleep, while his mother softly opened the door of the apartment, and faced
the mob alone. For, obedient to her order, the great portals of the palace
had been opened, and up the broad staircase now pushed and scrambled the
successful mob. The people were in the palace of the king.

"Enter, my friends," said the intrepid queen, as rough, disordered, and
flushed with the novelty of success, the eager crowd halted in presence of
royalty. "Enter, my friends; but--softly. The king sleeps. They said
falsely who declared that I sought to steal the king from his faithful
people of Paris. See for yourselves!" and she swung open the door of the
chamber; "here lies your king!" With ready hand she parted the heavy
curtains of the splendid bed, and, with finger on lip as if in caution,
she beckoned the people to approach the bedside of their boy king.

And then came a singular change. For, as they looked upon the flushed face
and the long, disordered hair of that beautiful boy, whose regular
breathing seemed to indicate the healthy sleep of childhood, the howling,
rebellious rabble of the outer gates became a reverent and loyal throng,
which quietly and almost noiselessly filed past the royal bed upon which
that strong-willed boy of twelve lay in a "make-believe" sleep.

For two long midnight hours on that memorable tenth of February, 1651, did
mother and son endure this trying ordeal. At length it was over. The last
burgher had departed, the great gates were closed, the guards were
replaced, and, as shouts of "_Vive le roi_" came from the jubilant crowd
without, the boy king sprang from his splendid bed and, quivering with
shame and rage, shook his little fist toward the cheering people. For,
from boyhood, young Louis of Bourbon had been taught to regard himself as
the most important lad in all the world. Think, then, what a terrible
shock to his pride must have been this invasion of his palace by the
people, whom he had been taught to despise.

The angry quarrel of the Fronde raged high for full five months after this
midnight reception in the king's bedchamber, but at last came the eventful
day which was to fulfil the boy's oft-repeated wish--the day of his
majority. For, according to a law of the realm, a king of France could be
declared of age at thirteen; and young Louis of Bourbon, naturally a
high-spirited lad, had been made even more proud and imperious by his
surroundings and education. He chafed under the restraints of the regency,
and hailed with delight the day that should set him free.

It was the seventh of August, 1651. Through the echoing streets of Paris
wound a glittering cavalcade, gay with streaming banners and a wealth of
gorgeous color. With trumpeters in blue velvet and heralds in complete
armor, with princes and nobles and high officials mounted on horses
gleaming in housings of silver and gold, with horse-guards and
foot-guards, pages and attendants, in brilliant uniforms and liveries,
rode young King Louis, "Louis the God-given," as his subjects called him,
to hold his "Bed of Justice," and proclaim himself absolute king of
France. He was a noble-looking young fellow, and he rode his splendid
Barbary horse dressed so magnificently that he looked almost "like a
golden statue." What wonder that the enthusiastic and loyal Aubery is
carried away by his admiration of this kingly boy. "Handsome as Adonis,"
writes the chronicler. "August in majesty, the pride and joy of humanity,
the king looked so tall and majestic that his age would have been thought
to be eighteen."

And so through the same mob that five months before had howled around the
palace of the imprisoned king, young Louis of Bourbon, rode on to the
Palace of Justice while the streets echoed to the loyal shouts of "Vive le
roi!" The glittering procession swept into the great hall of the palace
and gathered around the throne. And a singular throne it was. On a broad
dais, topped with a canopy of crimson and gold, five great cushions were
arranged. This was the young king's "Bed of Justice," as it was called.
Seating himself upon one cushion, "extending his arms and legs upon three
others and using the fifth to lean against," this boy of thirteen, with
his plumed and jewelled cap on his head, while every one else remained
uncovered, said, in a clear and steady voice: "Messieurs: I have summoned
my Parliament to inform its members that, in accordance with the laws of
my realm, it is my intention henceforth to assume the government of my
kingdom." Then princes and lords, from little "Monsieur," the ten-year-old
brother of the king, to the gray old Marshals of France, bent the knee in
allegiance, and back to the Palais Royal with his glittering procession,
and amid the jubilant shouts of the people, rode the boy king of France,
Louis of Bourbon, "King Louis Quatorze."

But alas for the ups and downs of life! This long-wished-for day of
freedom did not bring to young Louis the absolute obedience he expected.
The struggles of the Fronde still continued, and before the spring of the
next year this same haughty young monarch who, in that gorgeous August
pageant, had glittered like a "golden statue," found himself with his
court, fugitives from Paris, and crowded into stuffy little rooms or
uncomfortable old castles, fearful of capture, while not far away the
cannons of the two great generals, Turenne and Condé thundered at each
other across the Loire, in all the fury of civil war. Something of a bully
by nature, for all his blood and kingliness, young Louis seems to have
taken a special delight, during these months of wandering, in tormenting
his equally high-spirited brother, the little "Monsieur"; and there
flashes across the years a very "realistic" picture of a narrow room in
the old chateau of Corbeil, in which, upon a narrow bed, two angry boys
are rolling and pulling and scratching in a bitter "pillow-fight," brought
on by some piece of boyish tyranny on the elder brother's part. And these
two boys are not the "frondeurs" of the Paris streets, but the highest
dignitaries, of France--her king and her royal prince. There is but little
difference in the make-up of a boy, you see, whether he be prince or
pauper.

But even intrigue and quarrel may wear themselves out. Court and people
alike wearied of the foolish and ineffectual strivings of the Fronde, and
so it came about that in the fall of 1652, after a year of exile, the
gates of Paris opened to the king, while the unpopular Mazarin, so long
the object of public hatred, the man who had been exiled and outlawed,
hunted and hounded for years, now returned to Paris as the chief adviser
of the boy-king, with shouts of welcome filling the streets that for so
many years had resounded with the cry of "_Down with Mazarin!_"

And now the gay court of King Louis Fourteenth blazed forth in all the
brilliancy of pomp and pleasure. The boy, himself, as courageous in the
trenches and on the battle-field as he was royal and imperious in his
audience-chamber, became the hero and idol of the people. Life at his
court was very joyous and delightful to the crowd of gay, fun-loving, and
unthinking young courtiers who thronged around this powerful young king of
fifteen; and not the least brilliant and lively in the royal train were
Olympia Mancini and the young Count of Guiche, both proud of their
prominence as favorites of the king.

One pleasant afternoon in the early autumn of 1653, a glittering company
filled the little theatre of the Hotel de Petit Bourbon, near to the
Louvre. The curtain parted, and, now soft and sweet, now fast and furious,
the music rose and fell, as the company of amateurs--young nobles and
demoiselles of the court--danced, declaimed, and sang through all the
mirth and action of one of the lively plays of that period written for the
king by Monsieur Benserade.

In one of the numbers of the _ballet_, Mars and Venus stood at the wings
awaiting their cue and watching the graceful dancing of a nimble dryad
who, beset by a cruel satyr, changed speedily into the tuneful Apollo,
vanquished the surprised satyr, and then sang to the accompaniment of his
own lute the high-sounding praises of the great and glorious "King Louis
Quatorze."

And Mars said to Venus: "Our noble brother Immortal sings divinely; does
he not, Olympia?--or thinks he does," he added, in a whisper.

"Hush, Count Armand," Venus replied, holding up a warning finger. "Your
last words are barely short of treason."

"Is it treason to tell the truth, fair Olympia?" asked the boy courtier.
"Sure, you hear little enough of it from royal lips."

Olympia tossed her pretty head disdainfully. "And how can you know, Sir
Count, that his Majesty does not mean truthfully all the pretty things he
says to me? Ay, sir, and perhaps----"

"Well! perhaps what, Mam'selle?" Count Armand asked, as the imperious
little lady hesitated in her speech.

"Perhaps--well--who knows? Perhaps, some day, Count Armand, you may rue on
bended knee the sharp things you are now so fond of saying to me--to me,
who may then be--Olympia, Queen of France!"

Armand laughed softly. "Ho, stands my lady there?" he said. "I kiss your
Majesty's hand, and sue for pardon," and he bent in mock reverence above
the beautiful hand which the young king admired, and the courtiers,
therefore, dutifully raved over. "But----" he added, slowly.

"But what, Count?" Olympia exclaimed, hastily withdrawing her hand.

"Why, his Majesty says just as many and as pretty things, believe me, to
all the fair young demoiselles of his court."

"Ay, but he _means_ them with me," the girl protested. "Why, Count, who
can stand before me in the king's eyes? Can the little square-nozed
Montmorency, or the straw-colored Marie de Villeroi? Can--ah, Count, is
it, think you, that very proper little girl sitting there so demurely by
her mamma in the _fauteuil_ yonder--is it she that may be foremost in the
king's thoughts?"

"What, the Princess Henrietta of England?" exclaimed the count. "Ah, no,
Olympia; trust me, _le Dieu-donné_ looks higher than the poverty-stricken
daughter of a headless king and a crownless queen. There is nought to fear
from her. But, come, there is our cue," and, with a gay song upon their
gossipy lips, Mars and Venus danced in upon the stage, while a terrible
Fury circled around them in a mad whirl. And amid the applause of the
spectators the three bowed low in acknowledgment, but the Fury received by
far the largest share of the _bravas_--for you must know that the nimble
dryad, the tuneful Apollo, and the madly whirling Fury were alike his
gracious Majesty, Louis, King of France, who was passionately fond of
amateur theatricals, sometimes appearing in four or five different
characters in a single _ballet_.

That very evening the most select of the court circle thronged the
spacious apartments of the queen-mother in attendance at the ball given to
the widowed queen of England, who, since the execution of her unfortunate
husband, Charles the First, had found shelter at the court of her cousin
Louis. And with her came her daughter, the little Princess Henrietta, a
fair and timid child of eleven.

The violins sounded the call to places in the _bransle_, the favorite
dance of the gay court, and Count Armand noted the smile of triumph which
Mam'selle Olympia turned toward him, as King Louis solicited her hand for
the dance. And yet she paused before accepting this invitation, for she
knew that the honor of opening the dance with the king belonged to the
little Henrietta, the guest of the evening. She was still halting between
desire and decorum, when Anne, the queen-mother, rising in evident
surprise at this uncivil action of her son, stepped down from her seat and
quietly withdrew the young girl's hand from that of the king.

"My Louis," she said, in a low voice, "this is but scant courtesy to your
cousin and guest, the Princess of England."

The boy's face flushed indignantly at this interference with his wishes,
and looking towards the timid Henrietta, he said, with singular rudeness:
"'T is not my wish, madame, to dance with the Princess. I am not fond of
little girls."

His mother looked at him in quick displeasure. And the Queen of England,
who had also heard the ungallant reply, keenly felt her position of
dependence on so ungracious a relative, as she hastened to say: "Pardon,
dear cousin, but do not, I beg, constrain his Majesty to dance contrary to
his wishes. The Princess Henrietta's ankle is somewhat sprained and she
can dance but ill."

The imperious nature of Anne of Austria yielded neither to the wishes of a
sulky boy nor to the plea of a sprained ankle. "Nay, your Majesty," she
said, "I pray you let my desire rule. For, by my word, if the fair
Princess of England must remain a simple looker-on at this, my ball,
to-night, then, too, shall the King of France."

With a face still full of anger Louis turned away, and when the music
again played the opening measures, a weeping little princess and a sulky
young king danced in the place of honor. For the poor Henrietta had also
overheard the rude words of her mighty cousin of France.

As, after the ball, the king and his mother parted for the night, Anne
said to her son: "My dear Louis, what evil spirit of discourtesy led you
to so ungallant an action towards your guest, this night? Never again, I
beg, let me have need openly to correct so grave a fault."

"Madame," said Louis, turning hotly towards his mother, "who is the lord
of France--Louis the King or Anne of Austria?"

The queen started in wonder and indignation at this outburst; but the
boy's proud spirit was up, and he continued, despite her protests.

"Too long," he said, "have I been guided by your leading-strings.
Henceforth I will be my own master, and do not you, madame, trouble
yourself to criticise or correct me. I am the king."

And thus the mother who had sacrificed and suffered so much for the son
she idolized found herself overruled by the haughty and arrogant nature
she had, herself, done so much to foster. For, from that tearful evening
of the queen's ball to the day of his death, sixty-one years after, Louis
of Bourbon, called the Great, ruled as absolute lord over his kingdom of
France, and the boy who could say so defiantly "Henceforth I will be my
own master," was fully equal to that other famous declaration of arrogant
authority made, years after, in the full tide of his power, "_I_ am the
state!"

On the afternoon of an April day in the year 1654 a brilliant company
gathered within the old chateau of Vincennes for the royal hunt which was
to take place on the morrow. In the great hall all was mirth and fun, as
around the room raced king and courtiers in a royal game of
"clignemusette"--"Hoodman Blind," or "Blindman's Buff," as we now know it.
Suddenly the blindfolded king felt his arm seized, and the young Count of
Guiche, who had just entered, whispered: "Sire, here is word from Fouquet
that the parliament have moved to reconsider the registry of your decree."

The boy king tore the bandage from his eyes. "How dare they," he said;
"how dare they question my demands!"

Now it seems that this decree looked to the raising of money for the
pleasures of the king by M. Fouquet, the royal Minister of Finance, and so
anxious had Louis been to secure it that he had attended the parliament
himself to see that his decree received prompt registry. How dared they
then think twice as to the king's wishes?

"Ride you to Paris straight, De Guiche," he said, "and, in the king's
name, order that parliament reassemble to-morrow. I will attend their
session, and then let them reconsider my decree if they dare!"

Olympia Mancini heard the command of the king. "To-morrow? Oh, sire!" she
said; "to-morrow is the royal hunt. How can we spare your Majesty? How Can
we give up our sport?"

"Have no fear, mam'selle," said the king, "I will meet my parliament
to-morrow, but this trivial business shall not mar our royal hunt.
Together will we ride down the stag."

At nine o'clock the next morning parliament re-assembled, as ordered by
the king, and the representatives of the people were thunderstruck to see
the king enter the great hall of the palace in full hunting costume of
scarlet coat, high boots, and plumed gray beaver. Behind him came a long
train of nobles in hunting suits also. Whip in hand and hat on head, this
self-willed boy of sixteen faced his wondering parliament, and said:

"Messieurs: It has been told me that it is the intention of some members
of your body to oppose the registration of my edicts as ordered yesterday.
Know now that it is my desire and my will that in future all my edicts
shall be registered at once and not discussed. Look you to this; for,
should you at any time go contrary to my wish, by my faith, I will come
here and enforce obedience!"

Before this bold assertion of mastership the great parliament of Paris
bent in passive submission. The money was forthcoming, and in less than an
hour the boy king and his nobles were galloping back to Vincennes, and the
royal hunt soon swept through the royal forest.

Thus, we see, nothing was permitted to stay the tide of pleasure. Even the
battle-field and the siege were turned into spectacles, and, by day and
night, the gay court rang with mirth and folly.

In the great space between the Louvre and the Tuileries, since known as
the Place de Carrousel, the summer sky of 1654 arched over a gorgeous
pageant. Lists and galleries in the fashion of the tournaments of old,
fluttering streamers, gleaming decorations, and rich hangings framed a
picture that seemed to revive the chivalry of by-gone days. Midway down
the lists, in the ladies' gallery, a richly-canopied _fauteuil_ or
arm-chair, draped in crimson and gold, held the "queen of beauty," the
fair-faced Olympia Mancini--the imperious young lady "whom the king
delighted to honor." The trumpets of the heralds sounded, and into the
lists, with pages and attendants, gallant in liveries of every hue, rode
the gay young nobles of the court, gleaming in brilliant costume and
device, like knights of old, ready to join in the games of the mock
tournament. But the centre of every game, the victor in all the feats of
skill and strength, was the boy king, Louis of Bourbon, as in a
picturesque suit of scarlet and gold he rode his splendid charger like a
statue. And as the spectators noted the white and scarlet scarf that fell
from the kingly shoulder in a great band, and the scarlet hat with
snow-white plume, they saw, by looking at the fair young "queen of
beauty," Olympia Mancini, in her drapery of scarlet damask and white, that
King Louis wore her colors, and thus announced himself as her champion in
the lists.

And Count Armand could see by the look of triumph and satisfaction in
Olympia's pretty face, as she ruled queen of the revels, that already she
felt herself not far from the pinnacle of her ambition, and saw herself in
the now not distant future as Olympia, Queen of France!

But alas for girlish fancies! Louis, the king, was as fickle in his
affections as he was unyielding in his mastership.

"Sire," said the Count de Guiche, as the next day a gay throng rode from
the mock tournament to another great hunt in the forest of Vincennes,
"why does not the fair Olympia ride with the hunt to-day?"

"Ah, the saucy Mazarinette," the king said, surlily, using the popular
nickname given to the nieces of his minister, "she played me a pretty
trick last night, and I will have none of her, I say"; and then he told
the condoling count, who, however, was in the secret, how at the great
ball after the tournament, the maiden, whose colors he had worn, had
exchanged suits with his brother, the little "Monsieur," and so cleverly
was the masquerading done, that he, the great King Louis, was surprised by
the laughing Olympia, making sweet speeches to his own brother, thinking
that he was talking to the mischievous maiden.

"My faith, sire," said the laughing count, "Monsieur makes a fair dame
when he thus masquerades. Did he not well bear off the character of the
Mancini?"

"Pah, all too well, the ugly little _garçon_," ruefully replied the king.
"But I gave him such a cuff for his game on me as he shall not soon
forget. And as for her----"

"Well," said the young count, "what did you, sire, to the fair Olympia?"

"Fair, say you?" said the king, wrathfully; "she is aught but fair, say I,
Armand--a black face and a black soul! What think you? She strutted forth
with all the airs of the great Bayard or--of myself, and clapping hand to
sword, she rescued Monsieur from my clutch, saying: 'I am a chevalier of
France, and brook no ill usage of so fair a dame!'"

This was too much even for the young courtier, and he burst out
a-laughing. But the king was sulky. For Louis of Bourbon, like many a
less-titled lad, could enjoy any joke save one played upon himself, and
the mischievous Olympia lived to regret her joking of a king. Once at odds
with her, the king's fancies flew from one fair damsel to another, finally
culminating when, in 1660, he married, for state reasons only, in the
splendid palace on the Isle of Pheasants, reared specially for the
occasion, the young Princess Maria Theresa, Infanta of Spain, and daughter
of his uncle, King Philip the Fourth.

From here the boy merges into the man, and we must leave him. Strong of
purpose, clear-headed and masterful, Louis the Fourteenth ruled as King of
France for seventy-two years--the most powerful monarch in Christendom.
Handsome in person, majestic in bearing, dignified, lavish, and proud;
ruling France in one of the most splendid periods of its history--a period
styled "the Augustan age" of France; flattered, feared, and absolutely
obeyed, one would think, boys and girls, that so powerful a monarch must
have been a happy man. But he was not. He lived to see children and
grandchildren die around him, to see the armies of France, which he had
thought invincible, yield again and again to the superior generalship of
Marlborough and Prince Eugene, and to regret with deep remorse the follies
and extravagance of his early days. "My child," he said, in his last
hours, to his great-grandson and heir, the little five-year-old Louis,
"you are about to become a great king; do not imitate me either in my
taste for building, or in my love of war. Endeavor, on the contrary, to
live in peace with the neighboring nations; render to God all that you owe
him, and cause his name to be honored by your subjects. Strive to relieve
the burdens of your people, as I, alas! have failed to do."

It is for us to remember that kings and conquerors are often unable to
achieve the grandest success of life,--the ruling of themselves,--and that
flattery and fear are not the true indications of greatness or of glory.
No sadder instance of this in all history is to be found than in the
life-story of this cold-hearted, successful, loveless, imperious,
all-supreme, and yet friendless old man--one of the world's most powerful
monarchs, Louis of Bourbon, Louis "the Great," Louis "the God-given,"
Louis the _Grande Monarque_, Louis the worn-out, unloving and unloved old
man of magnificent Versailles.

[Illustration]




                       [Illustration]

                             XI.

            CHARLES OF SWEDEN: THE BOY CONQUEROR.

      (_Known as King Charles the Twelfth of Sweden._)

                        [A.D. 1699.]


[Illustration]

In an old, old palace on the rocky height of the _Slottsbacke_, or Palace
Hill, in the northern quarter of the beautiful city of Stockholm, the
capital of Sweden, there lived, just two hundred years ago, a bright young
prince. His father was a stern and daring warrior-king--a man who had been
a fighter from his earliest boyhood; who at fourteen had been present in
four pitched battles with the Danes; and who, while yet scarce twelve
years old, had charged the Danish line at the head of his guards and shot
down the stout Danish colonel, who could not resist the spry young
warrior; his mother was a sweet-faced Danish princess, a loving and gentle
lady, who scarce ever heard a kind word from her stern-faced husband, and
whose whole life was bound up in her precious little prince.

[Illustration]

And this little Carolus, Karl, or Charles, dearly loved his tender mother.
From her he learned lessons of truth and nobleness that even through all
his stormy and wandering life never forsook him. Often while he had swung
gently to and fro in his quaint, carved, and uncomfortable-looking cradle,
had she crooned above him the old saga-songs that told of valor and
dauntless courage and all the stern virtues that made up the heroes of
those same old saga-songs. Many a time she had trotted the little fellow
on her knee to the music of the ancient nursery rhyme that has a place in
all lands and languages, from the steppes of Siberia to the homes of New
York and San Francisco:

    "Ride along, ride a cock-horse,
    His mane is dapple-gray;
    Ride along, ride a cock-horse,
    Little boy, ride away.
    Where shall the little boy ride to?
    To the king's court to woo"----

and so forth, and so forth, and so forth--in different phrases but with
the same idea, as many and many a girl and boy can remember. And she had
told him over and over again the saga-stories and fairy tales that every
Scandinavian boy and girl, from prince to peasant, knows so well--of
Frithiof and Ingeborg, and the good King Rene; and about the Stone Giant
and his wife Guru; and how the Bishop's cattle were turned into mice; and
about the dwarfs, and trolls, and nixies, and beautiful mermaids and
stromkarls. And she told him also many a story of brave and daring deeds,
of noble and knightly lives, and how his ancestors, from the great
Gustavus, and, before, from the still greater Gustavus Vasa, had been
kings of Sweden, and had made the name of that northern land a power in
all the courts of Europe.

Little Prince Charles was as brave as he was gentle and jolly, and as
hardy as he was brave. At five years old he killed his first fox; at seven
he could manage his horse like a young centaur; and at twelve he had his
first successful bear hunt. He was as obstinate as he was hardy; he
steadily refused to learn Latin or French--the languages of the
court--until he heard that the kings of Denmark and Poland understood
them, and then he speedily mastered them.

His lady-mother's death, when he was scarce twelve years old, was a great
sadness, and nearly caused his own death, but, recovering his health, he
accompanied his father on hunting parties and military expeditions, and
daily grew stronger and hardier than ever.

In April, 1697, when the Prince was not yet fifteen, King Charles the
Eleventh, his stern-faced father, suddenly died, and the boy king
succeeded to the throne as absolute lord of "Sweden and Finland, of
Livonia, Carelia, Ingria, Wismar, Wibourg, the islands of Rugen and Oesel,
of Pomerania, and the duchies of Bremen and Verdun,"--one of the finest
possessions to which a young king ever succeeded, and representing what is
now Sweden, Western Russia, and a large part of Northern Germany.

A certain amount of restraint is best for us all. As the just restraints
of the law are best for men and women, so the proper restraints of home
are best for boys and girls. A lad from whom all restraining influences
are suddenly withdrawn--who can have his own way unmolested,--stands in
the greatest danger of wrecking his life. The temptations of power have
been the cause of very much of the world's sadness and misery. And this
temptation came to this boy king of Sweden, called in his fifteenth year
to supreme sway over a large realm of loyal subjects. Freed from the
severity of his stern father's discipline, he found himself responsible to
no one--absolutely his own master. And he did what too many of us, I fear,
would have done, in his position--he determined to have a jolly good time,
come what might; and he had it--in his way.

He and his brother-in-law, the wild young Duke of Holstein, turned the
town upside down. They snapped cherry pits at the king's gray-bearded
councillors, and smashed in the windows of the staid and scandalized
burghers of Stockholm. They played ball with the table dishes, and broke
all the benches in the palace chapel. They coursed hares through the
council-chambers of the Parliament House, and ran furious races until they
had ruined several fine horses. They beheaded sheep in the palace till the
floors ran with blood, and then pelted the passers-by with sheep's heads.
They spent the money in the royal treasury like water, and played so many
heedless and ruthless boy-tricks that the period of these months of folly
was known, long after, as the "Gottorp Fury," because the harum-scarum
young brother-in-law, who was the ringleader in all these scrapes, was
Duke of Holstein-Gottorp.

But at last, even the people--serfs of this boy autocrat though they
were--began to murmur, and when one Sunday morning three clergymen
preached from the text: "Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child,"
the young sovereign remembered the counsels of his good mother and
recalled the glories of his ancestors, saw how foolish and dangerous was
all this reckless sport, turned over a new leaf, became thoughtful and
care-taking, and began his career of conquest with the best victory of
all--the conquest of himself!

But though he curbed his tendency to profitless and hurtful "skylarking,"
he had far too much of the Berserker blood of his ancestors--those rough
old vikings who "despised mail and helmet and went into battle
unharnessed"--to become altogether gentle in manners or occupation. He
hated his fair skin, and sought in every way to tan and roughen it, and to
harden himself by exposure and neglect of personal comfort. Many a night
was passed by the boy on the bare floor, and for three nights in the cold
Swedish December he slept in the hay-loft of the palace stables, without
undressing and with but a scanty covering.

So he grew to be a lad of seventeen, sturdy, strong, and hardy, and at the
date of our story, in the year 1699, the greater part of his time was
given up to military exercises and field sports, with but little attention
to debates in council or to the cares of state.

Among his chief enjoyments were the sham fights on land and water. Many a
hard-fought battle was waged between the boys and young men who made up
his guards and crews, and who would be divided into two or more opposing
parties, as the plan of battle required. This was rough and dangerous
sport, and was attended often with really serious results. But the
participants were stout and sturdy Northern lads, used to hardships and
trained to physical endurance. They thought no more of these encounters
than do the boys of to-day of the crush of football and the hard hitting
of the base-ball field, and blows were given and taken with equal good
nature and unconcern.

One raw day in the early fall of 1699, sturdy young Arvid Horn, a stout,
blue-eyed Stockholm boy, stripped to the waist, and with a gleam of fun in
his eyes, stood upright in his little boat as it bobbed on the crest of
the choppy Maelar waves. He hailed the king's yacht.

"Holo; in the boat there! Stand for your lives!" he shouted, and levelled
his long squirt-gun full at the helmsman.

Swish! came the well-directed stream of water plump against the helmsman's
face. Again and again it flew, until dripping and sore he dropped the
tiller and dashed down the companion-way calling loudly for help.

Help came speedily, and as the crew of the king's yacht manned the rail
and levelled at their single assailant the squirt-guns, which were the
principal weapons of warfare used in these "make-believe" naval
engagements, the fun grew fast and furious; but none had so sure an aim or
so strong an arm to send an unerring and staggering stream as young Arvid
Horn. One by one he drove them back, while as his boat drifted still
nearer the yacht he made ready to spring to the forechains and board his
prize. But even before he could steady himself for the jump, another tall
and fair-haired Stockholm lad, darting out from the high cabin, rallied
the defeated crew and bade them man the pumps at once.

A clumsy-looking fire-engine stood amidship, and the crew leaped to its
pumps as directed, while the new-comer, catching up a line of hose, sprang
to the rail and sent a powerful stream of water straight against the
solitary rover.

"Repel boarders!" he cried, laughingly, and the sudden stream from the
fire-engine's nozzle sent young Arvid Horn staggering back into his boat.

But he rallied quickly, and with well-charged squirt-gun attacked the new
defender of the yacht. The big nozzle, however, was more than a match for
the lesser squirt-gun, and the small boat speedily began to fill under the
constant deluge of water from the engine.

"Yield thee, yield thee, Arvid Horn; yield thee to our unconquerable
nozzle," came the summons from the yacht; "yield thee, or I will drown you
out like a rat in a cheese-press!"

"Arvid Horn yields to no one," the plucky boy in the boat made answer, and
with a parting shot and a laughing "_Farväl_" he leaped from the sinking
boat into the dancing Maelar water. Striking boldly out he swam twice
round the boat in sheer bravado, defying the enemy; now ducking to escape
the pursuing stream, or now, while floating on his back, sending a return
shot with telling force against the men at the pump--for he still clung to
his trusty squirt-gun.

The fair-faced lad in the yacht looked at the swimmer in evident
admiration.

"Is it, then, hard to swim, Arvid Horn?" he inquired.

"Not if one is fearless," called back the floating boy.

"How; fearless?" exclaimed the lad on the yacht, hastily. "Do you perhaps
think that I am afraid?"

"I said not so," replied young Arvid, coolly sending a full charge from
his squirt-gun straight up in air.

"No; but you mean it--good faith, you mean it then," said the lad, and
flinging off wig, cocked hat, and long coat only, without an instant's
hesitation, he, too, leaped into the Maelar lake.

There is nothing so cooling to courage or reckless enthusiasm as cold
water--if one cannot swim. The boy plunged and floundered, and, weighty
with his boots and his clothing, soon sank from sight. As he came
spluttering to the surface again, "Help, help, Arvid," he called
despairingly; "I am drowning!"

Arvid, who had swum away from his friend, thinking that he would follow
after, heard the cry and caught a still louder one from the yacht: "The
king, the king is sinking!"

A few strokes brought him near to the over-confident diver, and clutching
him by his shirt collar, he kept the lad's head above water until, after
a long and laborious swim, he brought his kingly burden safe to land--for
the fair-haired and reckless young knight of the nozzle was none other
than His Gracious Majesty, Charles the Twelfth of Sweden.

"Truly it is one thing to be brave and another to be skilful," said the
king, as he stood soaked and dripping on the shore. "But for you, friend
Arvid, I had almost gone."

"You are very wet, sire, and may take cold," said Arvid, "let us hasten at
once to yonder house for warmth and dry clothes."

"Not so, Arvid; I do not fear the water--on land," said the king. "I am no
such milksop as to need to dry off before a kitchen fire. See, this is the
better way;" and catching up a stout hazel-stick, he bade Arvid stand on
his guard. Nothing loth, Arvid Horn accepted the kingly challenge, and
picking up a similar hazel-stick, he rapped King Charles' weapon smartly,
and the two boys went at each other "hammer and tongs" in a lively bout at
"single-stick."

They were soon thoroughly warmed up by this vigorous exercise, and forgot
their recent bath and the king's danger. It was a drawn battle, however,
and, as they paused for breath, King Charles said: "Trust that to drive
away cold and ague, Arvid. Faith, 't is a rare good sport."

"Could it be done on horseback, think you?" queried Arvid, always on the
look-out for sensation.

"And why not? 'T is well thought," said the king. "Let us straight to the
palace yard and try it for ourselves."

But ere they reached the palace the idea had developed into still greater
proportions.

The king's guards were summoned, and divided into two parties. Their
horses were unsaddled, and, riding "bareback" and armed with nothing but
hazel-sticks, the two forces were pitted against each other in a great
cavalry duel of "single-stick."

King Charles commanded one side, and young Arvid Horn the other. At it
they went, now one side and now the other having the advantage, the two
leaders fighting with especial vigor.

Arvid pressed the king closely, and both lads were full of the excitement
of the fray when Charles, careless of his aim and with his customary
recklessness, brought his hazel-stick with a terrible thwack upon poor
Arvid's face. Now, Arvid Horn had a boil on his cheek, and if any of my
boy readers know what a tender piece of property a boil is, they will know
that King Charles' hazel-stick was not a welcome poultice.

With a cry of pain Arvid fell fainting from his horse, and the cavalry
battle at "single-stick" came to a sudden stop. But the heat and the pain
brought on so fierce a fever that the lad was soon as near to death's door
as his friend King Charles had been in the sea fight of the squirt-guns.

The king was deeply concerned during young Arvid's illness, and when the
lad at last recovered, he made him a present of two thousand thalers,
laughingly promising to repeat the prescription whenever Arvid was again
wounded at "single-stick." He was greatly pleased to have his friend with
him once more, and, when Arvid was strong enough to join in his vigorous
sports again, one of the first things he proposed was a great bear-hunt up
among the snow-filled forests that skirted the Maelar Lake.

A day's ride from Stockholm, the hunting-lodge of the kings of Sweden lay
upon the heavily drifted hill-slopes just beyond the lake shore, and
through the forests and marshes two hundred years ago the big brown bear
of Northern Europe, the noble elk, the now almost extinct aurochs, or
bison, and the great gray wolf roamed in fierce and savage strength,
affording exciting and dangerous sport for daring hunters.

And among these hunters none excelled young Charles of Sweden. Reckless in
the face of danger, and brave as he was reckless, he was ever on the alert
for any novelty in the manner of hunting that should make the sport even
more dangerous and exciting. So young Arvid Horn was not surprised when
the king said to him:

"I have a new way for hunting the bear, Arvid, and a rarely good one too."

"Of that I'll be bound, sire," young Arvid responded; "but--how may it
be?"

"You shall know anon," King Charles replied; "but this much will I say: I
do hold it but a coward's part to fight the poor brute with fire-arms.
Give the fellow a chance for his life, say I, and a fair fight in open
field--and then let the best man win."

Here was a new idea. Not hunt the bear with musket, carbine, or
wheel-lock? What then--did King Charles reckon to have a wrestling bout or
a turn at "single-stick" with the _Jarl_ Bruin? So wondered Arvid Horn,
but he said nothing, waiting the king's own pleasure, as became a shrewd
young courtier.

And soon enough he learned the boy-hunter's new manner of bear-hunting,
when, on the very day of their arrival at the Maelar lodge, they tracked a
big brown bear beneath the great pines and spruces of the almost boundless
forest, armed only with strong wooden pitchforks. Arvid was not at all
anxious for this fighting at close quarters, but when he saw King Charles
boldly advance upon the growling bear, when he saw the great brute rise on
his hind legs and threaten to hug Sweden's monarch to death, he would have
sprung forward to aid his king. But a huntsman near at hand held him back.

"Wait," said the man; "let the 'little father' play his part."

And even as he spoke Arvid saw the king walk deliberately up to the
towering bear, and, with a quick thrust of his long-handled fork, catch
the brute's neck between the pointed wooden prongs, and with a mighty
shove, force the bear backward in the snow.

Then, answering his cry of "Holo, all!" the huntsmen sprang to his side,
flung a stout net over the struggling bear, and held it thus, a
floundering prisoner, while the intrepid king coolly cut its throat with
his sharp hunting-knife.

Arvid learned to do this too in time, but it required some extra courage
even for his steady young head and hand.

One day when each of the lads had thus transfixed and killed his bear, and
as, in high spirits, they were returning to the hunting-lodge, a
courserman dashed hurriedly across their path, recognized the king, and
reining in his horse, dismounted hastily, saluted, and handed the king a
packet.

"From the council, sire," he said.

Up to this day the young king had taken but little interest in the affairs
of state, save as he directed the review or drill, leaving the matters of
treaty and of state policy to his trusted councillors. He received the
courserman's despatch with evident unconcern, and read it carelessly. But
his face changed as he read it a second time; first clouding darkly, and
then lighting up with the gleam of a new determination and purpose.

"What says Count Piper?" he exclaimed half aloud; "Holstein laid waste by
Denmark, Gottorp Castle taken, and the Duke a fugitive? And my council
dares to temper and negotiate? _Ack; so!_ Arvid Horn, we must be in
Stockholm ere nightfall."

"But, sire, how can you?" exclaimed Arvid. "The roads are heavy with snow,
and no horse could stand the strain or hope to make the city ere morning."

"No horse!" cried King Charles; "then three shall do it. Hasten; bid Hord
the equerry harness the triple team to the strongest sledge, and be you
ready to ride with me in a half hour's time. For we shall be in Stockholm
by nightfall."

And ere the half hour was up they were off. Careless of roadway, straight
for Stockholm they headed, the triple team of plunging Ukraine horses,
driven abreast by the old equerry Hord, dashing down the slopes and across
the Maelar ice, narrowly escaping collision, overturn, and death. With
many a plunge and many a ducking, straight on they rode, and ere the
Stockholm clocks had struck the hour of six, the city gates were passed,
and the spent and foaming steeds dashed panting into the great yard of the
Parliament House.

The council was still in session, and the grave old councillors started to
their feet in amazement at this sudden apparition of the boy king, soiled
and bespattered from head to foot, standing there in their midst.

"Gentlemen," he said, with earnestness and determination in his voice,
"your despatch tells me of unfriendly acts on the part of the king of
Denmark against our brother and ally of Holstein-Gottorp. I am resolved
never to begin an unjust war, but never to finish an unjust one save with
the destruction of mine enemies. My resolution is fixed. I will march and
attack the first one who shall declare war; and when I shall have
conquered him, I hope to strike terror into the rest."

These were ringing and, seemingly, reckless words for a boy of seventeen,
and we do not wonder that, as the record states, "the old councillors,
astonished at this declaration, looked at each other without daring to
answer." The speech seemed all the more reckless when they considered, as
we may here, the coalition against which the boy king spoke so
confidently.

At that time--in the year 1699--the three neighbors of this young Swedish
monarch were three kings of powerful northern nations--Frederick the
Fourth, King of Denmark, Augustus, called the Strong, King of Poland and
Elector of Saxony, and Peter, afterward known as the Great, Czar of
Russia. Tempted by the large possessions of young King Charles, and
thinking to take advantage of his youth, his inexperience, and his
presumed indifference, these three monarchs concocted a fine scheme by
which Sweden was to be overrun, conquered, and divided among the three
members of this new copartnership of kings--from each of whom, or from
their predecessors, this boy king's ancestors had wrested many a fair
domain and wealthy city.

But these three kings--as has many and many another plotter in history
before and since--reckoned without their host. They did not know the
mettle that was in this grandnephew of the great Gustavus.

Once aroused to action, he was ready to move before even his would-be
conquerors, in those slow-going days, imagined he had thought of
resistance. Money and men were raised, the alliance of England and Holland
were secretly obtained, a council of defence was appointed to govern
Sweden during the absence of the king, and on the twenty-third of April,
1700, two months before his eighteenth birthday, King Charles bade his
grandmother and his sisters good-bye and left Stockholm for ever.

Even as he left the news came that another member in this firm of hostile
kings, Augustus of Saxony and Poland, had invaded Sweden's tributary
province of Livonia on the Gulf of Finland. Not to be drawn aside from his
first object--the punishment of Denmark--Charles simply said: "We will
make King Augustus go back the way he came," and hurried on to join his
army in Southern Sweden.

By the third of August, 1700, King Charles had grown tired of waiting for
his reserves and new recruits, and so, with scarce six thousand men, he
sailed away from Malmo--clear down at the most southerly point of
Sweden--across the Sound, and steered for the Danish coast not twenty-five
miles away.

Young Arvid Horn, still the king's fast friend, and now one of his aids,
following his leader, leaped into the first of the small barges or
row-boats that were to take the troops from the frigates to the Danish
shore. His young general and king, impatient at the slowness of the
clumsy barges, while yet three hundred yards from shore, stood upright in
the stern, drew his sword, and exclaimed: "I am wearied with this pace.
All you who are for Denmark follow me!" And then, sword in hand, he sprang
over into the sea.

Arvid Horn quickly followed his royal friend. The next moment generals and
ministers, ambassadors and belaced officials, with the troops that filled
the boats, were wading waist-deep through the shallow water of the Sound,
struggling toward the Danish shore, and fully as enthusiastic as their
hasty young leader and king.

The Danish musket-balls fell thick around them as the Danish troops sought
from their trenches to repel the invaders.

"What strange whizzing noise is this in the air?" asked the young king,
now for the first time in action.

"'T is the noise of the musket-balls they fire upon you," was the reply.

"_Ack_, say you so," said Charles; "good, good; from this time forward
that shall be my music."

In the face of this "music" the shore was gained, the trenches were
carried by fierce assault, and King Charles' first battle was won. Two
days later, Copenhagen submitted to its young conqueror, and King
Frederick, of Denmark, hastened to the defence of his capital, only to
find it in the possession of the enemy, and to sign a humiliating treaty
of peace.

The boy conqueror's first campaign was over, and, as his biographer says,
he had "at the age of eighteen begun and finished a war in less than six
weeks." Accepting nothing for himself from this conquest, he spared the
land from which his dearly-remembered mother had come, from the horrors of
war and pillage which, in those days, were not only allowable but
expected.

King Augustus, of Poland, seeing the short work made of his ally, the king
of Denmark, by this boy king, whom they had all regarded with so much
contempt, deemed discretion to be the better part of valor and, as the lad
had prophesied, withdrew from Livonia, "going back by the way he came."
Then the young conqueror, flushed with his successes, turned his army
against his third and greatest enemy, Czar Peter, of Russia, who, with
over eighty thousand men, was beseiging the Swedish town of Narva.

A quaint old German-looking town, situated a few miles from the shores of
the Gulf of Finland, in what is now the Baltic provinces of Russia, and
near to the site of the Czar's later capital of St. Petersburg, the
stout-walled town of Narva was the chief defence of Sweden on its eastern
borders, and a stronghold which the Russian monarch especially coveted for
his own. Young Arvid Horn's uncle, the Count Horn, was in command of the
Swedish forces in the town, which, with a thousand men, he held for the
young king, his master, against all the host of the Czar Peter.

[Illustration: EAGLE-FLAG OF SWEDEN.]

The boy who had conquered Denmark in less than six weeks, and forced a
humiliating peace from Poland, was not the lad to consider for a moment
the question of risk or of outnumbering forces. In the middle of November,
when all that cold Northern land is locked in ice and snow, he flung out
the eagle-flag of Sweden to the Baltic blasts, and crossed to the instant
relief of Narva, with an army of barely twenty thousand men. Landing at
Pernau with but a portion of his troops, he pushed straight on, and with
scarce eight thousand men, hurried forward to meet the enemy. With a
courage as daring as his valor was headlong he surprised and routed first
one and then another advance detachment of the Russian force, and soon
twenty-five thousand demoralized and defeated men were retreating before
him, into the Russian camp. In less than two days all the Russian outposts
were carried, and on the noon of the 30th of November, 1700, the boy from
Sweden appeared with his eight thousand victory-flushed though wearied
troops before the fortified camp of his enemy, and, without a moment's
hesitation, ordered instant battle.

"Sire," said one of his chief officers, the General Stenbock, "do you
comprehend the greatness of our danger? The Muscovites outnumber us ten to
one."

"What! then," said the intrepid young king, "do you imagine that with my
eight thousand brave Swedes I shall not be able to march over the bodies
of eighty thousand Muscovites?" and then at the signal of two fusees and
the watchword, "With the help of God," he ordered his cannon to open on
the Russian trenches, and through a furious snow-storm charged straight
upon the enemy.

Again valor and enthusiasm triumphed. The Russian line broke before the
impetuosity of the Swedes, and, as one chronicler says, "ran about like a
herd of cattle"; the bridge across the river broke under the weight of
fugitives, panic followed, and when night fell the great Russian army of
eighty thousand men surrendered as prisoners of war to a boy of eighteen
with but eight thousand tired soldiers at his back.

So the boy conqueror entered upon his career of victory. Space does not
permit to detail his battles and his conquests. How he placed a new king
on the throne of Poland, kept Denmark in submission, held the hosts of
Russia at bay, humbled Austria, and made his name, ere yet he was twenty,
at once a wonder and a terror in all the courts of Europe. How, at last,
his ambition getting the better of his discretion, he thought to be a
modern Alexander, to make Europe Protestant, subdue Rome, and carry his
conquering eagles into Egypt and Turkey and Persia. How, by unwise
measures and fool-hardy endeavors, he lost all the fruits of his hundred
victories and his nine years of conquest in the terrible defeat by the
Russians at Pultowa, which sent him an exile into Turkey, kept him there a
prisoner of state for over five years; and how, finally, when once again
at the head of Swedish troops, instead of defending his own home-land of
Sweden, he invaded Norway in the depth of winter, and was killed, when but
thirty-six, by a cannon shot from the enemy's batteries at Frederickshall
on the 11th of December, 1718.

Charles the Twelfth of Sweden was one of the most remarkable of the
world's Historic Boys. Elevated to a throne founded on despotic power and
victorious memories, at an age when most lads regard themselves as the
especial salt of the earth, he found himself launched at once into a war
with three powerful nations, only to become in turn the conqueror of each.
A singularly good boy, so far as the customary temptations of power and
high station are concerned--temperate, simple, and virtuous in tastes,
dress, and habits,--he was, as one of his biographers has remarked, "the
only one among kings who had lived without a single frailty."

But this valorous boy, who had first bridled his own spirit, and then
conquered the Northern world, "reared," as has been said, "under a father
cold and stern, defectively educated, taught from childhood to value
nothing but military glory," could not withstand the temptation of
success. An ambition to be somebody and to do something is always a
laudable one in boy or girl, until it supplants and overgrows the sweet,
true, and manly boy and girl nature, and makes us regardless of the
comfort or the welfare of others. A desire to excel the great conquerors
of old, joined to an obstinacy as strong as his courage, caused young
Charles of Sweden to miss the golden opportunity, and instead of seeking
to rule his own country wisely, sent him abroad a homeless wanderer on a
career of conquest, as romantic as it was, first, glorious, and at the
last disastrous.

In the northern quarter of the beautiful city of Stockholm, surrounded by
palaces and gardens, theatres, statues, and fountains, stands Molin's
striking statue of the boy conqueror, Charles the Twelfth of Sweden.
Guarded at the base by captured mortars, the outstretched hand and
unsheathed sword seem to tell of conquests to be won and victories to be
achieved. But to the boy and girl of this age of peace and good
fellowship, when wars are averted rather than sought, and wise
statesmanship looks rather to the healing than to the opening of the
world's wounds, one cannot but feel how much grander, nobler, and more
helpful would have been the life of this young "Lion of the North," as his
Turkish captors called him, had it been devoted to deeds of gentleness and
charity rather than of blood and sorrow, and how much more enduring might
have been his fame and his memory if he had been the lover and helper of
his uncultivated and civilization-needing people, rather than the
valorous, ambitious, headstrong, and obstinate Boy Conqueror of two
centuries ago.

[Illustration]




                       [Illustration]

                            XII.

     VAN RENSSELAER OF RENSSELAERSWYCK: THE BOY PATROON.

(_Afterward Major-General, and Lieutenant-Governor of the State of New
                           York._)

                        [A.D. 1777.]


[Illustration]

I question whether any of my young readers, however well up in history
they may be, can place the great River of Prince Maurice (_De Riviere Van
den Voorst Mauritius_), which, two hundred years ago, flowed through the
broad domain of the lord patroons of Rensselaerswyck. And yet it is the
same wide river upon whose crowded shore now stands the great city of New
York; the same fair river above whose banks now towers the noble front of
the massive State Capitol at Albany. And that lofty edifice stands not far
from the very spot where, beneath the pyramidal belfry of the old Dutch
church, the boy patroon sat nodding through Dominie Westerlo's sermon, one
drowsy July Sunday in the summer of 1777.

The good dominie's "seventhly" came to a sudden stop as the tinkle of the
deacon's collection-bell fell upon the ears of the slumbering
congregation. In the big Van Rensselaer pew it roused Stephanus, the boy
patroon, from a delightful dream of a ten-pound _twaalf_, or striped bass,
which he thought he had just hooked at the mouth of Bloemert's Kill; and,
rather guiltily, as one who has been "caught napping," he dropped his two
"half-joes" into the deacon's "fish-net"--for so the boys irreverently
called the knitted bag which, stuck on one end of a long pole, was always
passed around for contributions right in the middle of the sermon. Then
the good dominie went back to his "seventhly," and the congregation to
their slumbers, while the restless young Stephanus traced with his
finger-nail upon the cover of his psalm-book the profile of his highly
respected guardian, General Ten Broek, nodding solemnly in the
magistrate's pew. At last, the sands in the hour-glass, that stood on the
queer, one-legged, eight-sided pulpit, stopped running, and so did the
dominie's "noble Dutch"; the congregation filed out of church, and the
Sunday service was over. And so, too, was the Sunday quiet. For scarcely
had the people passed the porch, when, down from the city barrier at the
Colonie Gate, clattered a hurrying horseman.

"From General Schuyler, sir," he said, as he reined up before General Ten
Broek, and handed him an order to muster the militia at once and repair to
the camp at Fort Edward. St. Clair, so said the despatch, had been
defeated, Ticonderoga was captured, Burgoyne was marching to the Hudson,
the Indians were on the war-path, and help was needed at once if they
would check Burgoyne and save Albany from pillage.

The news fell with a sudden shock upon the little city of the Dutchmen.
Ticonderoga fallen, and the Indians on the war-path! Even the most stolid
of the Albany burghers felt his heart beating faster, while many a mother
looked anxiously at her little ones and called to mind the terrible tales
of Indian cruelty and pillage. But the young Van Rensselaer, pressing
close to the side of fair Mistress Margarita Schuyler, said soberly:
"These be sad tidings, Margery; would it not be wiser for you all to come
up to the manor-house for safety?"

"For safety?" echoed high-spirited Mistress Margery. "Why, what need,
Stephanus? Is not my father in command at Fort Edward? and not for
Burgoyne and all his Indians need we fear while he is there! So, many
thanks, my lord patroon," she continued, with a mock courtesy; "but I'm
just as safe under the Schuyler gables as I could be in the Van Rensselaer
manor-house, even with the brave young patroon himself as my defender."

The lad looked a little crestfallen; for he regarded himself as the
natural protector of this brave little lady, whose father was facing the
British invaders on the shores of the Northern lakes. Had it not been one,
almost, of the unwritten laws of the _colonie_, since the day of the first
patroon, that a Van Rensselaer should wed a Schuyler? Who, then, should
care for a daughter of the house of Schuyler in times of trouble but a son
of the house of Rensselaer?

"Well, at any rate, I shall look out for you if danger does come," he
said, as he turned toward the manor-house. "You'll surely not object to
that, will you, Margery?"

"Why, how can I?" laughed the girl. "I certainly may not prevent a gallant
youth from keeping his eyes in my direction. So, thanks for your promise,
my lord patroon, and when you see the flash of the tomahawk, summon your
vassals like a noble knight and charge through the Colonie Gate to the
rescue of the beleaguered maiden of the Fuyck.[AL] Why, it will be as good
as one of Dominie Westerlo's Northland saga-tales, won't it, Stephanus?"
And, with a stately good-by to the little lord of seven hundred thousand
acres, the girl hastened homeward to the Schuyler mansion, while the boy
rode in the opposite direction to the great brick manor-house by the
creek.

Twenty-four miles east and west, by forty-eight miles north and south,
covering forest and river, valley and hill, stretched the broad _colonie_
of the patroons of Rensselaerswyck, embracing the present counties of
Albany, Rensselaer, and Columbia, in the State of New York; and over all
this domain, since the days of the Heer Killian Van Rensselaer, first of
the lord patroons, father and son, in direct descent, had held sway after
the manner of the old feudal barons of Europe. They alone owned the land,
and their hundreds of tenants held their farms on rentals or leases,
subject to the will of the "patroons," as they were called,--a Dutch
adaptation of the old Roman _patronus_, meaning patrician or patron.

Only the town-lands of Beverwyck, or Albany, were free from this feudal
right--a territory stretching thirteen miles north-west, by one mile wide
along the river front, and forced from an earlier boy patroon by the
doughty Peter Stuyvesant, and secured by later English governors; and at
the time of our story, though the old feudal laws were no longer in force,
and the rentals were less exacting than in the earlier days, the tenantry
of Rensselaerswyck respected the authority and manorial rights of Stephen
Van Rensselaer, their boy patroon, who, with his widowed mother and his
brothers and sisters, lived in the big brick manor-house near the swift
mill creek and the tumbling falls in the green vale of Tivoli, a mile
north of the city gate.

And now had come the Revolution. Thanks to the teaching of his tender
mother, of his gallant guardian, and of the good Dominie Westerlo, young
Stephen knew what the great struggle meant--a protest against tyranny, a
blow for human rights, a defence of the grand doctrine of the immortal
Declaration that "All men are created free and equal." And he had been
told, too, that the success of the Republic would be the death-blow to all
the feudal rights to which he, the last of the patroons, had succeeded.

"Uncle," he said to his guardian, that stern patriot and whig, General
Abram Ten Broek, "you are my representative and must act for me till I
grow to be a man. Do what is best, sir, and don't let the Britishers
beat!"

"But, remember, lad," said his uncle, "the Revolution, if it succeeds,
must strip you of all the powers and rights that have come to you as
patroon. You will be an owner of acres, nothing more; no longer baron,
patroon, nor lord of the manor; of no higher dignity and condition than
little Jan Van Woort, the cow-boy of old Luykas Oothout on your cattle
farm in the Helderbergs."

"But I'll be a citizen of a free republic, won't I, Uncle?" said the boy;
"as free of the king and his court across the sea as Jan Van Woort will be
of me and the court-leet of Rensselaerswyck. So we'll all start fair and
even. I'm not old enough to fight and talk yet, Uncle; but do you fight
and talk for me, and I know it will come out all right."

And so, through the battle-summer of 1777, the work went on. Men and
supplies were hurried northward to help the patriot army, and soon General
Ten Broek's three thousand militia-men were ready and anxious for action.
The air was full of stirring news. Brandt and his Indians, Sir John
Johnson and his green-coated Tories, swarmed into the Mohawk Valley; poor
Jane McCrea fell a victim to Indian treachery, and the whole northern
country shuddered at the rumor that twenty dollars had been offered for
every rebel scalp. And fast upon these came still other tidings. The noble
General Schuyler, fair Mistress Margery's father, had, through the
management of his enemies in the Congress and in the camp, been superseded
by General Gates; but, like a true patriot, he worked just as hard for
victory nevertheless. Herkimer had fallen in the savage and uncertain
fight at Oriskany; in Bennington, stout old Stark had dealt the British a
rousing blow; and Burgoyne's boast that with ten thousand men he could
"promenade through America" ended dismally enough for him in the smoke of
Bemis Heights and the surrender at Saratoga.

But, before that glorious ending, many were the dark and doubtful days
that came to Albany and to Rensselaerswyck. Rumors of defeat and disaster,
of plot and pillage, filled the little city. Spies and Tories sought to
work it harm. The flash of the tomahawk, of which Mistress Margery had so
lightly jested, was really seen in the Schuyler mansion. And the brave
girl, by her pluck and self-possession, had saved her father and his
household from the chance of Tory pillage and Indian murder. Good Dominie
Westerlo kept open church and constant prayer for the success of the
patriot arms through one whole anxious week, and on a bright September
afternoon, General Ten Broek, with a slender escort, came dashing up to
the "stoop" of the Van Rensselaer manor-house.

"What now, Uncle?" asked young Stephen, as he met the General in the broad
hall.

"More supplies--we must have more supplies, lad," replied his uncle. "Our
troops need provisions, and I am here to forage among both friends and
foes."

"Beginning with us, I suppose," said the young patroon. "Oh, Uncle, cannot
I, too, do something to show my love for the cause?"

"Something, Stephen? You can do much," his uncle replied. "Time was, lad,
when your ancestors, the lord patroons of Rensselaerswyck, were makers and
masters of the law in this their _colonie_. From their own forts floated
their own flag and frowned their own cannon. Their word was law and from
Beeren's Island to Pafraet's Dael the Heer Van Rensselaer's orders were
obeyed without question. Forts and flags and cannon are no longer yours,
Stephen, and we would not have it otherwise; but your word still holds as
good with your tenantry as did that of the first boy patroon, Johannes the
son of Killian, when, backed by his _gecommitteerden_ and his
_schepens_,[AM] he bearded the Heer General Stuyvesant and claimed all
Rensselaerswyck as his 'by right of arms.' Try your word with them, lad.
Let me be your _gecommitteerden_ and, in the name of the patroon, demand
from your tenantry of Rensselaerswyck provisions and forage for our
gallant troops."

"Oh, try it, Uncle, try it--do," young Stephen cried, full of interest;
"but will they give so much heed, think you, to my word?"

"Ay, trust them for that," replied the general. "So strong is their
attachment to their young patroon that they will, I know, do more on your
simple word than on all the orders and levies of the king's Parliament or
the Continental Congress."

So, out into the farm-lands that checkered the valley and climbed the
green slopes of the Helderbergs, went the orders of the boy patroon,
summoning all "our loyal and loving tenantry" to take of their stock and
provender all that they could spare, save the slight amount needed for
actual home use, and to deliver the same to the commissaries of the army
of the Congress at Saratoga. And the "loyal and loving tenantry" gave good
heed to their patroon's orders. Granaries and cellars, stables and
pigsties, pork-barrels and poultry-sheds, were emptied of their contents.
The army of the Congress was amply provisioned, and thus, indeed, did the
boy patroon contribute his share toward the great victory at Saratoga--a
victory of which one historian remarks that "no martial event, from the
battle of Marathon to that of Waterloo--two thousand years,--exerted a
greater influence upon human affairs."

The field of Saratoga is won. Six thousand British troops have laid down
their arms, and the fears of Northern invasion are ended. In the Schuyler
mansion at Albany, fair Mistress Margery is helping her mother fitly
entertain General Burgoyne and the paroled British officers, thus
returning good for evil to the man who, but a few weeks before, had
burned to the ground her father's beautiful country-house at Saratoga.
Along the fair river, from the Colonie Gate to the peaks of the Katzbergs,
the early autumn frosts are painting the forest leaves with gorgeous
tints, and to-day, the first of November, 1777, the children are joyously
celebrating the thirteenth birthday of the boy patroon in the big
manor-house by the creek. For, in Albany, a hundred years ago, a
children's birthday party really meant a _children's_ party. The
"grown-folk" left home on that day, and the children had free range of the
house for their plays and rejoicing. So, through the ample rooms and the
broad halls of the Van Rensselaer mansion the children's voices ring
merrily, until, tired of romp and frolic, the little folks gather on the
great staircase for rest and gossip. And here the fresh-faced little host,
in a sky-blue silk coat lined with yellow, a white satin vest broidered
with gold lace, white silk knee-breeches, and stockings tied with pink
ribbons, pumps, ruffles, and frills, is listening intently while Mistress
Margery, radiant in her tight-sleeved satin dress, peaked-toed and
bespangled shoes, and wonderfully arranged hair, is telling the group of
girls and boys all about General Burgoyne and the British officers, and
how much they liked the real Dutch supper her mother gave them one
day--"suppawn and malck[AN] and rulliches,[AO] with chocolate and soft
waffles, you know,"--and how General the Baron Riedesel had said that if
they stayed till Christmas he would play at Saint Claes (Santa Claus) for
them.

"Oh, Margery!" exclaimed Stephen, "you wouldn't have a Hessian for good
old Saint Claes, would you?"

"Why not?" said Mistress Margery, with a toss of her pretty head. "Do you
think you are the only patroon, my lord Stephen?"

For Santa Claus was known among the boys and girls of those old Dutch days
as "the children's patroon" (_De Patroon van Kinder-vreugd_).

"I saw the Hessian baron t' other night, Margarita," said Stephen's best
boy-friend, Abram Van Vechten; "he never could play at Santa Claus. He's
not the right shape at all. And then a Hessian! Why, I'd sooner have old
Balthazar!"

"Oh, dear, what a Saint Claes he'd make!" cried all the girls and boys,
for old Balthazar Lydius was the terror of the Albany children in those
days--"a tall, spare Dutchman, with a bullet head," a sort of Bluebeard to
their imaginations, living in his "big mahogany house with carved beams,"
near the old _Kerk_, and scowling and growling at every _Kind_ who passed
his door.

"No, no, Abram," protested Margery, "I'd rather have the baron, even if he
is a Hessian. Only imagine old Balthazar playing at Saint Claes, girls!
Why, he's as sour as a ladle of Aunt Schuyler's _kool-slaa_. Show us how
he looks, Stephen; you can, you know."

"Yes, do, do!" shouted all the girls and boys. "Show us Abram's sour face.
Let's see which is the best patroon."

[Illustration: "SUPPAWN AND MALCK AND RULLICHES, WITH CHOCOLATE AND SOFT
WAFFLES, YOU KNOW," SAID MISTRESS MARGERY.]

So the boy lengthened down his face and pulled in his cheeks and looked so
ferociously sour that the children fairly shrieked with delight at the
caricature, and Abram cried: "That's it; that's old Balthazar as sure as
you live! That's just the way he looked at me last winter when I almost
ran into him as I was sliding down the long coast at Fort hill. My! I was
so scared that I ran as fast as my legs could carry me from way below the
_Kerk_ clear past the Van der Hayden palace."[AP]

But, in the midst of the laughter, a quick step sounded in the hall, and
General Ten Broek came to the children-crowded staircase. "The Helderberg
farmers are here, lad," he said to his nephew; and the young patroon,
bidding his guests keep up the fun while he left them awhile, followed his
uncle through the door-way and across the broad court-yard to where, just
south of the manor-house, stood the rent-office. As the boy emerged from
the mansion, the throng of tenants who had gathered there at his
invitation gazed admiringly at the manly-looking little lad, resplendent
in blue and yellow, and gold lace, and greeted him with a rousing birthday
cheer--a loyal welcome to their boy patroon, their young _Opperhoofdt_, or
chief.

"My friends," the lad said, acknowledging their greeting with a courtly
bow, "I have asked you to come to the manor-house on this, my birthday, so
that I might thank you for what you did for me before the Saratoga fight,
when you sent so much of your stock and produce to the army simply on my
order. But I wish also to give you something besides thanks. And so, that
you may know how much I value your friendship and fealty, I have, with my
guardian's approval, called you here to present to each one of you a free
and clear title to all the lands you have, until now, held in fee from me
as the patroon of Rensselaerswyck. General Ten Broek will give you the
papers before you leave the office, and Pedrom has a goodly spread waiting
for you in the lower hall. Take this from me, my friends, with many thanks
for what you have already done for me."

Then, what a cheer went up! The loyal tenantry of the Helderberg farms had
neither looked for nor expected any special return for their generous
offerings to the army of the Congress, and this action of the boy patroon
filled every farmer's heart with something more than gratitude; for now
each one of them was a land-owner, as free and untrammelled as the boy
patroon himself. And, as fair Portia says in the play,

    "So shines a good deed in a naughty world,"

that, when young Stephen Van Rensselaer went joyfully back to his
children's party, and the Helderberg farmers to black Pedrom's "spread" in
the lower hall, it would have been hard to say which felt the happier--the
giver or the receivers of this generous and manly gift.

The years of battle continued, but Dominie Doll's boarding-school, smoked
out of 'Sopus when the British troops laid Kingston in ashes, found
shelter in Hurley; and here the boys repaired for instruction--for school
must go on though war rages and fire burns. The signs of pillage and
desolation were all around them; but, boy-like, they thought little of the
danger, and laughed heartily at Dominie Doll's story of the poor 'Sopus
Dutchman who, terribly frightened at the sight of the red-coats, fled
wildly across a deserted hay-field, and stepped suddenly upon the end of a
long hay-rake left behind by the "skedaddling" farmers. Up flew the long
handle of the rake and struck the terrified Dutchman a sounding whack upon
the back of his head. He gave himself up for lost. "_Oh, mein Got, mein
Got!_" he cried, dropping upon his knees and lifting imploring hands to
his supposed captors, "I kivs up, I kivs up, mynheer soldiermans. Hooray
for King Shorge!"

Nearly two years were passed here upon the pleasant hill-slopes that
stretch away to the Catskill ridges and the rugged wildness of the Stony
Clove; and then, in the fall of 1779, when the boy patroon had reached his
fifteenth birthday, it was determined to send him, for still higher
education, to the College of New Jersey, at Princeton. Of that eventful
journey of the lad and his half-dozen school-fellows, under military
escort, from the hills of the Upper Hudson to the shot-scarred college on
the New Jersey plains, a most interesting story could be told. I doubt
whether many, if any, boys ever went to school under quite such
delightfully exciting circumstances. For their route lay through a
war-worried section; past the dismantled batteries of Stony Point, where
"Mad Anthony Wayne" had gained so much glory and renown; past the Highland
fortresses, and through the ranks of the Continental Army, visiting
General Washington at his headquarters at West Point, and carrying away
never-forgotten recollections of the great commander; cautiously past
roving bands of cruel "cow-boys" and the enemy's outposts around captured
New York, to the battered college buildings which had alternately been
barracks and hospital for American and British troops. And an equally
interesting story could be told of the exciting college days when, almost
within range of the enemy's guns, the boom of the distinct cannon would
come like a punctuation in recitations, and the fear of fusillades would
help a boy through many a "tight squeeze" in neglected lessons. But this
was education under difficulties. The risk became too great, and the young
patroon was finally transferred to the quieter walls of Harvard College,
from which celebrated institution he graduated with honor in 1782, soon
after his eighteenth birthday.

[Illustration: "THE THRONG OF TENANTS GREETED HIM WITH A ROUSING BIRTHDAY
CHEER."]

The quiet life of an average American boy would not seem to furnish very
much worth the telling. The boy patroon differed little, save in the way
of birth and vast estate, from other boys and girls of the eventful age in
which he lived; but many instances in his youthful career could safely be
recorded. We might tell how he came home from college just as the great
war was closing; how he made long trips, on horseback and afoot, over his
great estate, acquainting himself with his tenantry and their needs; how,
even before he was twenty years old, he followed the custom of his house
and married fair Mistress Margery, the "brave girl" of the Schuyler
mansion; and how, finally, on the first of November, 1785, all the
tenantry of Rensselaerswyck thronged the grounds of the great manor-house,
and, with speech and shout and generous barbecue, celebrated his coming of
age--the twenty-first birthday of the boy patroon,--now no longer boy or
patroon, but a free American citizen in the new Republic of the United
States.

His after-life is part of the history of his State and of his country. At
an early age he entered public life, and filled many offices of trust and
responsibility. An assemblyman, a State Senator, a lieutenant-governor, a
member of Congress, a major-general, and the conqueror of Queenstown in
Canada in the War of 1812, one of the original projectors of the great
Erie Canal, and, noblest of all, the founder and patron of a great school
for boys,--the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute at Troy,--he was, through
all, the simple-hearted citizen and the noble-minded man. But no act in
all his long life-time of seventy-five years became him better than the
spirit in which he accepted the great change that made the great lord
patroon of half a million acres the plain, untitled citizen of a free
republic.

"Though born to hereditary honors and aristocratic rank," says his
biographer, "with the history of the past before him, in possession of an
estate which connected him nearly with feudal times and a feudal ancestry,
and which constituted him in his boyhood a baronial proprietor, he found
himself, at twenty-one, through a forcible and bloody revolution, the mere
fee-simple owner of acres, with just such political rights and privileges
as belonged to his own freehold tenantry, and no other." And though the
Revolution, in giving his country independence, had stripped him of power
and personal advantages, he accepted the change without regret, and
preferred his position as one in a whole nation of freemen, to that feudal
rank which he had inherited from generations of ancestors, as the Boy
Patroon, the last Lord of the Manor of Rensselaerswyck.

       *       *       *       *       *

From the patrician emperor of old Rome to the patrician citizen of modern
America these sketches of Historic Boys have extended. They represent but
a few from that long list of remarkable boys, who, through the ages, have
left their mark upon their times,--lads who, even had they died "in their
teens," would still have been worthy of record as "historic boys." The
lessons of their lives are manifold. They tell of pride and selfishness,
of tyranny and wasted power, of self-reliance and courage, of ambition and
self-conquest, of patience and manliness. History is but the record of
opportunities for action availed of or neglected. And opportunities are
never wanting. They exist to-day in the cities of the New World, even as
they did ages ago with young David in the valley of Elah, with the boy
Marcus in the forum of Rome, or with the valiant young Harry of Monmouth
striving for victory on the bloody field of Shrewsbury.

Whenever or wherever a manly boy says his word for justice and for right,
or does his simple duty in a simple, straightforward way, regardless of
consequences or of the world's far too-ready sneer or frown, the stamp of
the hero may be seen; and however humble his condition or contracted his
sphere there is in him the mettle and the possibilities that may make him,
even though he know it not, a worthy claimant for an honored place on the
world's record of Historic Boys.

                          THE END.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTES:

[AL] The Fuyck, or fish-net,--an old Dutch name for Albany.

[AM] Commissioners and sheriffs.

[AN] Mush and milk.

[AO] A kind of chopped meat.

[AP] One of the old Dutch "show houses" of Albany 100 years ago.




     "A better collection of juvenile books it has not been our
     privilege to examine. A robust and healthy tone pervades their
     pages; and while stirring adventures, deeds of daring, and
     self-sacrifice form an important factor in the stories,
     information, historical or otherwise, constitutes a primary
     feature."--_Christmas Bookseller_, 1885.


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          BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.


        _The New Season's Books._

BY G. A. HENTY.

    THE YOUNG CARTHAGINIAN:
        A STORY OF THE TIMES OF HANNIBAL.

    WITH WOLFE IN CANADA:
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    THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE:
        OR, WITH PETERBOROUGH IN SPAIN.

    A FINAL RECKONING:
        A TALE OF BUSH LIFE IN AUSTRALIA.

BY G. MANVILLE FENN.

    DEVON BOYS: A TALE OF THE NORTH SHORE.

    YUSSUF THE GUIDE:
        BEING THE STRANGE STORY OF THE TRAVELS IN ASIA MINOR
        OF BURNE THE LAWYER, PRESTON THE PROFESSOR, AND
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    HOP O' MY THUMB.

    BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.


#Also, New Books in the Shilling, Ninepenny, and Sixpenny Series.#

          By F. BAYFORD HARRISON,
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   EMMA LESLIE, and other favourite Authors.


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Or, From Good-night to Good-morning. By ALICE CORKRAN. With 60
    character Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Square crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, gilt edges, 6_s._

[Illustration]

This is a remarkable story: full of vivid fancy and quaint originality. In
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                   #BY PROFESSOR CHURCH.#

                  _TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO:_

Or, The Adventures of a Roman Boy. By Professor A. J. CHURCH,
    Author of "Stories from the Classics." With 12 full-page
    Illustrations by ADRIEN MARIE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
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Prof. Church has in this story sought to revivify that most interesting
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                   #BY PROFESSOR POUCHET.#

                       _THE UNIVERSE:_

OR THE INFINITELY GREAT AND THE INFINITELY LITTLE. A Sketch of
    Contrasts in Creation, and Marvels revealed and explained by
    Natural Science. By F. A. POUCHET, M.D. Illustrated by 273
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The object of this Work is to inspire and extend a taste for natural
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                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

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When boys at school read of the history of the Punic Wars their
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                  _THE LION OF THE NORTH._

A Tale of Gustavus Adolphus and the Wars of Religion. By G. A.
    HENTY. With 12 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG, in
    black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

In this story Mr. Henty gives the history of the first part of the Thirty
Years' War, a struggle unprecedented in length, in the fury with which it
was carried on, and in the terrible destruction and ruin which it caused.
The issue had its importance, which has extended to the present day, as it
established religious freedom in Germany. The army of the chivalrous King
of Sweden, the prop and maintenance of the Protestant cause, was largely
composed of Scotchmen, and among these was the hero of the story. The
chief interest of the tale turns on the great struggle between Gustavus
and his chief opponents Wallenstein, Tilly, and Pappenheim.

     "As we might expect from Mr. Henty the tale is a clever and
     instructive piece of history, and as boys may be trusted to
     read it conscientiously, they can hardly fail to be profited as
     well as pleased."--_The Times._

     "A praiseworthy attempt to interest British youth in the great
     deeds of the Scotch Brigade in the ware of Gustavus Adolphus.
     Mackay, Hepburn, and Munro live again in Mr. Henty's pages, as
     those deserve to live whose disciplined bands formed really the
     germ of the modern British army."--_Athenæum._

     "A stirring story of stirring times. This book should hold a
     place among the classics of youthful fiction."--_United Service
     Gazette._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "Mr. Henty as a boy's story-teller stands in the very foremost
     rank."--_Glasgow Herald._

                   _WITH WOLFE IN CANADA:_

Or, The Winning of a Continent. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant,
    olivine edges, 6_s._

In the present volume Mr. Henty has endeavoured to give the details of the
principal events in the struggle between Britain and France for supremacy
on the North American continent. The importance of this struggle can
scarcely be overrated, as on the issue of it depended not only the
destinies of North America, but to a large extent those of the mother
countries themselves. The fall of Quebec decided that the Anglo-Saxon race
should predominate in the New World, that Britain, and not France, should
take the lead among the nations, and that English commerce, the English
language, and English literature, should spread right round the globe.
While thus of the greatest significance, this episode from the world's
history lends itself pre-eminently to the romantic style of treatment of
which Mr. Henty is master.


                   _WITH CLIVE IN INDIA:_

Or the Beginnings of an Empire. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

The period between the landing of Clive as a young writer in India and the
close of his career was critical and eventful in the extreme. At its
commencement the English were traders existing on sufferance of the
native princes. At its close they were masters of Bengal and of the
greater part of Southern India. The author has given a full and accurate
account of the events of that stirring time, and battles and sieges follow
each other in rapid succession, while he combines with his narrative a
tale of daring and adventure, which gives a life-like interest to the
volume.

     "In this book Mr. Henty has contrived to exceed himself in
     stirring adventures and thrilling situations. The pictures add
     greatly to the interest of the book."--_Saturday Review._

     "Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty
     stands in the very first rank, and Mr. Gordon Browne occupies a
     similar place with his pencil.... Those who know something
     about India will be the most ready to thank Mr. Henty for
     giving them this instructive volume to place in the hands of
     their children."--_Academy._

     "He has taken a period of Indian History of the most vital
     importance, and he has embroidered on the historical facts a
     story which of itself is deeply interesting. Young people
     assuredly will be delighted with the volume."--_Scotsman._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "The brightest of all the living writers whose office it is to
     enchant the boys."--_Christian Leader._

                     _THROUGH THE FRAY:_

A Story of the Luddite Riots. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page
    Illustrations by H. M. PAGET, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

The author in this story has followed the lines which he worked out so
successfully in _Facing Death_. As in that story he shows that there are
victories to be won in peaceful fields, and that steadfastness and
tenacity are virtues which tell in the long run. The story is laid in
Yorkshire at the commencement of the present century, when the high price
of food induced by the war and the introduction of machinery drove the
working-classes to desperation, and caused them to band themselves in that
widespread organization known as the Luddite Society. There is an
abundance of adventure in the tale, but its chief interest lies in the
character of the hero, and the manner in which by a combination of
circumstances he is put on trial for his life, but at last comes
victorious "through the fray."

     "Mr. Henty inspires a love and admiration for
     straightforwardness, truth, and courage. This is one of the
     best of the many good books Mr. Henty has produced, and
     deserves to be classed with his _Facing Death_."--_Standard._

     "The interest of the story never flags. Were we to propose a
     competition for the best list of novel writers for boys we have
     little doubt that Mr. Henty's name would stand
     first."--_Journal of Education._


                   _TRUE TO THE OLD FLAG:_

A Tale of the American War of Independence. By G. A. HENTY. With 12
    full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint.
    Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

In this story the author has gone to the accounts of English officers who
took part in the conflict, and lads will find that in no war in which
British soldiers have been engaged did they behave with greater courage
and good conduct. The historical portion of the book being accompanied
with numerous thrilling adventures with the redskins on the shores of Lake
Huron, a story of exciting interest is interwoven with the general
narrative and carried through the book.

     "Does justice to the pluck and determination of the British
     soldiers during the unfortunate struggle against American
     emancipation. The son of an American loyalist, who remains true
     to our flag, falls among the hostile redskins in that very
     Huron country which has been endeared to us by the exploits of
     Hawkeye and Chingachgook."--_The Times._

     "Mr. G. A. Henty's extensive personal experience of adventures
     and moving incidents by flood and field, combined with a gift
     of picturesque narrative, make his books always welcome
     visitors in the home circle."--_Daily News._

     "Very superior in every way. The book is almost unique in its
     class in having illustrative maps."--_Saturday Review._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "Mr. Henty's books never fail to interest boy
     readers."--_Academy._

                     _IN FREEDOM'S CAUSE:_

A Story of Wallace and Bruce. By G. A. HENTY. With 12 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

In this story the author relates the stirring tale of the Scottish War of
Independence. The extraordinary valour and personal prowess of Wallace and
Bruce rival the deeds of the mythical heroes of chivalry, and indeed at
one time Wallace was ranked with these legendary personages. The
researches of modern historians have shown, however, that he was a living,
breathing man--and a valiant champion. The hero of the tale fought under
both Wallace and Bruce, and while the strictest historical accuracy has
been maintained with respect to public events, the work is full of
"hairbreadth 'scapes" and wild adventure.

     "Mr. Henty has broken new ground as an historical novelist. His
     tale is full of stirring action, and will commend itself to
     boys."--_Athenæum._

     "It is written in the author's best style. Full of the wildest
     and most remarkable achievements, it is a tale of great
     interest, which a boy, once he has begun it, will not willingly
     put on one side."--_The Schoolmaster._

     "Scarcely anywhere have we seen in prose a more lucid and
     spirit-stirring description of Bannockburn than the one with
     which the author fittingly closes his volume."--_Dumfries
     Standard._


                    _UNDER DRAKE'S FLAG:_

A Tale of the Spanish Main. By G. A. HENTY. Illustrated by 12
    full-page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown
    8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

A story of the days when England and Spain struggled for the supremacy of
the sea, and England carried off the palm. The heroes sail as lads with
Drake in the expedition in which the Pacific Ocean was first seen by an
Englishman from a tree-top on the Isthmus of Panama, and in his great
voyage of circumnavigation. The historical portion of the story is
absolutely to be relied upon, but this, although very useful to lads, will
perhaps be less attractive than the great variety of exciting adventure
through which the young adventurers pass in the course of their voyages.

     "A stirring book of Drake's time, and just such a book as the
     youth of this maritime country are likely to prize
     highly."--_Daily Telegraph._

     "Ned in the coils of the boa-constrictor is a wonderful
     picture. A boy must be hard to please if he wishes for anything
     more exciting."--_Pall Mall Gazette._

     "A book of adventure, where the hero meets with experience
     enough one would think to turn his hair gray."--_Harper's
     Monthly Magazine._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "Mr. Henty is the prince of story-tellers for
     boys."--_Sheffield Independent._

                 _THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE:_

Or, With Peterborough in Spain. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by H. M. PAGET. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

There are few great leaders whose lives and actions have so completely
fallen into oblivion as those of the Earl of Peterborough. This is largely
due to the fact that they were overshadowed by the glory and successes of
Marlborough. His career as General extended over little more than a year,
and yet, in that time, he showed a genius for warfare which has never been
surpassed, and performed feats of daring worthy of the leaders of
chivalry.

Round the fortunes of Jack Stilwell, the hero, and of Peterborough, Mr.
Henty has woven an interesting and instructive narrative descriptive of
this portion of the War of the Spanish Succession (1705-6).


                 _THE DRAGON AND THE RAVEN:_

Or, The Days of King Alfred. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I., in black and tint.
    Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

In this story the author gives an account of the desperate struggle
between Saxon and Dane for supremacy in England, and presents a vivid
picture of the misery and ruin to which the country was reduced by the
ravages of the sea-wolves. The hero of the story, a young Saxon thane,
takes part in all the battles fought by King Alfred, and the incidents in
his career are unusually varied and exciting. He is driven from his home,
takes to the sea and resists the Danes on their own element, and being
pursued by them up the Seine, is present at the long and desperate siege
of Paris.

     "Perhaps the best story of the early days of England which has
     yet been told."--_Court Journal._

     "A well-built superstructure of fiction on an interesting
     substratum of fact. Treated in a manner most attractive to the
     boyish reader."--_Athenæum._

     "A story that may justly be styled remarkable. Boys, in reading
     it, will be surprised to find how Alfred persevered, through
     years of bloodshed and times of peace, to rescue his people
     from the thraldom of the Danes. We hope the book will soon be
     widely known in all our schools."--_Schoolmaster._

     "We know of no popular book in which the stirring incidents of
     the reign of the heroic Saxon king are made accessible to young
     readers as they are here. Mr. Henty has made a book which will
     afford much delight to boys, and is of genuine historic
     value."--_Scotsman._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "Mr. Henty is one of the best of story-tellers for young
     people."--_Spectator._

                    _A FINAL RECKONING:_

A Tale of Bush Life in Australia. By G. A. HENTY, With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by W. B. WOLLEN. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

In this book Mr. Henty has again left the battlefields of history and has
written a story of adventure in Australia in the early days of its
settlement, when the bush-rangers and the natives constituted a real and
formidable danger.

The hero, a young English lad, after rather a stormy boyhood, emigrates to
Australia, where he gets employment as an officer in the mounted police.

A few years of active work on the frontier, where he has many a brush with
both natives and bush-rangers, gain him promotion to a captaincy. In that
post he greatly distinguishes himself, and finally leaves the service and
settles down to the peaceful life of a squatter.


                  _ST. GEORGE FOR ENGLAND:_

A Tale of Cressy and Poitiers. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 5_s._

No portion of English history is more crowded with great events than that
of the reign of Edward III. Cressy and Poitiers laid France prostrate at
the feet of England; the Spanish fleet was dispersed and destroyed by a
naval battle as remarkable in its incidents as was that which broke up the
Armada in the time of Elizabeth. Europe was ravaged by the dreadful plague
known as the Black Death, and France was the scene of the terrible peasant
rising called the Jacquerie. All these stirring events are treated by the
author in _St. George for England_. The hero of the story, although of
good family, begins life as a London apprentice, but after countless
adventures and perils, becomes by valour and good conduct the squire, and
at last the trusted friend of the Black Prince.

     "A story of very great interest for boys. In his own forcible
     style the author has endeavoured to show that determination and
     enthusiasm can accomplish marvellous results; that courage is
     generally accompanied by magnanimity and gentleness, and that
     it is the parent of nearly all the other virtues, since but few
     of them can be practised without it."--_Pall Mall Gazette._

     "Mr. Henty has developed for himself a type of historical novel
     for boys which bids fair to supplement, on their behalf, the
     historical labours of Sir Walter Scott in the land of
     fiction."--_Standard._

     "Mr. Henty as a boy's story-teller stands in the very foremost
     rank. With plenty of scope to work upon he has produced a
     strong story at once instructive and entertaining."--_Glasgow
     Herald._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "Among writers of stories of adventure for boys Mr. Henty
     stands in the very first rank."--_Academy._

                     _FOR NAME AND FAME:_

Or, Through Afghan Passes. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 5_s._

This is an interesting story of the last war in Afghanistan. The hero,
after being wrecked and going through many stirring adventures among the
Malays, finds his way to Calcutta, and enlists in a regiment proceeding to
join the army at the Afghan passes. He accompanies the force under General
Roberts to the Peiwar Kotal, is wounded, taken prisoner, and carried to
Cabul, whence he is transferred to Candahar, and takes part in the final
defeat of the army of Ayoub Khan.

     "Mr. Henty's pen is never more effectively employed than when
     he is describing incidents of warfare. The best feature of the
     book--apart from the interest of its scenes of adventure--is
     its honest effort to do justice to the patriotism of the Afghan
     people."--_Daily News._

     "Here we have not only a rousing story, replete with all the
     varied forms of excitement of a campaign, but an instructive
     history of a recent war, and, what is still more useful, an
     account of a territory and its inhabitants which must for a
     long time possess a supreme interest for Englishmen, as being
     the key to our Indian Empire."--_Glasgow Herald._


                      _BY SHEER PLUCK:_

A Tale of the Ashanti War. By G. A. HENTY. With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 5_s._

The Ashanti Campaign seems but an event of yesterday, but it happened when
the generation now rising up were too young to have made themselves
acquainted with its incidents. The author has woven, in a tale of
thrilling interest, all the details of the campaign, of which he was
himself a witness. His hero, after many exciting adventures in the
interior, finds himself at Coomassie just before the outbreak of the war,
is detained a prisoner by the king, is sent down with the army which
invaded the British Protectorate, escapes, and accompanies the English
expedition on their march to Coomassie.

     "Mr. Henty keeps up his reputation as a writer of boys'
     stories. 'By Sheer Pluck' will be eagerly read."--_Athenæum._

     "The book is one which will not only sustain, but add to Mr.
     Henty's reputation."--_The Standard._

     "Written with a simple directness, force, and purity of style
     worthy of Defoe. Morally, the book is everything that could be
     desired, setting before the boys a bright and bracing ideal of
     the English gentleman."--_Christian Leader._


                      #BY G. A. HENTY.#

     "Mr. Henty's books are always welcome visitors in the home
     circle."--_Daily News._

                       _FACING DEATH:_

Or the Hero of the Vaughan Pit. A Tale of the Coal Mines. By G. A.
    HENTY. With 8 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in
    black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth, elegant, 5_s._

"Facing Death" is a story with a purpose. It is intended to show that a
lad who makes up his mind firmly and resolutely that he will rise in life,
and who is prepared to face toil and ridicule and hardship to carry out
his determination, is sure to succeed. The hero of the story is a typical
British boy, dogged, earnest, generous, and though "shamefaced" to a
degree, is ready to face death in the discharge of duty. His is a
character for imitation by boys in every station.

     "The tale is well written and well illustrated, and there is
     much reality in the characters."--_Athenæum._

     "If any father, godfather, clergyman, or schoolmaster is on the
     look-out for a good book to give as a present to a boy who is
     worth his salt, this is the book we would
     recommend."--_Standard._


                    _YARNS ON THE BEACH._

By G. A. HENTY. With 2 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth
    extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

     "This little book should find special favour among boys. The
     yarns are spun by old sailors, and while full of romance and
     adventure, are admirably calculated to foster a manly
     spirit."--_The Echo._

       *       *       *       *       *

                  #BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.#

                    _IN THE KING'S NAME:_

Or the Cruise of the _Kestrel_. By G. MANVILLE FENN. Illustrated by
    12 full-page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint.
    Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

"In the King's Name" is a spirited story of the Jacobite times, concerning
the adventures of Hilary Leigh, a young naval officer in the preventive
service off the coast of Sussex, on board the _Kestrel_. Leigh is taken
prisoner by the adherents of the Pretender, amongst whom is an early
friend and patron who desires to spare the lad's life, but will not
release him. The narrative is full of exciting and often humorous
incident.

     "Mr. Fenn has won a foremost place among writers for boys. 'In
     the King's Name' is, we think, the best of all his productions
     in this field."--_Daily News._

     "Told with the freshness and verve which characterize all Mr.
     Fenn's writings and put him in the front rank of writers for
     boys."--_Standard._


                  #BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.#

     "Mr. Manville Fenn may be regarded as the successor in
     boyhood's affections of Captain Mayne Reid."--_Academy._

                        _DEVON BOYS:_

A Tale of the North Shore. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 12
    full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, cloth
    elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

The adventures of Sep Duncan and his school friends take place in the
early part of the Georgian era, during the wars between England and
France. The scene is laid on the picturesque rocky coast of North Devon,
where the three lads pass through many perils both afloat and ashore.
Fishermen, smugglers, naval officers, and a stern old country surgeon play
their parts in the story, which is one of honest adventure with the
mastering of difficulties in a wholesome manly way, mingled with
sufficient excitement to satisfy the most exacting reader. The discovery
of the British silver mine and its working up and defence take up a large
portion of the story.


                     _BROWNSMITH'S BOY._

By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON
    BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine
    edges, 6_s._

The career of "Brownsmith's Boy" embraces the home adventures of an
orphan, who, having formed the acquaintance of an eccentric old gardener,
accepts his offer of a home and finds that there is plenty of romance in a
garden, and much excitement even in a journey now and then to town. In a
half-savage lad he finds a friend who shows his love and fidelity
principally by pretending to be an enemy. In "Brownsmith's Boy" there is
abundance of excitement and trouble within four walls.

     "'Brownsmith's Boy' excels all the numerous 'juvenile' books
     that the present season has yet produced."--_Academy._

     "Mr. Fenn's books are among the best, if not altogether the
     best, of the stories for boys. Mr. Fenn is at his best in
     'Brownsmith's Boy.' The story is a thoroughly manly and healthy
     one."--_Pictorial World._

     "'Brownsmith's Boy' must rank among the few undeniably good
     boys' books. He will be a very dull boy indeed who lays it down
     without wishing that it had gone on for at least 100 pages
     more."--_North British Mail._

     "Is every way a charming book for young people. The author has
     much of the inventiveness of the well-known French writer Jules
     Verne; indeed, he is in the front rank of writers of stories
     for boys. Parents especially ought to be very thankful to him
     for providing their sons with so much wholesome and fascinating
     amusement in the way of literature."--_Liverpool Mercury._


                  #BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.#

     "There is a freshness, a buoyancy, a heartiness about Mr.
     Fenn's writings."--_Standard._

                    _THE GOLDEN MAGNET:_

A Tale of the Land of the Incas. By G. MANVILLE FENN. With 12
    full-page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown
    8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

The tale is of a romantic lad, who leaves home to seek his fortune in
South America by endeavouring to discover some of that treasure which
legends declare was ages ago hidden to preserve it from the Spanish
invaders. He is accompanied by a faithful companion, who, in the capacity
both of comrade and henchman, does true service, and shows the dogged
courage of the English lad during the strange adventures which befall
them.

     "Told with admirable force and strength. Few men other than Mr.
     Fenn have the capacity for telling such stories as
     this."--_Scotsman._

     "There could be no more welcome present for a boy. There is not
     a dull page, and many will be read with breathless
     interest."--_Journal of Education._


                       _BUNYIP LAND:_

The Story of a Wild Journey in New Guinea. By G. MANVILLE FENN.
    With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

"Bunyip Land" is the story of an eminent botanist, who ventures into the
interior of New Guinea in his search for new plants. Years pass away, and
he does not return; and though supposed to be dead, his young wife and son
refuse to believe it; and as soon as he is old enough young Joe goes in
search of his father, accompanied by Jimmy, a native black. Their
adventures are many and exciting, but after numerous perils they discover
the lost one, a prisoner among the blacks, and bring him home in triumph.

     "Mr. Fenn deserves the thanks of everybody for 'Bunyip Land'
     and 'Menhardoc,' and we may venture to promise that a quiet
     week may be reckoned on whilst the youngsters have such
     fascinating literature provided for their evenings'
     amusement."--_Spectator._

     "One of the best tales of adventure produced by any living
     writer, combining the inventiveness of Jules Verne, and the
     solidity of character and earnestness of spirit which have made
     the English victorious in so many fields of labour and
     research."--_Daily Chronicle._


                    _A TERRIBLE COWARD._

By G. MANVILLE FENN. With 2 full-page Illustrations in black and
    tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

The tale of a lad who never bounced, bragged, or bullied. When the testing
time came, however, the "coward" was found to be the one who distanced all
by his cool unflinching English courage.

     "Just such a tale as boys will delight to read, and as they are
     certain to profit by."--_Aberdeen Journal._


                  #BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.#

     "Mr. Fenn is in the front rank of writers of stories for
     boys."--_Liverpool Mercury._

                     _YUSSUF THE GUIDE:_

Being the Strange Story of the Travels in Asia Minor of Burne the
    Lawyer, Preston the Professor, and Lawrence the Sick. By G.
    MANVILLE FENN. With 8 full-page Illustrations by JOHN
    SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

Deals with the stirring incidents in the career of Lawrence Grange, a lad
who has been almost given over by the doctors, but who rapidly recovers
health and strength in a journey through Asia Minor with his guardians
"The Professor" and "The Lawyer." Yussuf is their guide; and in their
journeyings through the wild mountain region in search of the ancient
cities of the Greeks and Romans they penetrate where law is disregarded,
and finally fall into the hands of brigands. Their adventures in this
rarely-traversed romantic region are many, and culminate in the travellers
being snowed up for the winter in the mountains, from which they escape
while their captors are waiting for the ransom that does not come.


                        _MENHARDOC:_

A Story of Cornish Nets and Mines. By G. MANVILLE FENN. With 8
    full-page Illustrations by C. J. STANILAND, R.I., in black and
    tint. Crown 8vo, cloth, elegant, 5_s._

The scene of this story of boyish aspiration and adventure is laid among
the granite piles and tors of Cornwall. Here amongst the hardy, honest
fishermen and miners the two London boys are inducted into the secrets of
fishing in the great bay, they learn how to catch mackerel, pollack, and
conger with the line, and are present at the hauling of the nets, although
not without incurring many serious risks. Adventures are pretty plentiful,
but the story has for its strong base the development of character of the
three boys. There is a good deal of quaint character throughout, and the
sketches of Cornish life and local colouring are based upon experience in
the bay, whose fishing village is called here Menhardoc. This is a
thoroughly English story of phases of life but little touched upon in
boys' literature up to the present time.

     "They are real living boys, with the virtues and faults which
     characterize the transition stage between boyhood and manhood.
     The Cornish fishermen are drawn from life, they are racy of the
     soil, salt with the sea-water, and they stand out from the
     pages in their jerseys and sea-boots all sprinkled with silvery
     pilchard scales."--_Spectator._

     "Mr. Fenn has written many books in his time; he has not often
     written one which for genuine merit as a story for young people
     will exceed this."--_Scotsman._


                  #BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.#

     "No one can find his way to the hearts of lads more readily
     than Mr. Fenn."--_Nottingham Guardian._

                      _PATIENCE WINS:_

Or, War in the Works. By G. MANVILLE FENN. With 8 full-page
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 5_s._

This is a graphic narrative of factory life in the Black Country. The
hero, Cob, and his three uncles, engineers, machinists, and inventors, go
down to Arrowfield to set up "a works." They find, however, that the
workmen, through prejudice and ignorance, are determined to have no
new-fangled machinery. After a series of narrow escapes and stirring
encounters, the workmen by degrees find that no malice is borne against
them, and at last admiration takes the place of hatred. A great business
is built up, and its foundation is laid on the good-will of the men.

     "An excellent story, the interest being sustained from first to
     last. This is, both in its intention and the way the story is
     told, one of the best books of its kind which has come before
     us this year."--_Saturday Review._

     "Mr. Fenn is at his best in 'Patience Wins.' It is sure to
     prove acceptable to youthful readers, and will give a good idea
     of that which was the real state of one of our largest
     manufacturing towns not many years ago."--_Guardian._

     "Mr. Fenn has written many a book for boys, but never has he
     hit upon a happier plan than in writing this story of Yorkshire
     factory life. The whole book, from page 1 to 352, is all aglow
     with life, the scenes varying continually with kaleidoscopic
     rapidity."--_Pall Mall Gazette._


                  _NAT THE NATURALIST:_

A Boy's Adventures in the Eastern Seas. By G. MANVILLE FENN.
    Illustrated by 8 full-page Pictures by GORDON BROWNE, in black
    and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

This is a pleasant story of a lad who has a great desire to go abroad to
seek specimens in natural history, and has that desire gratified. The boy
Nat and his uncle Dick go on a voyage to the remoter islands of the
Eastern seas, and their adventures there are told in a truthful and vastly
interesting fashion, which will at once attract and maintain the earnest
attention of young readers. The descriptions of Mr. Ebony, their black
comrade, and of the scenes of savage life, are full of genuine humour.

     "Mr. Manville Fenn has here hit upon a capital idea.... This is
     among the best of the boys' books of the season."--_The Times._

     "This sort of book encourages independence of character,
     develops resource, and teaches a boy to keep his eyes
     open."--_Saturday Review._

     "We can conceive of no more attractive present for a young
     naturalist."--_Land and Water._

     "The late Lord Palmerston used to say that one use of war was
     to teach geography; such books as this teach it in a more
     harmless and cheaper way."--_Athenæum._


                   #BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD.#

     "Mr. G. A. Henty has found a formidable rival in Mr.
     Collingwood."--_Academy._

               _THE LOG OF THE "FLYING FISH:"_

A Story of Aerial and Submarine Peril and Adventure. By HARRY
    COLLINGWOOD. With 12 full-page Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.
    Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

In this story the aim of the author has been, not only to interest and
amuse, but also to stimulate a taste for scientific study. He has utilized
natural science as a peg whereon to hang the web of a narrative of
absorbing interest, interweaving therewith sundry very striking scientific
facts in such a manner as to provoke a desire for further information.

Professor Von Schalckenberg constructs a gigantic and wonderful ship,
appropriately named the _Flying Fish_, which is capable of navigating not
only the higher reaches of the atmosphere, but also the extremest depths
of ocean; and in her the four adventurers make a voyage to the North Pole,
and to a hitherto unexplored portion of Central Africa.

In common with all this author's stories, "The Log of the Flying Fish" is
thoroughly healthy and unexceptionable in tone, and may be unhesitatingly
placed in the hands of "our boys," who will enjoy in its perusal a
literary treat entirely after their own hearts.


                     _THE CONGO ROVERS:_

A Tale of the Slave Squadron. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. With 8
    full-page Illustrations by J. SCHÖNBERG, in black and tint.
    Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 5_s._

The scene of this tale is laid on the west coast of Africa, and in the
lower reaches of the Congo; the characteristic scenery of the great river
being delineated with wonderful accuracy and completeness of detail. The
hero of the story--a midshipman on board one of the ships of the slave
squadron--after being effectually laughed out of his boyish vanity,
develops into a lad possessed of a large share of sound common sense, the
exercise of which enables him to render much valuable service to his
superior officers in unmasking a most daring and successful ruse on the
part of the slavers.

     "Mr. Collingwood carries us off for another cruise at sea, in
     'The Congo Rovers,' and boys will need no pressing to join the
     daring crew, which seeks adventures and meets with any number
     of them in the forests and pestilential fogs of the
     Congo."--_The Times._

     "We can heartily recommend it as one that boys will be sure to
     read throughout with pleasure, and with advantage, also, to
     their morals and their imaginations."--_Academy._

     "No better sea story has lately been written than the _Congo
     Rovers_. It is as original as any boy could desire."--_Morning
     Post._


                   #BY HARRY COLLINGWOOD.#

     "Mr. Collingwood has established his reputation as a first-rate
     writer of sea-stories."--_Scotsman._

                    _THE PIRATE ISLAND:_

A Story of the South Pacific. By HARRY COLLINGWOOD. Illustrated by
    8 full-page Pictures by C. J. STANILAND and J. R. WELLS, in
    black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

This story details the adventures of a lad who was found in his infancy on
board a wreck, and is adopted by a fisherman. By a deed of true gallantry
his whole destiny is changed, and, going to sea, he forms one of a party
who, after being burned out of their ship in the South Pacific, and
experiencing great hardship and suffering in their boats, are picked up by
a pirate brig and taken to the "Pirate Island." After many thrilling
adventures, they ultimately succeed in effecting their escape. The story
depicts both the Christian and the manly virtues in such colours as will
cause them to be admired--and therefore imitated.

     "A capital story of the sea; indeed in our opinion the author
     is superior in some respects as a marine novelist to the better
     known Mr. Clarke Russell."--_The Times._

     "The best of these books.... The events are described with
     minuteness and care. The result is a very amusing
     book."--_Saturday Review._

     "Told in the most vivid and graphic language. It would be
     difficult to find a more thoroughly delightful
     gift-book."--_The Guardian._

     "One of the very best books for boys that we have seen for a
     long time: its author is thoroughly at home in maritime
     matters, and stands far in advance of any other writer for boys
     as a teller of stories of the sea."--_The Standard._

     "There is enough to make any boy dream of all that is strange
     and wild. But bravery and gentleness and helpfulness are shown
     in all their beauty; and so we should like as many boys as
     possible to read the story and admire the daring
     deeds."--_Christian Leader._


                    #BY DOUGLAS FRAZAR.#

                   _PERSEVERANCE ISLAND:_

Or the Robinson Crusoe of the 19th Century. By DOUGLAS FRAZAR. With
    12 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 5_s._

This story shows the limitless ingenuity and invention of man, and
portrays the works and achievements of a castaway, who, thrown ashore
almost literally naked upon a desert isle, is able, by the use of his
brains, the skill of his hands, and a practical knowledge of the common
arts and sciences, to far surpass the achievements of all his
predecessors, and to surround himself with implements of power utterly
beyond the reach of the original Robinson Crusoe.


     "One of the best issues, if not absolutely the best, of Defoe's
     work which has ever appeared."--_The Standard._

           _THE LIFE AND SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF
                      ROBINSON CRUSOE._

                      BY DANIEL DEFOE.

 Beautifully Printed, and Illustrated by above 100 Pictures
                 Designed by Gordon Browne.
       Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, olivine edges, 6_s._

[Illustration]

There have been countless editions of _Robinson Crusoe_, and they have
mostly been imperfect, inasmuch as they have been so largely altered from
the original text that the language in many instances has not been that of
Defoe but of his revisers. The present volume has been carefully printed
from the original edition, and all obsolete or little-known terms and
obscure phrases are explained in brief foot-notes. The "Editing" is not a
corruption or pretended improvement of Defoe's great work.

     "Of the many editions of Defoe's immortal story that have
     passed through our hands in recent years, we are inclined to
     rank this the most desirable as a present for a good
     boy."--_The Academy._


                    _GULLIVER'S TRAVELS._

A NEW EDITION, beautifully printed, and illustrated by more than
    100 Pictures from designs by GORDON BROWNE. In crown 8vo, cloth
    elegant, olivine edges, 5_s._

[Illustration]

The wonderful travels of Gulliver "into several remote regions of the
world" are still as fresh and entertaining as when they were first
presented to the public more than a hundred and fifty years ago. In this
edition the text has been judiciously curtailed by the omission of several
passages quite unsuited for the perusal of the young or for family
reading; and foot-notes to the text have been added to explain and throw
light on those allusions, references, &c., which a young reader would not
understand.

     "Mr. Gordon Browne is, to my thinking, incomparably the most
     artistic, spirited, and brilliant of our illustrators of books
     for boys, and one of the most humorous also, as his
     illustrations of 'Gulliver' amply testify."--_Truth._

     "By help of the admirable illustrations, and a little judicious
     skipping, it has enchanted a family party of ages varying from
     six to sixty. Which of the other Christmas books could stand
     this test?"--_Journal of Education._


                    #BY ASCOTT R. HOPE.#

                  _STORIES OF OLD RENOWN:_

Tales of Knights and Heroes. By ASCOTT R. HOPE. With nearly 100
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant,
    olivine edges, 5_s._

A Series of the best of the Stories of Noble Knighthood and Old Romance,
told in refined and simple language, and adapted to young readers. A book
possessing remarkable attractions for boys.

     "The stories are admirably chosen. It is a book to be coveted
     by all young readers."--_Scotsman._

     "One of the best, if not the best, boys' book of the
     season."--_Truth._


                _THE WIGWAM AND THE WAR-PATH:_

Stories of the Red Indians. By ASCOTT R. HOPE. With 8 full-page
    Pictures by GORDON BROWNE, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth
    elegant, 5_s._

"The Wigwam and the War-path" consists of stories of Red Indians which are
none the less romantic for being true. They are taken from the actual
records of those who have been made prisoners by the red men or have lived
among them, joining in their expeditions and taking part in their
semi-savage but often picturesque and adventurous life.

     "Mr. Hope's volume is notably good: it gives a very vivid
     picture of life among the Indians."--_Spectator._

     "All the stories are told well, in simple spirited language and
     with a fulness of detail that makes them instructive as well as
     interesting."--_Journal of Education._


                    #BY J. PERCY GROVES.#

                    _REEFER AND RIFLEMAN:_

A Tale of the Two Services. By J. PERCY GROVES, late 27th
    Inniskillings, author of "From Cadet to Captain," &c. With 6
    full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, cloth
    elegant, 3_s._ 6_d._

A tale of the naval and military services in the early part of the present
century. The hero enters the Royal Navy just after the rupture of the
Peace of Amiens. After a short but eventful career afloat, he returns
home, and subsequently joins the sister service, being appointed to a
second lieutenancy in the old 95th Rifles. The ex-"reefer" takes an active
part in the opening scenes of the Peninsular War, and meets with varied
adventures in Portugal and Spain. After the battle of Coruña he once more
returns to England. The story has an historical interest as well as a plot
of exciting adventure, and a spice of humour which will commend it to the
attention of lads who admire the stories of Captain Marryat.


                   #BY JOHN C. HUTCHESON.#

     "Mr. Hutcheson bids fair to take a prominent place among our
     best writers of boys' books."--_The Academy._

                     _THE WHITE SQUALL:_

A Story of the Sargasso Sea. By JOHN C. HUTCHESON. With 6 full-page
    Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant,
    3_s._ 6_d._

Commencing amid the fairy-like scenes and surroundings of a West Indian
home, this story passes to Tom Eastman's setting sail from the Windward
Islands on a voyage to England. At first the good ship _Josephine_ glides
buoyantly through the balmy waters of the Caribbean Sea, but getting out
into the broad Atlantic, calm and whirlwind are succeeded by a gale which
drives her to the confines of the Sargasso Sea, that meadow-like portion
of the ocean, between the Azores and Bermuda, which is constantly covered
with the fibrous tentacles of the gulf-weed. Here a sudden and unexpected
"white squall" assails her--the _Josephine_ is turned over on her
beam-ends, and the captain and crew climb up on the ship's keel for
shelter. How they extricate themselves from this terrible predicament, and
how the _Josephine_ is righted and pursues her voyage safely to the
English Channel, the reader will discover in the book.


               _THE WRECK OF THE NANCY BELL:_

Or, Cast Away on Kerguelen Land. By JOHN C. HUTCHESON. Illustrated
    by 6 full-page Pictures by FRANK FELLER, in black and tint.
    Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

This is a book after a boy's own heart. The story narrates the eventful
voyage of a vessel from the port of London to New Zealand, and the haps
and mishaps that befell her, culminating in the wreck of the _Nancy Bell_
on Kerguelen Land. There is no lack of incident. From the opening chapter,
with the cowardly steward's alarm of "a ghost in the cabin," to the end of
the story, which details the rescue of the shipwrecked passengers, one
engrossing narrative holds the attention of the reader.

     "A full circumstantial narrative such as boys delight in. The
     ship so sadly destined to wreck on Kerguelen Land is manned by
     a very life-like party, passengers and crew. The life in the
     Antarctic Iceland is well treated."--_Athenæum._


                    _TOM FINCH'S MONKEY_

And other Yarns. By JOHN C. HUTCHESON. With 2 full-page
    Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._
    6_d._

     "Short stories of an altogether unexceptionable character, with
     adventure sufficient for a dozen books of its size."--_United
     Service Gazette._


                   #BY JOHN C. HUTCHESON.#

     "Mr. Hutcheson is master of a capital style for boy
     readers."--_Scotsman._

                     _PICKED UP AT SEA:_

Or the Gold Miners of Minturne Creek; and other Stories. By JOHN C.
    HUTCHESON. With 6 full-page Pictures in tints. Crown 8vo, cloth
    extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

The story of a young English lad, rescued in mid Atlantic from a watery
grave, and taken out west by a party of gold-diggers to the wild regions
of the Black Hills in Dakota. Here, after warring with the elements during
months of unceasing toil in their search for the riches of the earth, and
having the result of their indefatigable labour well-nigh torn from their
grasp when on the verge of victory, success at last rewards the efforts of
the adventurous band.

     "A capital book; full of startling incident, clever dialogue,
     admirable descriptions of sky and water in all their aspects,
     and plenty of fun."--_Sheffield Independent._

     "This is the first appearance of the author as a writer of
     books for boys, and the success is so marked that it may well
     encourage him to further efforts. The description of mining
     life in the Far-west is true and accurate."--_Standard._


                          _TEDDY:_

The Story of a "Little Pickle." By JOHN C. HUTCHESON. With 3
    full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

This is the story of a little fellow, who, while brave and fearless, is
always in mischief, and a torment to everyone connected with him, by
reason of his natural exuberance of animal spirits. As Teddy cannot manage
to steer clear of hot water on shore he is sent to sea, in the hope that
discipline and duty will tame down the rough points of his character, and
teach him to be a noble and good man. Although a "little pickle" at the
beginning of his career, Teddy turns out a little hero at the close of the
story, as the reader will find out if the wonderful adventures of the
"young torment" be followed to the end.


                    _THE PENANG PIRATE,_

And THE LOST PINNACE. By JOHN C. HUTCHESON. With 3 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

Deals with the pirates who infest the great water-highways of the East,
and tells how a party of Malayan freebooters were caught in their own
toils and how the gallant ship _Hankow Lin_ voyaged from the Canton river
through the straits of Sunda. Both stories are founded on fact.

     "A book which most boys will thoroughly enjoy. It is rattling,
     adventurous, and romantic, and the stories are thoroughly
     healthy in tone, and written by a skilful hand."--_Aberdeen
     Journal._


                    #BY MRS. R. H. READ.#

                       _SILVER MILL:_

A Tale of the Don Valley. By Mrs. R. H. READ. With 6 full-page
    Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG, in black and tint. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 3_s._ 6_d._

The story of a girl and boy. The chief interest centres around Ruth, who
is supposed to be the orphan child of a working-man, but who eventually
turns out to be the daughter of the cynical, though essentially
kind-hearted, owner of Silver Mill. In tracing the character of Ruth as
she develops from an impulsive girl to noble womanhood, the author has
drawn a picture at once pleasing and suggestive.

     "Another of those pleasant stories which are always acceptable,
     especially perhaps to girls standing on the debatable ground
     between girlhood and young ladyhood."--_The Guardian._

     "A good girl's story-book. The plot is interesting, and the
     heroine, Ruth, a lady by birth, though brought up in a humble
     station, well deserves the more elevated position in which the
     end of the book leaves her. The pictures are very
     spirited."--_Saturday Review._


                           _DORA:_

Or a Girl without a Home. By Mrs. R. H. READ. With 6 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 3_s._ 6_d._

The story of a friendless orphan girl, who is placed as pupil-teacher at
the school in which she was educated, but is suddenly removed by hard and
selfish relatives, who employ her as a menial as well as a governess.
Through a series of exciting adventures she makes discoveries respecting a
large property which is restored to its rightful owners, and at the same
time she secures her escape from her persecutors.

     "It is no slight thing, in an age of rubbish, to get a story so
     pure and healthy."--_The Academy._

     "One of the most pleasing stories for young people that we have
     met with of late years. There is in it a freshness, simplicity,
     and naturalness very engaging."--_Harper's Magazine._


                       _FAIRY FANCY:_

What she Heard and what she Saw. By Mrs. R. H. READ. With many
    Woodcut Illustrations in the text, and a Frontispiece printed
    in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._

The tale is designed to show the influence of character even among little
children, and the narrative is such as to awaken and sustain the interest
of the younger readers.

     "The authoress has very great insight into child
     nature."--_Glasgow Herald._

     "All is pleasant, nice reading, with a little knowledge of
     natural history and other matters gently introduced and
     divested of dryness."--_Practical Teacher._


                        _OUR DOLLY:_

Her Words and Ways. By Mrs. R. H. READ. With many Woodcuts, and a
    Frontispiece in colours. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

A story showing the growth and development of character in a little girl;
with a series of entertaining small adventures suitable for very juvenile
readers.

     "Prettily told and prettily illustrated."--_Guardian._

     "Sure to be a great favourite with young children."--_School
     Guardian._


                      #BY ALICE BANKS.#

                     _CHEEP AND CHATTER:_

Or, LESSONS FROM FIELD AND TREE. By ALICE BANKS. With 54 Character
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Small 4to, cloth, handsome
    design on cover, 3_s._ 6_d._; gilt edges, 4_s._

[Illustration]

About a dozen highly dramatic sketches or little stories, the actors in
which are birds, beasts, and insects. They are instructive, suited to the
capacities of young people, and very amusing.

     "The real charm of the volume lies in the illustrations. Every
     one is a success. With birds and mice and insects the artist is
     equally at home; but his birds above all are
     inimitable."--_Academy._

     "The author has done her work extremely well, and has conveyed
     very many admirable lessons to young people. The illustrations
     are capital--full of fun and genuine humour."--_Scotsman._


                      #BY LEWIS HOUGH.#

                   _DR. JOLLIFFE'S BOYS:_

A Tale of Weston School. By LEWIS HOUGH. With 6 full-page Pictures
    in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

A story of school life which will be read with genuine interest,
especially as it exposes some of the dangers which may beset lads who are
ill instructed at home or have been thrown among unscrupulous companions.
The descriptions of the characters of the boys are vivid and truthful. The
narrative throughout is bright, easy, and lighted by touches of humour.

     "Young people who appreciate 'Tom Brown's School-days' will
     find this story a worthy companion to that fascinating book.
     There is the same manliness of tone, truthfulness of outline,
     avoidance of exaggeration and caricature, and healthy morality
     as characterized the masterpiece of Mr. Hughes."--_Newcastle
     Journal._


               #BY MRS. EMMA RAYMOND PITMAN.#

     "Mrs. Pitman's works are all to be prized for their ennobling
     character--pure, elevating, interesting, and
     intellectual."--_Christian Union._

                     _GARNERED SHEAVES._

A Tale for Boys. By Mrs. E. R. PITMAN. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._
    6_d._

     "This book is of unusual merit. It breathes out good thoughts
     in earnest and true tones that speak to the
     heart."--_Schoolmistress._


                  _LIFE'S DAILY MINISTRY._

A Story of Everyday Service for Others. By Mrs. PITMAN. With 4
    full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

     "Full of stirring interest, genuine pictures of real life, and
     pervaded by a broad and active sympathy for the true and
     good."--_Christian Commonwealth._


                 _FLORENCE GODFREY'S FAITH._

A Story of Australian Life. By Mrs. E. R. PITMAN. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

     "This is a clever, and what is better still, a good book,
     written with a freshness and power which win the reader's
     sympathies."--_Christian Globe._


                    _MY GOVERNESS LIFE:_

Or Earning my Living. By Mrs. E. R. PITMAN. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._
    6_d._

     "Told in the author's usual winsome style, which holds the
     reader spell-bound from first to last."--_Christian Union._


                      #BY HENRY FRITH.#

                _THE SEARCH FOR THE TALISMAN:_

A Story of Labrador. By HENRY FRITH. With 6 full-page Illustrations
    by JOHN SCHÖNBERG, in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant,
    3_s._ 6_d._

A stirring tale of adventure. Four youths and two elder relatives proceed
in search of a "talisman" left by the father of two of the young explorers
when an officer in the Hudson's Bay Company's service. On an exploring
expedition they are separated, and various adventures result until they
unite again and land amongst the Esquimaux. After suffering many
vicissitudes they succeed in recovering the talisman.

     "A genial and rollicking tale. It is a regular boys' book, and
     a very cheery and wholesome one."--_Spectator._

     "Is everything that a boy's book should be--healthy in
     teaching, instructive, yet never dull. Mr. Frith is a thorough
     master of boy nature."--_Glasgow Herald._


                     _JACK O' LANTHORN:_

A Tale of Adventure. By HENRY FRITH. With 4 full-page Illustrations
    in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

A story of the days when George the Third was king. The hero gets into
certain scrapes, and at the sea-coast makes the acquaintance of Jack o'
Lanthorn. Drifting out to sea in an open boat they discover in a singular
manner the approach of the Spanish fleet, and Jack accompanies the hero of
the tale to report what they have seen. Seized by a press-gang they are
taken off to sea, and eventually take part in the defence of Gibraltar.

     "'Jack o' Lanthorn' will hold its own with the best works of
     Mr. Henty and Mr. Fenn."--_Morning Advertiser._

     "The narrative is crushed full of stirring incident, and is
     sure to be a prime favourite with boys."--_Christian Leader._


                  #BY F. BAYFORD HARRISON.#

                     _BROTHERS IN ARMS:_

A Story of the Crusades. By F. BAYFORD HARRISON. With 4
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._
    6_d._

A story which, while it provides exciting incidents and vivid
descriptions, will be of real value to the young reader because of its
containing accurate historical information on the subject of the Crusades
and the doings of Richard the Lion-heart and his army in the Holy Land.

     "Full of striking incident, is very fairly illustrated, and may
     safely be chosen as sure to prove interesting to young people
     of both sexes."--_Guardian._

     "One of the best accounts of the Crusades it has been our
     privilege to read. The book cannot fail to interest
     boys."--_Schoolmistress._


                    #BY MARY C. ROWSELL.#

                    _TRAITOR OR PATRIOT?_

A Tale of the Rye-House Plot. By MARY C. ROWSELL. With 6 full-page
    Pictures by C. O. MURRAY and C. J. STANILAND, R.I. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 3_s._ 6_d._

A romantic tale of the later days of Charles II. The main theme of the
story is the conspiracy for the assassination of the king and the Duke of
York, which was to be effected on their return from Newmarket. The hero of
the story, Lawrence Lee, a young farmer, accidentally learns the truth,
and starts on horseback for Newmarket to warn the king. After a series of
adventures, the young man succeeds in his loyal enterprise, and duly
receives his reward for his conspicuous share in the frustration of the
"Rye-House Plot."

     "A romantic love episode, whose true characters are life-like
     beings, not dry sticks as in many historical
     tales."--_Graphic._

     "The character of the heroine, Ruth, is singularly pretty and
     attractive: we thank the author for so charming a
     creation."--_Bristol Mercury._


                  _THE PEDLAR AND HIS DOG._

By MARY C. ROWSELL. With 2 Illustrations by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK, in
    black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

A story of English life in the time of Good Queen Bess. Accompanying John
Pennycuick and his dog Shock in their wanderings, we get a pleasant view
of rural England, quiet and peaceful then, as it is now, and of London
with its quaint old streets and houses.

     "The opening chapter, with its description of Necton Fair, will
     forcibly remind many readers of George Eliot. The style is
     clear and attractive, and taken altogether it is a delightful
     story."--_Western Morning News._


                 #BY ELIZABETH J. LYSAGHT.#

                    _BROTHER AND SISTER:_

Or the Trials of the Moore Family. By ELIZABETH J. LYSAGHT. With 6
    full-page Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

An interesting story for young people, showing by the narrative of the
vicissitudes and struggles of a family which has "come down in the world,"
and of the brave endeavours of its two younger members, how the pressure
of adversity is mitigated by domestic affection, mutual confidence, and
hopeful honest effort.

     "A pretty story, and well told. The plot is cleverly
     constructed, and the moral is excellent."--_Athenæum._

     "'Brother and Sister' is a charming story, admirably adapted
     for young people."--_Society._


                     #BY E. S. BROOKS.#

                      _HISTORIC BOYS:_

Their Endeavours, their Achievements, and their Times. By E. S.
    BROOKS. With 12 full-page Illustrations by R. B. BIRCH and JOHN
    SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3_s._ 6_d._

The careers of a dozen young fellows of different lands and epochs, such
as show that, from the earliest ages, manliness and self-reliance have
ever been the chief groundwork of character.

     "We may safely predict that this book will be voraciously read
     by every boy into whose hands it may come: and no boy will read
     it without being thereby better fitted to fight the battle of
     life."--_Literary World._


                     #BY JANE ANDREWS.#

                         _TEN BOYS_

Who lived on the Road from Long Ago till Now. By JANE ANDREWS. With
    20 Illustrations. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

Introduces the stories of Kablu the Aryan Boy, Darius the Persian Boy,
Cleon the Greek Boy, Horatius the Roman Boy, Wulf the Saxon Boy, Gilbert
the Page, Roger the English Lad, Ezekiel Fuller the Puritan Boy, Jonathan
Dawson the Yankee Boy, Frank Wilson the Boy of 1885, and gives much
entertaining and instructive reading on the manners and customs of the
different nations from Aryan age to now.


                 #BY EVELYN EVERETT GREEN.#

                  _THE EVERSLEY SECRETS._

By EVELYN EVERETT GREEN. With 4 full-page Illustrations by J. J.
    PROCTOR. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

This is a story of family life, and deals with the effects of the
influence of one member of the family upon another. The story is told in
the easy but deeply engaging style for which the author has attained a
high reputation.


                       #BY R. STEAD.#

                _THE LADS OF LITTLE CLAYTON:_

Stories of Village Boy Life. By R. STEAD. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

These stories show that humble country boys are often as well worth
writing about as the young gentlemen of the public school or academy. The
stories will be found interesting and even exciting, and most of them have
the advantage of being founded on fact. A healthy moral tone pervades the
tales.


            _FAMOUS DISCOVERIES BY SEA AND LAND._

With 4 full-page Illustrations by A. MONRO SMITH, in black and
    tint. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

Narratives of the stirring times when the great achievement of Columbus
had shown that beyond the Atlantic there were new worlds and oceans to
discover and explore--stories of bold adventure and heroic effort which,
while strictly historical, are invested with all the charm of romance.

     "Either of these volumes will be a gift beyond price for
     studious lads."--_Norwich Mercury._

     "Such a volume may providentially stir up some youths by the
     divine fire kindled by these 'great of old' to lay open other
     lands, and show their vast resources."--_Perthshire
     Advertiser._


                _STIRRING EVENTS OF HISTORY._

With 4 full-page Illustrations by JOHN SCHÖNBERG. Crown 8vo,
    cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

The incidents in this volume have been drawn from times and countries wide
apart, the aim having been to present the young reader with a series of
historical pictures instructive in themselves, and thus to induce a taste
for further reading in the same direction.

     "The volume will fairly hold its place among those which make
     the smaller ways of history pleasant and attractive. It may
     safely be selected as a gift-book, in which the interest will
     not be exhausted with one reading."--_Guardian._


            _STORIES OF THE SEA IN FORMER DAYS:_

Narratives of Wreck and Rescue. With 4 full-page Illustrations by
    FRANK FELLER. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

While no attempt is made in "Stories of the Sea" to paint the sailor's
life in glowing colours, or invest it with a glamour of romance, the
narratives selected are full of such thrilling incidents of peril,
suffering, and shipwreck, as are always deeply interesting to the young
reader.

     "Next to an original sea-tale of sustained interest come
     well-sketched collections of maritime peril and suffering which
     awaken the sympathies by the realism of fact. 'Stories of the
     Sea,' are a very good specimen of the kind."--_The Times._


           _ADVENTURES IN FIELD, FLOOD, & FOREST:_

Stories of Danger and Daring. With 4 full-page Illustrations by
    FRANK FELLER. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

These narratives of real personal experience in "Field, Flood, and
Forest," while in no sense fictitious, will be found quite as exciting and
more truly interesting than the most cunningly devised fables.

     "The editor has beyond all question succeeded admirably.... It
     cannot fail to be read with interest and
     advantage."--_Academy._

     "All admirably told. It will be counted one of the best of the
     story-books that Christmas produces."--_Scotsman._


               _TALES OF CAPTIVITY AND EXILE._

With 4 full-page Illustrations by W. B. FORTESCUE. Crown 8vo, cloth
    elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

A volume of stories of men and women in many lands, who in prison or in
exile have suffered for their conscientious convictions, or have been the
victims of irresponsible tyranny. The walls of many a dungeon in ancient
as well as modern times could tell of heroic endurance of wrong, and of
marvellous patience and ingenuity in devising means of lightening the
horrors of the prison or effecting deliverance from it. In this volume
will be found authentic records of many of these more notable
life-stories.


                 _THE JOYOUS STORY OF TOTO._

By LAURA E. RICHARDS. With 30 humorous and fanciful Illustrations
    by E. H. GARRETT. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

[Illustration]

Toto is a little boy who finds his friends among the birds and the
animals, who tell him many wonderful stories in a bright, quaint, humorous
fashion. The fun is genuine and cheerful, and the illustrations give a
delightful personality to the characters.

     "A very delightful book for children, which deserves to find a
     place in every nursery."--_Lady's Pictorial._

     "An excellent book for children, which should take its place
     beside Lewis Carroll's unique works."--_Birmingham Gaz._


                     #BY EMMA LESLIE.#

                     _GYTHA'S MESSAGE:_

A Tale of Saxon England. By EMMA LESLIE, author of "Glaucia the
    Greek Slave," &c. With 4 full-page Pictures by C. J. STANILAND,
    R.I. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

This is a story of the time of "Harold, the last of the Saxon Kings."
Though mainly a domestic title, we yet get a glimpse of the stirring
events taking place in the country at that period. A good deal is learned
of Saxon manners and customs, and both boys and girls will delight to read
of the home life of Hilda and Gytha, and of the brave deeds of the
impulsive Gurth and the faithful Leofric.

     "This is a charmingly told story. It is the sort of book that
     all girls and some boys like, and can only get good
     from."--_Journal of Education._

     "The book is throughout most interesting, and shows in a very
     natural manner the rough habits and usages in Saxon
     England."--_Schoolmistress._


                      #BY M. A. PAULL.#

                  _MY MISTRESS THE QUEEN:_

By Miss M. A. PAULL. With 4 full-page Illustrations by C. T.
    GARLAND. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

"My Mistress the Queen" is Mary, daughter of James II., into whose service
the narrator, a girl of 16, enters just before the marriage of Mary to
William III. The descriptions of persons and manners at the courts of
Charles II. and William III. are life-like and accurate. The language is
simple, and imitative of the quaint quiet style of that period.

     "The style is pure and graceful, the presentation of manners
     and character has been well studied, and the story is full of
     interest."--_Scotsman._

     "This is a charming book. The old-time sentiment which pervades
     the volume renders it all the more alluring."--_Western
     Mercury._


                      #BY DARLEY DALE.#

                    _THE FAMILY FAILING._

By DARLEY DALE, author of "Spoilt Guy," &c. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

This is a lively and amusing account of a family, the members of which
while they lived in affluence were remarkable for their discontent, but
who, after the loss of fortune has compelled them to seek a more humble
home in Jersey, become less selfish, and develop very excellent traits of
character under the pressure of comparative adversity.

     "'The Family Failing' is at once an amusing and an interesting
     story, and a capital lesson on the value of
     contentedness."--_Aberdeen Journal._


                    #BY ROSA MULHOLLAND.#

                        _HETTY GRAY:_

Or Nobody's Bairn. By ROSA MULHOLLAND. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations in black and tint. Cr. 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._
    6_d._

"Hetty Gray" is the story of a girl who, having been found as an infant by
a villager, is brought up by his wife, and is a kind of general pet, till
an accident causes a rich widow to adopt her. On the death of her adoptive
mother Hetty, who is left unprovided for, is taken by the widow's
relatives to be educated with a view to her gaining her livelihood as a
governess, an event which is prevented by a rather remarkable discovery.

     "A pleasantly told story for girls, with a happy
     ending."--_Athenæum._

     "A charming story for young folks. Hetty is a delightful
     creature--piquant, tender, and true--and her varying fortunes
     are perfectly realistic."--_World._


                  _FOUR LITTLE MISCHIEFS._

By ROSA MULHOLLAND. With 3 full-page Pictures in colours by GORDON
    BROWNE. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

The history of Kitty, Jock, Bunko, and Ba, who, after successfully
weathering the mumps in their London nursery, are sent to the country to
recruit. The book is full of innocent fun and attractive incident.

     "Will be read with absorbing interest by the
     youngsters."--_Land and Water._

     "A charming bright story about real children."--_Watchman._


                _THE LATE MISS HOLLINGFORD._

By ROSA MULHOLLAND. With 2 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo,
    cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

This story, which was a great favourite of Charles Dickens, and originally
appeared in _All the Year Round_, is of an orphan girl, who, leaving the
gaiety and frivolity of London life, goes to live with an old friend of
her mother at a farm-house. A delightful picture is given of the peaceful
country life; but there is a strangely pathetic drama running through the
quiet narrative, and the troubles which Marjory narrates as having been
her portion in youth are sure to interest all who have sympathetic hearts.


                    _NAUGHTY MISS BUNNY:_

Her Tricks and Troubles. By CLARA MULHOLLAND. With 3 Illustrations
    in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

The story consists of small incidents such as please small listeners, who
will be interested not only in Miss Bunny's naughtiness, but in her
reformation.

     "This naughty child is positively delightful. Papas should not
     omit 'Naughty Miss Bunny' from their list of juvenile
     presents."--_Land and Water._


                       #BY KATE WOOD.#

                     _WINNIE'S SECRET:_

A Story of Faith and Patience. By KATE WOOD. With 4 full-page
    Pictures in black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

Tells the story of two orphan girls, who, at an early age, are left in a
miserable den of London to struggle for a living. The vicissitudes of the
little sisters are narrated with touching sympathy, at times sad enough;
but relieved by flashes of fun and gleams of genuine humour.

     "One of the best story-books we have read. Girls will be
     charmed with the tale."--_Schoolmaster._

     "A very pretty tale, with great variety of incident and subtle
     character study, written precisely in the style that is surest
     to win the hearts of young folks."--_Pictorial World._


                    _A WAIF OF THE SEA:_

Or, the Lost Found. By KATE WOOD. With 4 full-page Illustrations in
    black and tint. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

"A Waif of the Sea" deals very pathetically with the sorrows and trials of
children, and of mothers who are separated from their children. The
narrative is full of human interest, and the lives and struggles of the
people of a poor London neighbourhood are well portrayed.

     "A very touching and pretty tale of town and country, full of
     pathos and interest, embodied in a narrative which never flags,
     and told in a style which deserves the highest praise for its
     lucid and natural ease."--_Edinburgh Courant._


                     #BY ANNIE S. SWAN.#

                      _WARNER'S CHASE:_

Or the Gentle Heart. By ANNIE S. SWAN. With 3 Illustrations printed
    in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

"Warner's Chase" is a domestic story, in which we see the failure of an
essentially self-seeking and self-assertive nature to secure happiness to
itself or bestow it upon others, and the triumph of gentleness, love, and
unselfish service, in the person of a feeble girl.

     "A good book for boys and girls. There is nothing sentimental
     in it, but a tone of quiet and true religion that keeps its own
     place."--_Perth Advertiser._

     "In Milly Warren, the heroine, who unwittingly restores the
     family fortunes, we have a fine ideal of real womanly
     goodness."--_Schoolmaster._


                      _INTO THE HAVEN._

By ANNIE S. SWAN. With 2 Illustrations printed in colours. Crown
    8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

     "No story more attractive, by reason of its breezy freshness
     and unforced pathos, as well as for the practical lessons it
     conveys."--_Christian Leader._


                    #BY CAROLINE AUSTIN.#

                    _DOROTHY'S DILEMMA:_

A Tale of the Time of Charles I. By CAROLINE AUSTIN. With 3
    full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

This is a story of the time of Charles I., and the opening scenes are laid
in a remote country district through which the king passes in his flight
to the north. A little Puritan maiden, Dorothy Hardcastle, is induced to
afford a night's shelter to his majesty unknown to her father, who has
fought on the side of the Parliament. In the event, her deception costs
her father his life, and she is removed to London, whither her only
brother John also goes. The story follows them both through their strange
adventures in the great city, and leaves them setting sail for the New
World, full of sorrow for past mistakes and with an earnest desire to lead
a true, unselfish life on the other side of the sea.


                       _MARIE'S HOME:_

Or, A Glimpse of the Past. By CAROLINE AUSTIN. With 3 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

This record of an early life, spent partly in an old English home and
partly amid stirring scenes of the French revolution, teaches just such
lessons of unselfish love as are of value to English maidens of to-day.

     "An exquisitely told story. The heroine is as fine a type of
     girlhood as one could wish to set before our little British
     damsels."--_Christian Leader._

     "A pure, fresh story of what is the result in a young girl's
     life when it is governed by unselfishness and a sense of
     duty."--_Bradford Observer._


                      #BY AMY WALTON.#

                      _THE HAWTHORNES._

By AMY WALTON. With 3 full-page Illustrations by J. J. PROCTOR.
    Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

Describes in eight chapters the joys and troubles of five children living
in a country rectory--their faults, fancies, pets, and amusements, written
in simple language, and fit for children who love the country.


                        _OUR FRANK._

By AMY WALTON. With 2 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth
    extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

Six stories suitable for young readers. "Our Frank," which is the longest,
describes the fortunes of a runaway boy in the Buckinghamshire woods--how
he met with a tramp, how they travelled together, and how, after all,
Frank found that "From East to West, At Home is best."


                     #BY THOMAS ARCHER.#

                      _LITTLE TOTTIE,_

And Two Other Stories. By THOMAS ARCHER. With 3 full-page
    Illustrations by J. J. PROCTOR. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

A thrilling little drama of the life of a poor neighbourhood, and perhaps
fuller of suggestion than many more pretentious tales.

     "We can warmly commend all three stories, and the attractive
     binding and pleasing illustrations combine with the contents to
     render the book a most alluring prize for the younger
     ones."--_Schoolmaster._


                  _MISS GRANTLEY'S GIRLS,_

And the Stories She Told Them. By THOMAS ARCHER. With 2
    Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE. Cr. 8vo, cloth ex., 1_s._ 6_d._

Stories that are likely to prove attractive to the girls in other schools.
They are small romances of real life with a good deal of genuine pathos
and exciting incident in them.

     "For fireside reading more wholesome and, at the same time,
     highly entertaining reading for young people could not be
     found."--_Northern Chronicle._


                 _MISS FENWICK'S FAILURES:_

Or "Peggy Pepper-Pot." By ESMÉ STUART. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

A pleasing narration of the failures of Peggy Fenwick, who, before her
sixteenth birthday, had to assume the responsible position of head of her
father's house. The story abounds in capitally told domestic adventures;
and while it has an excellent moral purpose, it is brimful of fun.

     "Esmé Stuart may be commended for producing a girl true to real
     life, who will put no nonsense into young heads."--_Graphic._

     "There is not a dull page in it; while it is graphically
     written and abounds in touches of genuine humour and innocent
     fun."--_Freeman._


                   _THE BALL OF FORTUNE:_

Or Ned Somerset's Inheritance. By CHARLES PEARCE. With 4 full-page
    Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._ 6_d._

A story of London life, founded on the strange bequest left by a sea
captain, and the endeavours of some unscrupulous persons to obtain
possession of it before the discovery of the true heir in the person of a
street Arab.

     "The most exciting of them all."--_The Times._

     "A bright genial story, which boys will thoroughly
     enjoy."--_Birmingham Post._


                     #BY ALICE CORKRAN.#

             _ADVENTURES OF MRS. WISHING-TO-BE._

By ALICE CORKRAN, author of "Latheby Towers," &c. With 3 full-page
    Pictures in colours. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 2_s._

The strange adventures of a very young lady, showing how she met with the
wonderful people of nursery legend and the manner of her introduction to
them.

     "Simply a charming book for little girls."--_Saturday Review._

     "Well worth buying for the frontispiece alone."--_Times._


                   _THE WINGS OF COURAGE,_

AND THE CLOUD-SPINNER. Translated from the French of GEORGE SAND,
    by MRS. CORKRAN. With 2 coloured Illustrations. Crown 8vo,
    cloth extra, 2_s._

These stories are among the most attractive of the many tales which the
great French novelist wrote for her grandchildren. They are full of fancy,
of vivid description, and of a keen appreciation of the best way to arouse
the interest of juvenile readers.

     "Mrs. Corkran has earned our gratitude by translating into
     readable English these two charming little
     stories."--_Athenæum._

     "Ranks with the writings of Erckmann-Chatrian for finish,
     beauty, and naturalness. The whole story is
     delightful."--_Dundee Advertiser._


                   _MAGNA CHARTA STORIES:_

Or Struggles for Freedom in the Olden Time. Edited by ARTHUR
    GILMAN, A.M. With 12 full-page Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth
    extra, 2_s._

These stories of heroic deed in the cause of national liberty, from
Marathon and Thermopylæ to the times of King Alfred and the _Magna
Charta_, are designed to stimulate a love of history, and add to the
inspiration of freedom, which should be the heritage of every boy and
girl.

     "A book of special excellence, which ought to be in the hands
     of all boys. It is as readable as it is instructive, and as
     elevating as it is readable."--_Educ. News._


                    _THE PATRIOT MARTYR:_

And other Narratives of Female Heroism in Peace and War. With 2
    Coloured Illustrations. Cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

"It should be read with interest by every girl who loves to learn
    what her sex can accomplish in times of difficulty and
    danger."--_Bristol Times._


                      #BY GREGSON GOW.#

              _NEW LIGHT THROUGH OLD WINDOWS:_

A Series of Stories illustrating Fables of Æsop. By GREGSON GOW.
    With 3 Pictures in colours. Cloth extra, 2_s._

Stories designed to bring before the young mind, in a new and entertaining
form, some of the shreds of wit and wisdom which have come down to us from
ancient times in the guise of fables.

     "The most delightfully-written little stories one can easily
     find in the literature of the season. Well constructed and
     brightly told."--_Glasgow Herald._


                    _DOWN AND UP AGAIN:_

Being some Account of the Felton Family, and the Odd People they
    Met. By GREGSON GOW. With 2 Illustrations in colours. Crown
    8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

A story of city life, in which, though the chief aim is to amuse through
the recital of interesting events and the exhibition of original and
humorous character, the reader may see something of the spirit in which
misfortune should be met, and receive an impulse towards kindliness of
deed and charity of thought.

     "The story is very neatly told, with some fairly dramatic
     incidents, and calculated altogether to please young
     boys."--_Scotsman._


           _TROUBLES AND TRIUMPHS OF LITTLE TIM._

A City Story. By GREGSON GOW. With 2 Illustrations in colours.
    Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

     "An undercurrent of sympathy with the struggles of the poor,
     and an ability to describe their feelings under various
     circumstances, eminently characteristic of Dickens, are marked
     features in Mr. Gow's story."--_North British Mail._


                      _THE HAPPY LAD:_

A Story of Peasant Life in Norway. From the Norwegian of Björnson.
    With Frontispiece in colours. Cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._

     "This pretty story has a freshness and natural eloquence about
     it such as are seldom met with in our home-made tales. It seems
     to carry us back to some of the love stories of the
     Bible."--_Aberdeen Free Press._


                      _BOX OF STORIES._

Packed for Young Folk by HORACE HAPPYMAN. A Series of interesting
    Tales for the Young. With 2 Illustrations printed in colours.
    Crown 8vo, cloth extra, 1_s._ 6_d._


                 _GORDON BROWNE'S SERIES OF
                      OLD FAIRY TALES._

                 _4to, One Shilling each._

                 #1. HOP O' MY THUMB.#

                 #2. BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.#

                    _Others to follow._

     #Each book contains 32 pages 4to, and is illustrated by over 30
     pictures in the text, and 4 full-page plates.#

This series has been issued so that young people may be provided with the
old favourite Fairy Tales, pleasingly told and very fully illustrated in a
really artistic manner.

The pictures are by Gordon Browne, whose name is a guarantee for the
artistic quality of the work. Almost every page is illustrated, and the
little reader can thus follow the story step by step by the pictures, and
will be able to relate the tale to the younger members of the nursery by
the aid of the illustrations alone. The pictures are not merely
decorative, they are graphic character illustrations of a quaint and
humorous kind which will be equally relished by young and old. The
pictures form of themselves a story, and while sufficiently literal to be
easily read, they at the same time possess that quality of suggestiveness
which is only associated with work of a creative order.

The stories have been delightfully retold by LAURA E. RICHARDS, a lady who
has the rare faculty of investing the purest romance with that air of
realism which is so full of charm to children.


      #THE SHILLING SERIES OF BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.#

Square 16mo, neatly bound in cloth extra. Each book contains 128 pages and
    a Coloured Illustration.

     "Quality is not sacrificed to quantity, the stories one and all
     being of the highest, and eminently suited for the purposes of
     gift books for either day or Sabbath schools."--_Schoolmaster._


ALF JETSAM: or Found Afloat. By Mrs. GEORGE CUPPLES.

Alf Jetsam is a little boy who is cast ashore from a wreck on the coast of
England. He is adopted and brought up by a kind old fisherman and his
wife. Eventually he goes to sea, and after many voyages finds his parents.
The story of his adventures is charmingly told.


THE REDFORDS: An Emigrant Story. By Mrs. GEORGE CUPPLES.

The story of an English family forced to leave their pleasant country home
and face the hardships of pioneer life in New Zealand. The many haps and
mishaps which befell them will excite the deepest interest in youthful
readers, who will learn in the perusal many a lesson of patience and
fortitude.


MISSY. By F. BAYFORD HARRISON.

A tale of joyous child-life in the country. The pranks of Missy and Ernest
Dacre with their dog Don are sure to please the "little ones," while the
story of Missy's fault will teach the lesson of sincerity and
truthfulness.


HIDDEN SEED: or a Year in a Girl's Life. By EMMA LESLIE.

A brightly told story of a girl who on her fifteenth birthday resolves to
make herself useful in the world; but who, forgetting that her home where
she is needed is her proper sphere of action, is betrayed into
worldliness, while her simple loving cousin Isabel, without pretension or
self-consciousness, delights in serving those near her and in making them
happy.


URSULA'S AUNT. By ANNIE S. FENN.

The fresh and simple narrative of the troubles of two girls, who make a
not uncommon mistake in thinking they are not beloved by their guardian,
and of the manner in which they discover the truth by means of a great
sorrow, which, however, turns to as great a joy.


JACK'S TWO SOVEREIGNS. By ANNIE S. FENN.

A story which will interest the young reader in the fortunes of a poor and
very peculiar family, the members of which show great diversity of
character, but are united by the troubles that befall them, and by the
singular events which at last lead to their being relieved from serious
difficulties.


OLIVE MOUNT. By ANNIE S. FENN.

A bright and sparkling story about a family of boys and girls left,
through the death of both parents, to the charge of their eldest brother.
For a time the children fairly run riot in the pleasant country-side at
Olive Mount; till the wholesome discipline of sorrow and the gentle
influence of their governess lead them to find enjoyment in doing what is
right.


A LITTLE ADVENTURER. By GREGSON GOW.

Tells how little Tommy Treffit started off to search for his father in
Australia. How he hid himself on board a vessel bound for Madeira, and
how, after many adventures, he at last found his father, not in Australia,
but safe at home.


TOM WATKINS' MISTAKE. By EMMA LESLIE.

Tom Watkins, having given way to the temptation to commit acts of petty
pilfering in the carpenter's shop where he is apprenticed, ultimately
suffers the consequences of his wrong-doing, and not only learns that
honesty is the best policy, but comes to see the sinfulness of his
conduct.


TWO LITTLE BROTHERS. By HARRIET M. CAPES.

This is a pleasant account of some of the incidents which befell two
little brothers, whose home was in a seaside village. It tells of their
adventures on the shore and of the wonderful sights they saw during a trip
to London, and how a kind father taught them to practise at all times
self-control and courtesy.


THREE LITTLE ONES: Their Haps and Mishaps. By CORA LANGTON.

A simple tale of home life. Children are sure to love and admire bright
Mabel, affectionate Eddie, and sad little Lucy, while the story of Mabel's
sin and Lucy's sorrow will teach them truthfulness and obedience.


THE NEW BOY AT MERRITON. By JULIA GODDARD.

     "A story of English school life. It is an attempt to teach a
     somewhat higher code of honour than that which prevails among
     the general run of schoolboys, and the lesson makes a very good
     story."--_School Board Chronicle._


THE BLIND BOY OF DRESDEN.

     "This is a family story of great pathos. It does not
     obtrusively dictate its lesson, but it quietly introduces, and
     leaves it within the heart."--_Aberdeen Journal._


JON OF ICELAND: A True Story.

     "'Jon of Iceland' is a sturdy, well-educated young Icelander,
     who becomes a successful teacher. It gives children a clear
     idea of the chief physical features of the island, and of the
     simple and manly character of its inhabitants."--_School
     Guardian._


STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE.

     "The stories are told in such a way that young people having
     read them will desire to study the works of Shakespeare in
     their original form."--_The Schoolmistress._


EVERY MAN IN HIS PLACE. The Story of a City Boy and a Forest Boy.

     "This is the history of the son of a wealthy Hamburg merchant,
     who wished to follow in the steps of Robinson Crusoe. He was
     put to the test, and became convinced in the end that it is
     better to live the life of a wealthy merchant in a great city
     than to endure hardship by choice."--_School Board Chronicle._


FIRESIDE FAIRIES AND FLOWER FANCIES: STORIES FOR GIRLS.

     "Nine stories are included, all for girls, encouraging them to
     try and do their duty. Young servants would find this book very
     interesting."--_The Schoolmistress._


TO THE SEA IN SHIPS: STORIES OF SUFFERING AND SAVING AT SEA.

     "_To the Sea in Ships_ records several noted disasters at sea,
     such as the foundering of the _London_ and the wreck of the
     _Atlantic_. It also contains narratives of successful rescues.
     This is a capital book for boys."--_School Guardian._


JACK'S VICTORY: STORIES ABOUT DOGS.

     "Every boy, and some girls, take great delight in reading about
     dogs. Well, Jack was a dog; a famous and wonderful one, too. He
     became leader of a team in Greenland, and some rare exploits he
     took part in."--_The Schoolmistress._


THE STORY OF A KING, TOLD BY ONE OF HIS SOLDIERS.

     "This book recounts the boyhood and reign of Charles XII. of
     Sweden. The wars in which he was engaged and the extraordinary
     victories he won are well described, and equally so are the
     misfortunes which latterly came on him and his kingdom through
     his uncontrollable wilfulness."--_Aberdeen Journal._


LITTLE DANIEL: A Story of a Flood on the Rhine.

     "A simple and touching story of a flood on the Rhine, told as
     well as George Eliot so graphically wrote of _The Mill on the
     Floss_."--_Governess._


PRINCE ALEXIS: A Tale of Old Russia.

This is a legend wrought into a story, rendering a fiction of Life in
Russia, something more than a hundred years ago; a state of things which,
as the author says, "is now impossible, and will soon become incredible."


SASHA THE SERF: And other Stories of Russian Life.

The stories in the volume comprise:--The Life of Sasha, a poor boy who
saved the life of his lord, and finally rose to wealth and gained his
freedom,--Incidents of remarkable personal bravery in the army, &c. &c.


TRUE STORIES OF FOREIGN HISTORY. A Series of Interesting Tales.

The book contains stories--How Quentin Matsys the Antwerp smith became a
great painter,--The rise and fall of Jean Ango the fisherman of
Dieppe,--The heroism of Casabianca the little French midshipman, &c. &c.


        #THE NINEPENNY SERIES OF BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.#

Neatly bound in cloth extra. Each contains 96 pages and a Coloured
    Illustration.


ABOARD THE MERSEY: or Our Youngest Passenger. By Mrs. GEO. CUPPLES.

A tale of the sea, told in the simple and fascinating style in which few
writers can equal Mrs. Cupples. Little Miss Matty, our youngest passenger,
is a dear little girl, who, by her tender devotion, sustains many of the
rough sailors in time of danger, and leads them to a knowledge of the
better life. Boys will appreciate the story for its incident, and girls
because the chief actor is a little maiden.


SEPPERL THE DRUMMER-BOY. By MARY C. ROWSELL.

The story is of a drummer-boy, who, by courage and patience, became a
great musician, and whose name is remembered with reverence and
admiration. The narrative and the style are both simple enough for very
young readers, but yet so interesting that a good many "grown up" people
will take real pleasure in making the little ones listeners, and reading
the story to them.


A BLIND PUPIL. By ANNIE S. FENN.

This is a strikingly original tale, which will deeply interest both girls
and boys, for it is full of simple but exciting incidents; and though the
hero of the story is a blind boy, whose unhappy disposition is improved
and at last quite changed by the influence of a firm and kindly
friendship, the descriptions of external objects are remarkably
picturesque and vivid.


LOST AND FOUND: or Twelve Years with Bulgarian Gypsies. By Mrs. CARL
ROTHER.

Tells of how the young heir of Wolfsburg on the Rhine was entrapped and
carried off by a gang of Bulgarian gypsies; how for years he wandered with
them through Austria and Bulgaria; how he eventually joined the Bulgarian
army and fought against the Servians, and how at last he found his
father's home. The wandering life through the fertile valleys of the Rhine
and Danube is pleasantly depicted.


FISHERMAN GRIM. By MARY C. ROWSELL.

May be called a historical romance in a nutshell. The scene is laid in
Saxon times on the north-east coast of England, where Grimsby now stands,
and the story of Hablok the little Danish Prince, and Grim the rough
English fisherman with his cat Tib, is told with a simplicity and vivacity
that will delight children.


             #THE SIXPENNY SERIES FOR CHILDREN.#

_Neatly bound in cloth extra. Each book contains 64 pages and a Coloured
                       Illustration._

NEW VOLUMES.

#Little Mop#: and other Stories. By Mrs. CHARLES BRAY.

#The Tree Cake#: and other Stories. By W. L. ROOPER.

#Nurse Peggy, and Little Dog Trip.# Two Stories by Two Sisters.

       *       *       *       *       *

#Wild Marsh Marigolds.# By DARLEY DALE.

#Fanny's King.# By DARLEY DALE.

#Kitty's Cousin.# By HANNAH B. MACKENZIE.

#Cleared at Last.# By JULIA GODDARD.

#Little Dolly Forbes.# By ANNIE S. FENN.

#A Year with Nellie.# By ANNIE S. FENN.

#The Little Brown Bird#: a Story of Industry.

#The Maid of Domremy#: and other Tales.

#Little Eric#: a Story of Honesty.

#Uncle Ben the Whaler#: and other Stories.

#The Palace of Luxury#: and other Stories.

#The Charcoal-Burner#: or, Kindness Repaid.

#Willy Black#: a Story of Doing Right.

#The Horse and his Ways#: Stories of Man and his best Friend.

#The Shoemaker's Present#: a Legendary Story.

#Lights to Walk by#: Stories for the Young.

#The Little Merchant#: and other Stories.

#Nicholina#: a Story about an Iceberg.

     "The whole of the set will be found admirably adapted for the
     use of the young."--_Schoolmaster._

     "A very praiseworthy series of Prize Books. Most of the stories
     are designed to enforce some important moral lesson, such as
     honesty, industry, kindness, helpfulness, &c."--_School
     Guardian._


            #A SERIES OF FOURPENNY REWARD BOOKS.#

   _Each 64 pages, 18mo, Illustrated, in Picture Boards._

#Holidays at Sunnycroft.# By ANNIE S. SWAN.

#Worthy of Trust.# By H. B. MACKENZIE.

#Maudie and Bertie.# By GREGSON GOW.

#Phil Foster.# By J. LOCKHART.

#Brave and True.# By GREGSON GOW.

#Poor Tom Olliver.# By JULIA GODDARD.

#The Children and the Water-Lily.# By JULIA GODDARD.

#Johnnie Tupper's Temptation.# By GREGSON GOW.

#Fritz's Experiment.# By LETITIA M'LINTOCK.

#Climbing the Hill.# By ANNIE S. SWAN.

#A Year at Coverley.# By Do.

#Lucy's Christmas-Box.#

[Asterism] These little books have been specially written with the aim of
inculcating some sound moral, such as obedience to parents, love for
brothers and sisters, kindness to animals, perseverance and diligence
leading to success, &c. &c.

     "Any one who wishes to send a dainty packet of story-books to a
     household blessed with little children will find in these
     exactly what he wants. They are issued with the prettiest of
     all the coloured covers we have yet seen."--_Christian Leader._


                        VERE FOSTER'S
                  WATER-COLOR DRAWING-BOOKS.

     _The Times_ says:--"We can strongly recommend the series to
     young students."

                   PAINTING FOR BEGINNERS.

FIRST STAGE. Teaching the use of ONE COLOR. Ten Facsimiles of
    Original Studies in Sepia by J. CALLOW, and numerous
    Illustrations in pencil. With full Instructions in easy
    language. 4to, cloth elegant, 2_s._ 6_d._

     "Sound little books, teaching the elements of 'washing' with
     much clearness by means of plain directions and well-executed
     plates."--_Academy._


                   PAINTING FOR BEGINNERS.

SECOND STAGE. Teaching the use of SEVEN COLORS. Twenty Facsimiles
    of Original Drawings by J. CALLOW, and many Illustrations in
    pencil. With full Instructions in easy language. 4to, cloth
    elegant, 4_s._

     "The rules are so clear and simple that they cannot fail to be
     understood even by those who have no previous knowledge of
     drawing. The letterpress of the book is as good as the
     illustrations are beautiful."--_Birmingham Gazette._


             SIMPLE LESSONS IN FLOWER PAINTING.

Eight Facsimiles of Original Water-Color Drawings, and numerous
    Outline Drawings of Flowers, after various artists. With
    Instructions for Drawing and Painting. 4to, cloth elegant,
    3_s._

     "Everything necessary for acquiring the art of flower painting
     is here: the _facsimiles_ of water-color drawings are very
     beautiful."--_Graphic._

     "Such excellent books, so carefully written and studied, cannot
     fail to have great advantage in the creation and fostering of a
     taste for art."--_Scotsman._


            SIMPLE LESSONS IN LANDSCAPE PAINTING.

Eight Facsimiles of Original Water-Color Drawings, and Thirty
    Vignettes, after various artists. With full Instructions by an
    experienced Master. 4to, cloth elegant, 3_s._

     "As a work of art in the book line we have seldom seen its
     equal; and it could not fail to be a delightful present,
     affording a great amount of pleasurable amusement and
     instruction, to young people."--_St. James's Gazette._


             SIMPLE LESSONS IN MARINE PAINTING.

Twelve Facsimiles of Original Water-Color Sketches. By EDWARD
    DUNCAN. With numerous Illustrations in pencil, and Practical
    Lessons by an experienced Master. 4to, cloth elegant, 3_s._

     "The book must prove of great value to students. Nothing could
     be prettier or more charming than the marine sketches here
     presented."--_Graphic._


                      STUDIES OF TREES.

In Pencil and in Water-Colors. By J. NEEDHAM. A Series of Eighteen
    Examples in Colors, and Thirty-three Drawings in pencil. With
    descriptions of the Trees, and full Instructions for Drawing
    and Painting. First Series, cloth elegant, 5_s._; Second
    Series, cloth elegant, 5_s._

     "We commend them most heartily to all persons of taste who may
     be wanting to cultivate the great accomplishment of Water-color
     Drawing, or who want a gift-book for a lad or girl taking up
     the study."--_Schoolmaster._


            ADVANCED STUDIES IN FLOWER PAINTING.

By ADA HANBURY. A Series of Twelve beautifully finished Examples in
    Colors, and numerous Outlines in pencil. With full Instructions
    for Painting, and a description of each plant by BLANCHE
    HANBURY. 4to, cloth elegant, 7_s._ 6_d._

     "Apart from its educational value in art training this is a
     lovely book: we have seen nothing to equal the coloured
     plates."--_Sheffield Independent._

     "The handsomest and most instructive volume of the series yet
     produced."--_Daily Chronicle._

     "Coloured sketches of flowers which it is literally no
     exaggeration to term exquisite."--_Knowledge._


            EASY STUDIES IN WATER-COLOR PAINTING.

By R. P. LEITCH and J. CALLOW. A Series of Nine Pictures executed
    in Neutral Tints. With full Instructions for drawing each
    subject, and for sketching from Nature. 4to, cloth elegant,
    6_s._


                 SKETCHES IN WATER-COLORS.

By T. M. RICHARDSON, R. P. LEITCH, J. A. HOUSTON, T. L. ROWBOTHAM,
    E. DUNCAN, and J. NEEDHAM. A Series of Nine Pictures executed
    in Colors. With full Instructions for drawing, by an
    experienced Teacher. 4to, cloth elegant, 5_s._

     "To those who wish to become proficient in the art of
     water-color painting no better instructor could be recommended
     than these two series."--_Newcastle Chronicle._


                        ILLUMINATING.

Nine Examples in Colors and Gold of ancient Illuminating of the
    best periods, with numerous Illustrations in Outline,
    Historical Notes and full descriptions and instructions by Rev.
    W. J. LOFTIE, B.A., F.S.A. 4to, cloth elegant, 6_s._

     "The illuminations are admirably reproduced in colour. Mr.
     Loftie's practical instructions enhance the value of an
     excellent handbook."--_Saturday Review._


                   BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

_Classified according to Price. Elegantly Bound in Extra Cloth._


                     #Books at 7s. 6d.#

#The Universe; or The Infinitely Great and Infinitely Little.# By F. A.
POUCHET, M.D.

#Advanced Studies in Flower Painting.#


                       #Books at 6s.#

#The Young Carthaginian.# By G. A. HENTY.

#With Wolfe in Canada.# By G. A. HENTY.

#Down the Snow Stairs.# By ALICE CORKRAN.

#The Lion of the North.# By G. A. HENTY.

#Through the Fray.# By G. A. HENTY.

#In Freedom's Cause.# By G. A. HENTY.

#With Clive in India.# By G. A. HENTY.

#True to the Old Flag.# By G. A. HENTY.

#Under Drake's Flag.# By G. A. HENTY.

#Two Thousand Years Ago.# By Prof. A. J. CHURCH.

#The Log of the "Flying Fish."# By HARRY COLLINGWOOD.

#Devon Boys.# By G. MANVILLE FENN.

#Brownsmith's Boy.# By G. MANVILLE FENN.

#Bunyip Land.# By G. MANVILLE FENN.

#The Golden Magnet.# By G. M. FENN.

#In the King's Name.# By G. M. FENN.

#Robinson Crusoe.# Over 100 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.

#Lessons in the Art of Illuminating.#

#Easy Studies in Water-Colors.#


                       #Books at 5s.#

#Bravest of the Brave.# By G. A. HENTY.

#A Final Reckoning.# By G. A. HENTY.

#For Name and Fame.# By G. A. HENTY.

#The Dragon and the Raven.# By G. A. HENTY.

#St. George for England.# By G. A. HENTY.

#By Sheer Pluck.# By G. A. HENTY.

#Facing Death.# By G. A. HENTY.

#The Congo Rovers.# By H. COLLINGWOOD.

#The Pirate Island.# By H. COLLINGWOOD.

#Gulliver's Travels.# Over 100 Illustrations by GORDON BROWNE.

#Yussuf the Guide.# By G. MANVILLE FENN.

#Patience Wins.# By G. MANVILLE FENN.

#Menhardoc.# By G. MANVILLE FENN.

#Nat the Naturalist.# By G. M. FENN.

#Perseverance Island.# By DOUGLAS FRAZAR.

#The Wigwam and War-Path.# By ASCOTT R. HOPE.

#Stories of Old Renown.# By A. R. HOPE.

#Studies of Trees in Pencil and Water-Colors.# Two Series.

#Sketches in Water-Colors.#


                        #Book at 4s.#

#Painting for Beginners, 2nd Stage.#


                     #Books at 3s. 6d.#

#Reefer and Rifleman.# By PERCY GROVES.

#The White Squall.# By J. C. HUTCHESON.

#The Search for the Talisman.# By HENRY FRITH.

#Silver Mill.# By Mrs. R. H. READ.

#The Wreck of the Nancy Bell.# By J. C. HUTCHESON.

#Picked up at Sea.# By J. C. HUTCHESON.

#Dr. Jolliffe's Boys.# By LEWIS HOUGH.

#Historic Boys.# By E. S. BROOKS.

#Traitor or Patriot?# By M. C. ROWSELL.

#Brother and Sister.# By Mrs. LYSAGHT.

#Dora.# By Mrs. R. H. READ.

#Cheep and Chatter.# By ALICE BANKS.

#Garnered Sheaves.# By Mrs. PITMAN.

#Life's Daily Ministry.# By Mrs. PITMAN.

#Florence Godfrey's Faith.# By Do.

#My Governess Life.# By Mrs. PITMAN.


                       #Books at 3s.#

#Simple Lessons in Flower Painting.#

#Simple Lessons in Marine Painting.#

#Simple Lessons in Landscape Painting.#


                     #Books at 2s. 6d.#

#The Eversley Secrets.# By E. E. GREEN.

#The Lads of Little Clayton.# By R. STEAD.

#Ten Boys.# By JANE ANDREWS.

#The Joyous Story of Toto.# By LAURA E. RICHARDS.

#Gytha's Message.# By EMMA LESLIE.

#My Mistress the Queen.# By M. A. PAULL.

#Brothers in Arms#: A Story of the Crusades. By F. BAYFORD HARRISON.

#Miss Fenwick's Failures.# By E. STUART.

#Winnie's Secret.# By KATE WOOD.

#A Waif of the Sea.# By KATE WOOD.

#Jack o' Lanthorn.# By HENRY FRITH.

#Hetty Gray.# By ROSA MULHOLLAND.

#The Ball of Fortune.# By CHAS. PEARCE.

#The Family Failing.# By DARLEY DALE.

#Famous Discoveries by Sea and Land.#

#Stirring Events of History.#

#Stories of the Sea in Former Days.#

#Adventures in Field, Flood, and Forest.#

#Tales of Captivity and Exile.#

#Painting for Beginners, 1st Stage.#


                       #Books at 2s.#

#Dorothy's Dilemma.# By CAROLINE AUSTIN.

#The Hawthornes.# By AMY WALTON.

#Teddy.# By J. C. HUTCHESON.

#The Penang Pirate.# By J. C. HUTCHESON.

#Little Tottie.# By THOMAS ARCHER.

#Marie's Home.# By CAROLINE AUSTIN.

#Warner's Chase.# By ANNIE S. SWAN.

#The Wings of Courage.# By GEORGE SAND.

#Mrs. Wishing-to-be.# By ALICE CORKRAN.

#Four Little Mischiefs.# By ROSA MULHOLLAND.

#Magna Charta Stories.# By A. GILMAN.

#New Light through Old Windows.# By GREGSON GOW.

#Our Dolly.# By Mrs. R. H. READ.

#Fairy Fancy.# By Mrs. R. H. READ.

#Naughty Miss Bunny.# By CLARA MULHOLLAND.


                     #Books at 1s. 6d.#

#The Late Miss Hollingford.# By ROSA MULHOLLAND.

#Our Frank.# By AMY WALTON.

#A Terrible Coward.# By G. M. FENN.

#Yarns on the Beach.# By G. A. HENTY.

#Miss Grantley's Girls.# By T. ARCHER.

#The Pedlar and his Dog.# By MARY C. ROWSELL.

#Tom Finch's Monkey.# By J. C. HUTCHESON.

#Down and Up Again.# By GREGSON GOW.

#Little Tim.# By GREGSON GOW.

#The Happy Lad.# By BJÖRNSON.

#Into the Haven.# By ANNIE S. SWAN.

#Box of Stories.# By H. HAPPYMAN.

#The Patriot Martyr#: and other Narratives.


                       #Books at 1s.#

#Alf Jetsam.# By Mrs. GEO. CUPPLES.

#Jack's Two Sovereigns.# By A. S. FENN.

#Ursula's Aunt.# By A. S. FENN.

#Missy.# By F. B. HARRISON.

#The Redfords.# By Mrs. GEO. CUPPLES.

#Hidden Seed.# By EMMA LESLIE.

#A Little Adventurer.# By GREGSON GOW.

#Olive Mount.# By A. S. FENN.

#Two Little Brothers.# By H. M. CAPES.

#Three Little Ones.# By CORA LANGTON.

#Tom Watkins' Mistake.#

#The New Boy at Merriton.#

#The Blind Boy of Dresden.#

#Jon of Iceland#: A True Story.

#Stories from Shakespeare.#

#Every Man In His Place.#

#Fireside Fairies.#

#To the Sea in Ships.#

#Little Daniel#: a Story of the Rhine.

#Jack's Victory#: Stories about Dogs.

#The Story of a King.#

#Prince Alexis.#

#Sasha the Serf#: Stories of Russia.

#True Stories of Foreign History.#


#For Series at 9d., 6d., and 4d. see pages 43 and 44.#

      LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
           GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND DUBLIN.



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| Advertisement page 6: lifelike standardised to life-like              |
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