streams leading towards Cromwell's Fen-Country, begin to gather themselves from boggy places on the eastern side. The grounds, as we say, lie high; and are still, in their new subdivisions, known by the name of " Hills,""Rutput Hill," "Mill Hill," "Dust Hill," and the like, precisely as in Rushworth's time: but they are not properly hills at all; they are broad, blunt, clayey masses, swelling towards and from each other, like indolent waves of a sea, sometimes of miles in extent.

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It was on this high moor-ground, in the centre of England, that King Charles, on the 14th of June, 1645, fought his last battle; dashed fiercely against the New-Model army, which he had despised till then; and saw himself shivered utterly to ruin thereby. Prince Rupert, on the king's right wing, charged up the hill, and carried all before him;" but Lieutenant-General Cromwell charged down-hill on the other wing, likewise carrying all before him,--and did not gallop off the field to plunder, he. Cromwell, ordered thither by the Parliament, had arrived from the association two days before, "amid shouts from the whole army:" he had the ordering of the horse this morning. Prince Rupert, on returning from his plunder, finds the king's infantry a ruin; prepares to charge again with the rallied cavalry; but the cavalry too, when it came to the point, "broke all asunder,"-never to re-assemble more. The chase went through Harborough; where the king had already been that morning, when in an evil hour he turned back, to revenge some "surprise of an outpost at Naseby the night before," and give the Roundheads battle. . . . . .

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The parliamentary army stood ranged on the height still partly called Mill Hill," as in Rushworth's time, a mile and a half from Naseby; the king's army on a parallel “Hill," its back to Harborough, with the wide table of upland now named Broad Moor between them; where indeed the main brunt of the action still clearly enough shows itself to have been. There are hollow spots, of a rank vegetation, scattered over that Broad Moor; which are understood to have once been burial mounds; some of which have been (with more or less of sacrilege) verified as such. A friend of mine has in his cabinet two ancient grinder-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits for an opportunity to re-bury them there. Sound effectual grinders, one of them very large, which ate their breakfast on the fourteenth of June two hundred years ago, and, except to be clenched once in grim battle, had never work to do more in this world!-THOMAS CARLYLE.

THE RABBLE, AND THE PEOPLE.-In the summer of 1754, Henry Fielding, the great author of Tom Jones,' left England, never to return, having been ordered by physicians to Lisbon for recovery of his broken health. He has written a most graphic journal of this voyage, full of striking pictures of our social condition ninety years ago. We select the account of his embarkation at Rotherhithe :

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To go on board the ship it was necesary first to go into a boat,matter of no small difficulty, as I had no use of my limbs, and was to be carried by men who, though sufficiently strong for their burden, were, like Archimedes, puzzled to find a steady footing. Of this, as few of my readers have not gone into wherries on the Thames, they will easily be able to form to themselves an idea. However, by the assistance of my friend Mr. Welch, whom I never think or speak of but with love and esteem, I conquered this difficulty, as I did afterwards that of ascending the ship, into which I was hoisted with more ease by a chair lifted with pulleys. I was soon seated in a great chair in the cabin, to refresh myself after a fatigue which had been more intolerable, in a quarter of a mile's passage from my coach to the ship, than I had before undergone in a land-journey of twelve miles, which I had travelled with the utmost expedition.

"This latter fatigue was, perhaps, somewhat heightened by an indignation which I could not prevent arising in my mind. I think, upon my entrance into the boat, I presented a spectacle of the highest horror. The total loss of limbs was apparent to all who saw me, and my face contained marks of a most diseased state, if not of death itself. In this condition I ran the gauntlope (so I think I may justly call it) through rows of sailors and watermen, few of whom failed of paying their compliments to me by all manner of insults and jests on my misery. No man who knew me will think I conceived any personal resentment at this behaviour; but it was a lively picture of that cruelty and inhumanity in the nature of men which I have often contemplated with concern, and which leads the mind into a train of very uncomfortable and melancholy thoughts. It may be said that this barbarous custom is peculiar to the English, and of them only to the lowest degree; that it is an excrescence of an uncontrolled licentiousness mistaken for liberty, and never shows itself in men who are polished and refined in such manner as human nature requires to produce that perfection of which it is susceptible, and to purge away that malevolence

of disposition, of which, at our birth, we partake in common with the savage creation."

It is some satisfaction to contrast Fielding, insulted in his misery by the lowest of the rabble, with Scott, under circumstances equally calculated to call forth the sympathy of man for man. The great author of Waverley' was lying in hopeless illness at the St. James's Hotel, in Jermyn Street, in the summer of 1832. That the affliction of the most popular writer of his age should call forth every sentiment of respect from the high and the refined, was of course to be expected; but it is well to know that the refinement had gone deeper into the native soil than those of Fielding's day might have thought probable. Mr. Lockhart, in his Life of Sir Walter Scott,' writes, "Allan Cunningham mentions that, walking home late one night, he found several workingmen standing together at the corner of Jermyn Steet, and one of them asked him, as if there was but one death-bed in London, • Do you know, sir, if this is the street where he is lying?'"

WILLS. The last wills of our ancestors used invariably to begin, "In the name of God," &c. It was remarked as a novelty, that the will of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, who died in 1744, had not the usual preface. In Sir John Cullum's History and Antiquities of Hawsted' we have the following remarks :-"The thanking the Almighty for the blessing of a sound understanding, when a man was about to perform one of the most serious acts of his life, was surely not an ill-timed gratitude. Not less proper seems to have been the commendation of the soul to those powers who were supposed to be the guardians and patrons of human happiness, when a deed was to be executed which was to take effect immediately upon the separation of that soul from the body; an event of the utmost importance to man, and which generally was likely soon to take place. It seems as if we now thought that these were the effusions of an excessive devotion. Even a bishop (Cornwallis, Archbishop of Canterbury) can now make his will without mentioning the name of God in it; while, by a strange perverseness, a treaty of peace between two belligerent powers, which they and all the world know is nothing but a rope of sand, begins, 'In the name of the holy and undivided Trinity.'

PEWS.-In the pages of the agreeable local historian just cited, we find the following remarks on a subject which has excited a good deal of controversy in our immediate day :- "There are some pews for the

principal inhabitants towards the east end (of Hawsted church) in the neighbourhood of the pulpit. The rest of the seats are probably coeval with the church, being regular benches, all alike, with a low backboard to each. Pews, that so much deform our Protestant churches, were not common till the beginning of the last century; but, however uniform and undistinguished the ancient seats were, and however peculiarly improper subjects to excite any of the ungentle passions, they were very early the causes of contentions, which the synod of Exeter endeavoured to obviate, in 1287, by declaring, that all persons, except noblemen and patrons, when they came to church to say their prayers, might do it in what place they pleased. Early in the last century, there seem to have been some disputes about the seats in this church; for, from a decaying paper, some years ago in the church chest, it appeared that Richard Pead, Reg'rar'us, directed an instrument to the churchwardens, charging and commanding them to place the inhabitants. in such seats in the church as they should think proper, according to their estates, degrees, and callings; but their power was not to extend to seats belonging to houses of note and worship. Returns were to be made of those that were refractory: dated 1 December, 1623. Is there any strife or contention about seats in the church?' is still an article of official inquiry."

DESTRUCTION OF THE MONASTIC LIBRARIES.-John Bale, Bishop of Ossory, who was nevertheless a furious enemy of the Roman Catholics, has the following curious picture of the detestable plunder of the monasteries by the headlong Reformers. This was written in 1549: "Covetousness was at that time so busy about private commodity, that public wealth, in that most necessary and of respect, was not any where regarded. A number of them which purchased those superstitious mansions, reserved of those library books some to serve their jakes, some to scour the candlesticks, and some to rub their boots; some they sold to the grocer and soap-seller; and some they sent over sea to the bookbinders, not in small numbers, but, at times, whole ships full; yea, the universities of this realm are not at all clear in this detestable fact. But cursed is that belly which seeketh to be fed with so ungodly gains, and so deeply shameth his natural country. I know (says he) a merchantman (which shall at this time be nameless) that bought the contents of two noble libraries for forty shillings price: a shame it is to be spoken! This stuff hath he occupied instead of grey paper by

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space of more than these ten years, and yet he hath store enough for as many years to come: a prodigious example is this, and to be abhorred by all men which loved their nation as they should do. Yea, what may bring our realm to more shame and rebuke, than to have it noised abroad that we are despisers of learning? I shall judge this to be true, and utter it with heaviness, that neither the Britons under the Romans and Saxons, nor yet the English people under the Danes and Normans, had ever such damage of their learned monuments as we have seen in our time. Our posterity may well curse this wicked fact of our age, this unreasonable spoil of England's most noble antiquities."

THE ABBOT OF READING.-King Henry VIII., as he was hunting in Windsor Forest, either casually lost, or (more probably) wilfully losing himself, struck down about dinner time to the Abbey of Reading, where, disguising himself (much, for delight, more for discovery, to see, unseen), he was invited to the abbot's table, and passed for one of the king's guard; a place to which the proportion of his person might properly entitle him. A sirloin of beef was set before him (so knighted, saith tradition, by this king Henry); on which the king laid on lustily, not disgracing one of that place for whom he was mistaken. Well fare thy heart, quoth the abbot; and here, in a cup of sack, I remember the health of his grace your master. I would give an hundred pounds, on the condition I could feed so heartily on beef as you do. Alas! my weak and queasy stomach will hardly digest the wing of a small rabbit or chicken. The king pleasantly pledged him, and heartily thanked him for his good cheer; after dinner departed, as undiscovered as he came hither. Some weeks after, the abbot was sent for by a pursuivant, brought up to London, clapt in the Tower, kept close prisoner, fed for a short time on bread and water; yet not so empty his body of food as his mind was filled with fears, creating many suspicions to himself when and how he had incurred the king's displeasure. At last a sirloin of beef was set before him, on which the abbot fed as the farmer of his grange, and verified the proverb, that two hungry meals make the third a glutton. In springs King Henry out of a private lobby, where he had placed himself, the invisible spectator of the abbot's behaviour. "My lord," quoth the king, " presently deposit your hundred pounds in gold, or else no going hence all the days of your life. I have been your physician, to cure you of your queasy stomach;