scattered the whole mass. We know it was wondrous to see him in those moods of highly-wrought enthusiasm; and his watchword always struck along the ranks. "Truth and Peace!" he thundered along the lines; "Truth and Peace!" in answer to the Royalist cries of "God and the King!" "Upon them-upon them!" That hitherto almost unknown man, and his immortal hosts of Puritans, poured upon the Cavaliers. The air was alive with artillery. Cromwell seized the very guns of the Royalists, and turned them upon themselves. Thus, when the Royalists returned from the scattering the one wing of their foes, they found the ground occupied by victors. The fight was fought again, but fought in vain ; in vain was Rupert's rallying cry, “For God and for the King!" Through the black and stormy night was seen the gleaming steel of other hostile lines. The Cavaliers were scattered far and wide over the plain-over the country; while amidst the fire, thousands of the dead lying there, and the shattered carriages, Rupert made the last effort of flying from the field to York; across the bean-field, over the heath, the agonized young fieryheart made his way. And there, amidst the gathering silence, and amidst the groans of the dying, rises the magnificent military genius of Cromwell!

Marston Moor was the first most decided collision of the hostile armies. We have given in a few touches a concise and succinct account of this great and momentous conflict; but, even in so brief a life of Cromwell as the present, it ought not to be so hastily

dismissed. A graphic pencil might employ itself in a description of the fine old city, besieged for three months, where provisions were growing scarce, and in whose beautiful minster that day-it was a Sabbathday-affecting accents had given tender pathos to the liturgies imploring aid from Heaven. It would be no difficult task to realize and describe the streets of the ancient and magnificent city as they were on that day, and if Rupert had been wise, it seems as if the city might have been relieved and Cromwell's great opportunity lost; but the two vast ironclad masses lay out beyond there-nearly fifty thousand men, all natives of the same soil-stretching away almost to Tadcaster-skirting Bramham Moor, upon which, ages before Mother Shipton had prophesied that a great battle would be fought, a prophecy which, in this instance, received very creditable approximation to fulfilment. It was, as we have said, on the 2nd of July, 1644, The day wore on while successive movements and counter movements took place. Scarcely a shot had been fired. When both armies were completely drawn up, it was after five in the evening, and nearly another hour and a half passed with little more than a few cannon shots. The lazy and nonchalant Newcastle considered all was over for that day, and had retired to his carriage, to prepare himself by rest for whatever might betide on the morrow. Even Rupert and Cromwell are believed to have expected that their armies would pass the night on the field. It was a bright summer evening, closing apparently in storm;

there was light enough still for the work of destruction to proceed, and that mighty host-46,000 men, children of one race, subjects of one king-to mingle in bloody strife, and lay thousands at rest, "to sleep the sleep that knows no waking," on that fatal night in July, on Long Marston Moor. It has been surmised, with considerable probability, that a stray cannon shot, which proved fatal to young Walton, Oliver Cromwell's nephew, by rousing in him every slumbering feeling of wrath and indignation, mainly contributed to bring on the general engagement. Certain it is that he was the first to arrange his men for decisive attack. We suppose it was during the period of inaction, in the evening, that Prince Rupert examined a stray prisoner whom his party had taken, as to who were the leaders of the opposing army; the man answered, "General Leven, Lord Fairfax, and Sir Thomas Fairfax." "Is Cromwell there?" exclaimed the Prince, interrupting him; and being answered that he was, "Will they fight?" said he; “if they will, they shall have fighting enough." Then the prisoner was released, and going back to his own army told the generals what had passed, and Cromwell that the Prince had asked for him in particular, and had said, "They should have fighting enough." "And," exclaimed Cromwell, "if it please God, so they shall!"

It was, then, within a quarter to seven on that evening of July, when the vast army, that spread along the wide area of Marston Moor, began to be stirred

by rapid movements to the front. Along a considerable part of the ground that lay immediately between the advanced posts of the Parliamentary forces, there ran a broad and deep ditch, which served to protect either party from sudden surprise. Towards this, it has been said by some that a body of Cromwell's cavalry was seen to move rapidly from the rear, followed by a part of the infantry. Prince. Rupert met this promptly by bringing up a body of musketeers, who opened on them a murderous fire as they formed in front of the ditch which proteted Rupert's musketeers from the cavalry, while a range of batteries advantageously planted on a height to the rear, kept up an incessant cannonading on the whole line.

It was the first meeting of Cromwell and Rupert. And on Cromwell, as we have seen, descends the glory of the victory. His eye detected the movements in the Royalist army. He and his Ironsides (first named Ironsides on this famous field) broke the cavalry of General Goring. The Scots, indeed, had been defeated by Rupert early in the battle. He poured upon them a torrent of irresistible fire. But while he was confident that the field was won, the Ironsides again poured over Rupert's own cavalry, and swept them from the field.

The victory was complete, the Royalist army was entirely broken and dispersed; fifteen hundred of their number remained prisoners. The whole of their arms and artillery, their tents, baggage, and military chest remained the spoils of the victors. Prince

Rupert's own standard, and more than a hundred others, had fallen into their hands; and York, which Rupert had entered only three days before in defiance of their arms, now lay at their mercy. A strange and fearful scene spread out beneath the sky on that summer, now dark with midnight storm, on Long Marston Moor. Five thousand men lay dead or dying there; born of the same lineage, and subjects of one king, who had yet fallen by one another's hands. It was the bloodiest battle of the whole war, and irretrievably ruined the king's hopes in the north. Long after midnight, Rupert and Newcastle reentered York. They exchanged messages without meeting, Rupert intimating his intention of departing southward on the following morning with as many of the horse and foot as he had kept together; and Newcastle returning word that he intended immediately to go to the sea-side, and embark for the Continent-a desertion rendered justifiable when we remember that his advice had been contemptuously slighted, and his command superseded by the rash nephew of Charles, acting under the king's orders. Each kept his word, and in a fortnight thereafter York was in possession of their opponents.

Many representatives of noble houses lay stretched stark and cold on the dreadful field. The eminent Roman Catholic family of Townley, of Burnley, in Lancashire, have a tradition of the day. Mary, daughter of Sir Francis Trapper, had married Charles Townley; he was one of those killed in this battle.