but he returned to it, seven years later, the
arraigned prisoner of his people. On the
following day, the five members were placed in
triumph on their "thrones" in Westminster;
and all London throbbed with stern, strong,
manly joy at the great and long deliverance
begun for the English race.

Very sad and very instructive is the lesson
which Mr. Forster has given to the world in this
beautiful "page of history rewritten" of his.
Sad is the spectacle of craft and shiftiness,
wherever found. But, kings must needs suffer,
times, like meaner men, for the faults which,
like meaner men, they commit against humanity
and the right. Had Charles the First been faithful
to his word, prompt and honest, he never
would have lived in history, or the Church
service, as Charles the Royal Martyr, who gave us
Hampden, Pym, and Cromwell; plotting, false,
and shifty, he built the scaffold for himself,
and by his own unfaithful deeds and arbitrary
attempts sharpened the executioner's axe for his
neck.

The production of this book of Mr. Forster's —
a book, with all its care, research, earnestness,
and power, condensed within the compass
of fewer than four hundred pages— is a great
national service. And it is especially desirable
that its teachings should be taken to heart at
this time. In England, as in America (though
to a less extent), there is a disposition observable
on the part of numbers of good men, to hold
themselves aloof from public affairs, and to
resent the short-comings and littlenesses of party,
by turning from them with a sullen indifference.
Let all who are thus disposed learn from Mr.
Forster's book to remember the immense
importance of a free Parliament, the gallant struggle
by which that Freedom was won for England,
and the responsibility that lies on all of us to
cherish it dearly. On the other hand, it is
possible that even some Members in the list of
the existing House may study Mr. Forster with
advantage, as leading them to a comparison of
themselves with their greatest predecessors, and
to the inauiry whether they are at all conscious
of any falling off in public spirit.

Throughout his manful and remarkable pages
Mr. Forster is necessarily in collision with
Clarendon. That is not Mr. Forster's fault.
The history of the memorable time in question
has been misrepresented by a partial advocate;
the evidence is now to hand; the judge must
point out the advocate's fallacies, ana must state
the evidence to the jury as it really is.

One final consideration, of a pleasant and
gentle nature, is presented to us by this splendid
piece of history. Those staunch gentlemen who
were so true to the king and so touchingly
faithful to a fallen cause, have a rightful hold on
our respect, howsoever we differ from them. We
may reasonablv infer from these discoveries
made by Mr. Forster, that they supposed the
cause to be much better than it really was.
What Clarendon misstated for posterity, he is
likely to have misstated for his own time; and
what the king confided to the desperate men
about Whitehall, and failed in, he is not likely
to have confided to men with a straighter
instinct of truth and a plainer sense of honour.

MAY.

WHILST troublous blow the southern April winds,
And swallows cross the shining Eastern seas
Thro' the clear dawn, and half the setting stars
Gleam in the West in clustrous companies,

Thou, with the moon, a sickle gold and wan,
Thy sweet head garlanded with violet,
Appearest, in the meadows of the sun,
Thy locks with Spring rains and fresh odours wet.

Rich glories break upon the villages,
The netted honeysuckled gables bloom,
The cocks crow shrill and cheerful, the white lambs
Run to the brook within the elm-tree's gloom.

The pastures laugh; the sky above the oaks
Is roofed with dripping clouds and spaces blue,
The butterfly, all jewelled with the rain,
Shines, on the ivy leaves, amid the dew.

Blithe apparition, whilst the hedges teem
With sun-like cowslips, and the fields are white
With myriad daisies, and the weedy lakes
Unbosom all their lilies to the light;

Whilst yet the heifer, smelling of the meads,
Feeds in her mother's shadow; and the deer
Troop from the tangled lowlands of the North
To pasture in the hilly atmosphere;

Give me to wander through the flowering fields
Or heaths forlorn, or by rivers slow,
Bedded with yellow sand and pebbles rare,
And mossy stones above the current's flow;

Where I may catch thy breath, delightful May,
Blowing upon my forehead; and the breeze
Steal from the meadows, and the pleasant farms
Sweet scents of hay and rural harmonies.

Season of hope, thou blessed Pentecost
Of heart and nature, when the summer fires
Again at sunset flame along the West,
And birds pipe cheerful, in the forest choirs,

Companion of the plant-conceiving sun,
Whilst Spring cold tempers all thy Summer charm
Thou turnest from thy brother, April, and rain'st flowers
Over the white round of thy naked arm.

THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVELLER.

So much of my travelling is done on foot,
that if I cherished betting propensities, I should
probably be found registered in sporting
newspapers, under some such title as the Elastic
Novice, challenging all eleven-stone mankind to
competition in walking. My last special feat was
turning out of bed at two, after a hard day,
pedestrian and otherwise, and walking thirty miles
into the country to breakfast. The road was so
lonely in the night, that I fell asleep to the
monotonous sound of my own feet, doing their
regular four miles an hour. Mile after mile I
walked, without the slightest sense of exertion,
dozing heavily and dreaming constantly. It
was only when I made a stumble like a drunken
man, or struck out into the road to avoid a