wanting in individuality, Mr. Headley amply makes up in soulstirring excitement.

We should be puzzled to tell where the "pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious, war" is more powerfully depicted than in his pages; and if he does not give to these efforts all the variety that might be desired, he does what is better, he makes us forget their uniformity. We shall subjoin two or three specimens in this kind. The first is the battle of Marston Moor.

"Rupert took up his position opposite the parliamentary right, where Fairfax was stationed with his cavalry. It was now seven o'clock in the evening-the cannon had been playing since three, and the setting sun was almost on a level with the glittering plain, on which stood near 60,000 men in battle array. A short pause followed, during which the two hosts, waiting the signal to advance, gazed anxiously, almost breathlessly, upon each other. Then a mass of white cloud, hugging the earth, rolled out in front of the royal force, followed by the flash and roar of artillery, and the great struggle commenced. Rupert dashing, with his usual impetuosity, on Fairfax holding the right, after a short but fierce effort, routed him completely. In the centre the struggle between the infantry was awful. Wrapt in a cloud of smoke, amid which rang the clash of weapons, and shouts of men and roar of guns, the stout yeomanry of the two kingdoms fought with a stubbornness that the utmost gallantry of the cavaliers could not overcome. "The Scotch delivered their fire with such constancy and swiftness, it was as if the whole air had become an element of fire in the summer gloaming there.' On the left, Cromwell with his strong Ironsides, stood for awhile and saw the infantry near him mowed down by the royal batteries; till, unable longer to view the havoc, he turned to his men, with one of those explosions of passion which made him so fearful in battle, and ordered them to charge. Clearing the ditch, he had scarcely formed on the open ground, when down came Goring's cavalry in a wild gallop. Receiving them, as the rock the waves, those Ironsides, with a shout, charged in turn, crushing the royal squadrons like shells beneath their feet; and falling on the artillerists, who were making such carnage in Manchester's infantry, sabred them at their pieces. They then rode leisurely back towards the ditch, as if they had only been executing a manœuvre. At this moment,

word was brought Cromwell that the whole right wing of the army was routed; and as the smoke lifted a moment before the breeze, he saw that it was true. Fairfax had been borne wounded from the battle; and the enemy's cavalry careered, almost unchecked, through his broken and flying ranks. But from the rapid and crashing volleys in the centre, and the leveled pikes now advancing to the charge, and now forced back, he saw that it was yet unbroken.

Twilight was now settling on the field, and Cromwell for the purpose of relieving the left, where Rupert was dealing death amid the followers of Fairfax, ordered his squadrons to face to the left. Wheeling on his centre, he saw Rupert only a quarter of a mile distant, executing a similar manœuvre to meet him; and in a few moments these formidable masses of five thousand cavalry, stood face to face;-the plumed, the gay, the hitherto invincible, horsemen of Rupert on one side; and the stern Ironsides, clad in simple buff and strong grey steel, without a decoration on their good steeds, or a plume above their helmets, on the other. Ten thousand horses sweeping to the shock is, under any circumstances, terrific; but now, when two such leaders as the renowned and headlong Rupert, and the stern and steady Cromwell, were at their head, still more so. Each knew the temper of his antagonist; and each resolved never to yield.

At this critical moment, Cromwell saw a body of royal pikemen advancing to turn the Scottish centre, and exposing, in their hasty movement, their right flank to his horse. With that sudden inspiration which belongs to genius, he ordered a squadron to charge them at once, and, riding through their ranks, fall on Rupert's flank. Saying this, he gave the order to advance, and with his face blazing with excitement, shouted "Forward!" with a voice like a trumpet call. Rupert's five thousand horse, pressing hard after their leader's gay banner, fifteen feet long, and streaming in the wind, were coming up in a plunging trot, shaking the earth as they moved, when down swept Oliver with his Ironsides like a rolling rock. The shock in the centre was terrible. Each refused to yield an inch; and hand to hand, and blade to blade, the maddened thousands struggled in close encounter, while the ringing of sabres on each other, and on steel armor, was heard above the trampling of steeds and shouts of men. It was then the detachment Cromwell had sent off, did him good service. Falling on the naked flank of Rupert, it carried disorder through the ranks, while the steady bravery of those in front gradually forced rents through the firm-set squadrons. At length, victory declared for Cromwell. Rupert's renowned cavalry were utterly broken; yet, disdaining to fly, they rallied in separate bodies, and charged home with the energy of despair. Four times did Rupert, maddened by disappointment, and burning with rage, rally his own favorite regiment, and hurry them forward with an impetuosity and daring that deserved a better fate. But each successive time they rolled back from that iron host, thinned and wasted. Though wounded, Cromwell still kept his saddle; and calling off, and re-forming his own regiment, he fell on Rupert so resistlessly, that he was borne backward over the field, and finally turned in flight, pursued by the Puritans even to the gates of York."

The next is the first day's fight at Preston, which we the rather insert, because we do not recollect to have seen it noticed at much length by any other writer.

"The English were drawn up on an enclosed moor, a short distance from Preston. The ground was well chosen to prevent the charge of Oliver's Ironsides-a body of cavalry which had become the terror of the royalists-for, intersected by hedges and fences, and made soft and miry by the heavy rains of the past week, it furnished constant Barriers to the horses, which sunk fetlock deep at every step, even when on a walk. A lane, enclosed with a high hedge, and trodden into mire, led straight up to the English centre. In this, Cromwell placed two regiiments of horse-his own and Harrison's-while the infantry stretched out on either side like two arms. Two regiments of horse flanked the right wing-one regiment was stationed as a reserve in the lane, to act in case of need, and the rest of the cavalry guarded the left. Thus arrayed, Cromwell continued to advance under the heavy and constant fire of the enemy. The English cannon swept the lane, while from every hedge close and deadly vollies of musketry were poured. But nothing could stay his progress-the solid squadrons of horse advanced slowly but firmly to the charge-the leveled pikes cleared every hedge, and pushing home every advantage, he never allowed the battle to recede for a moment. Still, every inch of ground was contested with noble resolution, and not a regiment fell back until it had left the ground covered with its dead. It was one of those close-handed fights, where there is no cessation to the tumult-no pause in the storm-but the clang of sabre, rattle of musketry, shouts of men, and ever and anon the blast of trumpets, conspire to make a scene of indescribable wildness and terror. Sir Marmaduke rode hither and thither, encouraging his troops to bear up bravely, and strained every nerve to maintain his ground. But nothing could resist that republican host. Bent on victory, they received the close and deadly fire of their foes without shrinking, and pressing fearlessly on the stands of leveled pikes, bore down the firm-set ranks with a steady pressure, against which every effort seemed powerless. It was not headlong valor, but constant and resolute courage that decided the day.

We have room for but one more, and out of so great a number, all excellent, we are not a little at loss which to select. Let it be, then, the battle of Worcester.

"In the meantime, the scene of carnage had commenced. Amid the roar of cannon and shouts of defiance, Fleetwood had charged like fire on the strong defences of the Scotch, and, driving them from hedge to hedge, threatened to carry everything before him. In the tumult of the fight, he did not hear the clat

tering squadrons that were hurrying over the bridge to the relief of the enemy, and was pushing his slight advantage gallantly when these fresh troops burst upon him. He bore up nobly against the overwhelming numbers, and for awhile successfully breasted the torrent; but, gradually overpowered, he gave ground, and was rolling heavily back towards the Team, when Cromwell, who saw his danger, hurried battalion after battalion, with his astonishing rapidity, over his bridge of boats, which rushing with shouts to the attack restored the tide of battle. The king and his officers, from their elevated position, had a bird's eye view of the whole scene, and hence could take advantage of every change. No sooner, therefore, did they see what heavy forces Cromwell was taking over to the assistance of Fleetwood, than they resolved to sally out, and fall on those left behind before help could be rendered. In a moment, the trumpets sounded, and the excited columns began to pour forth. But Oliver, whom no surprise could find unprepared, was already back amid his men, and cheering them by his presence and his voice, waited the attack. The onset of the Scotch was tremendous-despair lent them energy, and discharging their pieces in the very faces of the republicans, they rushed on them with levelled pikes, and the conflict became close and bloody. Cromwell, finding his troops beginning to shake, forgot he was lord-general, and with his sword flashing over his head, and his eye glancing fire, galloped where the shot fell thickest. His rough voice was heard above the tumult, as, carried away by that strange excitement which mastered him at Dunbar, he cheered on his men. Hour after hour, they stood under the murderous fire, and charged desperately on the stands of pikes, but not an inch did the resolute Scotch yield. At length the republicans gave way-many of them being raw recruits-and the bleeding line swung disorderly back. In this dreadful crisis, Cromwell dashed up to his own favorite regiment, which he had held in reserve, and led them on in person. With the terrible shout, that rolled so ominously over the fields of Dunbar, "THE LORD OF HOSTS! THE LORD OF HOSTS! this veteran regiment closed sternly around their beloved chieftain, and in one, dark, resistless wave, swept full on the victorious enemy. The panicstricken Scotch, arrested in their onward course, borne back, trampled under foot, and broken into fragments, before that astonishing charge, turned and fled into the town. The excited republicans followed after, and swarming around Fort Royal, summoned it to surrender. The commander refusing, "it was carried, in all the wild triumph of victory, by a furious storm." And fifteen hundred men swept, as by a sudden tempest into the world of spirits. The guns were then turned upon the enemy, and the cannon-balls went ploughing through the shattered and flying ranks with frightful effect,

Fleetwood, too, victorious on his side, had drived the enemy from their position, and pursuing them over the bridge, entered

the town:-then the sacking and slaughter commenced. The clatter of flying cavalry-incessant volleys of musketry-the close struggle between victorious and despairing men-the shouts and shrieks, the groans of women, children and combatants, combined to make the night hideous, and the last battle of Cromwell one of the most fearful of his life."

Whatever may be the defects of these and other such passages, our readers, we think, will all agree with us, that the author, in writing them, did not dip his pen in poppy; there is nothing soporific about them: indeed, it is not easy to conceive how anything could be more stirring and effective; nor do we know where these descriptions have been surpassed, unless by Mr. Headley himself.

Now, that we have said so much, Mr. Headley will not take it hard if we question the generosity, not to say justice, of some of his statements. For example, speaking of the King, he says: "On his departure for Holmby the next day, he said that 'Fairfax was a man of honor, for he had kept his word with him,'— a compliment not one of the King's enemies could reciprocate." Now we have always liked the remark of a certain historian, who, when censured for saying some good things of a certain character, Thomas Becket, we believe, replied, in effect, that if but few good things could be said of him, there was the more reason for saying those few. It strikes us as rather ungenerous, thus to return the King's acknowledgment of Fairfax's virtue with such a stab. Why not allow one undisturbed gush of emotion for the King, not, indeed, for any virtue in him, for that Mr. Headley denies him, but for his appreciation of virtue in an enemy? Truly, if Charles never kept his word with anybody, it were unkind to thrust in the charge at such a moment. But what are the facts? Dr. Lingard, who is certainly far enough from being a champion of the King, and who omits no reasonable opportunity of exposing his alleged insincerity, informs us that when the King, after his seizure by the army, was transferred from Oatlands to Hampton Court, "He was suffered to enjoy the company of his children, whenever he was pleased to command their attendance, and the pleasure of hunting, on his promise not to attempt an escape." Truly, one would think the army had some confidence in his word. Some two months afterwards, however, the King began to have apprehensions for his safety, and