unwounded men left. It was enough that these gallant soldiers had disputed the field till they were left without support, or hope, or guidance, till their bravest leader was a captive, and till their king had fled.

Whether James had owed his early reputation for valor to accident and flattery, or whether, as he advanced in life, his character underwent a change, may be doubted. But it is certain that, in his youth, he was generally believed to possess, not merely that average measure of fortitude which qualifies a soldier to go through a campaign without disgrace, but that high and serene intrepidity which is the virtue of great commanders. It is equally certain that, in his later years, he repeatedly, at conjunctures such as have often inspired timorous and delicate women with heroic courage, showed a pusillanimous anxiety about his personal safety. Of the most powerful motives which can induce human beings to encounter peril, none was wanting to him on the day of the Boyne. The eyes of contending nations and churches, of friends devoted to his cause and of enemies eager to witness his humiliation, were fixed upon him. He had, in his own opinion, sacred rights to maintain and cruel wrongs to revenge. He was a king come to fight for three kingdoms. He was a father come to fight for the birthright of his child. He was a zealous Roman Catholic come to fight in the holiest of crusades. If all this was not enough, he saw, from the secure position which he occupied on the height of Donore, a sight which, it might have been thought, would have roused the most torpid of mankind to emulation. He saw his rival, weak, sickly, wounded, swimming the river, struggling through the mud, leading the charge, stopping the flight, grasping the sword with the left hand, managing the bridle with a bandaged arm. But none of these things moved that sluggish and ignoble nature. He watched, from a safe distance, the beginning of the battle on which his fate and the fate of his race depended. When it became clear that the day was going against Ireland, he was seized with an apprehension that his flight might be intercepted, and galloped toward Dublin. He was escorted by a body-guard under the command of Sarsfield, who had, on that

day, had no opportunity of displaying the skill and courage which his enemies allowed that he possessed. The French auxiliaries, who had been employed the whole morning in keeping William's right wing in check, covered the flight of the beaten army. They were, indeed, in some danger of being broken and swept away by the torrent of runaways, all pressing to get first to the pass of Duleek, and were forced to fire repeatedly on these despicable allics. The retreat was, however, effected with less loss than might have been expected. For even the admirers of William owned that he did not show in the pursuit the energy which even his detractors acknowledged that he had shown in the battle. Perhaps his physical infirmities, his hurt, and the fatigue which he had undergone, had made him incapable of bodily or mental exertion. Of the last forty hours he had passed thirty-five on horseback. Schomberg, who might have supplied his place, was no more. It was said in the camp that the king could not do every thing, and that what was not done by him was not done at all.

The slaughter had been less than on any battle-field of equal importance and celebrity. Of the Irish only about fifteen hundred had fallen; but they were almost all cavalry, the flower of the army, brave and well-disciplined men, whose place could not easily be supplied. William gave strict orders that there should be no unnecessary bloodshed, and enforced those orders by an act of laudable severity. One of his soldiers, after the fight was over, butchered three defenseless. Irishmen who asked for quarter. The king ordered the murderer to be hanged on the spot.

The loss of the conquerors did not exceed five hundred men; but among them was the first captain in Europe. To his corpse every honor was paid. The only cemetery in which so illustrious a warrior, slain in arms for the liberties and religion of England, could properly be laid was that venerable Abbey hallowed by the dust of many generations of princes, heroes, and poets. It was announced that the brave veteran would have a public funeral at Westminster. In the mean time his corpse was embalmed with such skill as could

be found in the camp, and was deposited in a leaden coffin.(')

Walker was treated less respectfully. William thought him a busybody who had been properly punished for running into danger without any call of duty, and expressed that feeling, with characteristic bluntness, on the field of battle. "Sir," said an attendant, "the Bishop of Derry has been killed by a shot at the ford." "What took him there?" growled the king.

The victorious army advanced that day to Duleek, and passed the warm summer night there under the open sky. The tents and the baggage-wagons were still on the north of the river. William's coach had been brought over; and he slept in it surrounded by his soldiers. On the following day, Drogheda surrendered without a blow, and the garrison, thirteen hundred strong, marched out unarmed.

Meanwhile Dublin had been in violent commotion. On the 30th of June it was known that the armies were face to face with the Boyne between them, and that a battle was almost inevitable. The news that William had been wounded came that evening. The first report was that the wound was mortal. It was believed, and confidently repeated, that the usurper was no more; and, before the truth was known, couriers started bearing the glad tidings of his death to the French ships which lay in the ports of Munster. From daybreak on the 1st of July the streets of Dublin were filled with persons eagerly asking and telling news. A thousand wild rumors wandered to and fro among the crowd. A fleet of men-of-war under the white flag had been seen from the hill of Howth. An army commanded by a Marshal of France had landed in Kent. There had been hard fighting at the Boyne; but the Irish had won the day; the English right wing had been routed; the Prince of Orange was a prisoner. While the Roman Catholics heard and repeated these stories in all the places of public resort, the few Protestants who were still out of prison, afraid of being torn to pieces, shut themselves up in their inner chambers. But, toward five in

(') Schomberg was buried in St. Patrick's Cathedral, at Dublin.

the afternoon, a few runaways on tired horses came straggling in with evil tidings. By six it was known that all was lost. Soon after sunset, James, escorted by two hundred cavalry, rode into the castle. At the threshold he was met by the wife of Tyrconnel, once the gay and beautiful Fanny Jennings, the loveliest coquette in the brilliant Whitehall of the Restoration. To her the vanquished king had to announce the ruin of her fortunes and of his own. And now the tide of fugitives came in fast. Till midnight all the northern avenues of the capital were choked by trains of cars and by bands of dragoons, spent with running and riding and begrimed with dust. Some had lost their fire-arms, and some their swords. Some were disfigured by recent wounds. At two in the morning Dublin was still; but, before the early dawn of midsummer, the sleepers were roused by the peal of trumpets; and the horse, who had, on the preceding day, so well supported the honor of their country, came pouring through the streets, with ranks fearfully thinned, yet preserving, even in that extremity, some show of military order. Two hours later, Lauzun's drums were heard; and the French regiments, in unbroken array, marched into the city. Many thought that, with such a force, a stand might still be made. But, before six o'clock, the lord-mayor and some of the principal Roman Catholic citizens were summoned in haste to the castle. James took leave of them with a speech which did him little honor. He had often, he said, been warned that Irishmen, however well they might look, would never acquit themselves well on a field of battle; and he had now found that the warning was but too true. He had been so unfortunate as to see himself in less than two years abandoned by two armies. His English troops had not wanted courage, but they had wanted loyalty. His Irish troops were, no doubt, attached to his cause, which was their own; but, as soon as they were brought front to front with an enemy, they ran away. The loss, indeed, had been little. More shame for those who had fled with so little loss. "I will never command an Irish army again. I must shift for myself; and so must you." After thus reviling his soldiers for being the rab

ble which his own mismanagement had made them, and for following the example of cowardice which he had himself set them, he uttered a few words more worthy of a king. IIe knew, he said, that some of his adherents had declared that they would burn Dublin down rather than suffer it to fall into the hands of the English. Such an act would disgrace him in the eyes of all mankind; for nobody would believe that his friends would venture so far without his sanction. Such an act would also draw on those who committed it severities which otherwise they had no cause to apprehend; for inhumanity to vanquished enemies was not among the faults of the Prince of Orange. For these reasons James charged his hearers on their allegiance neither to sack nor to destroy the city. He then took his departure, crossed the Wicklow hills with all speed, and never stopped till he was fifty miles from Dublin. Scarcely had he alighted to take some refreshment when he was scared by an absurd report that the pursuers were close upon him. He started again, rode hard all night, and gave orders that the bridges should be pulled down behind him. At sunrise on the 3d of July he reached the harbor of Waterford. Thence he went by sea to Kinsale, where he embarked on board of a French frigate, and sailed for Brest.

THE BATTLE OF LA HOGUE. 1692.

[History of England, Chapter XVIII.]

THE extensive plan which had been formed in the winter had, in the course of the spring, been disconcerted by a succession of accidents such as are beyond the control of human wisdom.() The time fixed for the assembling of all the maritime forces of France at Ushant had long elapsed; and not a single sail had appeared at the place of rendezvous. The At

(1) In 1692, Lewis the Fourteenth was preparing an invasion of England, in order to restore James the Second to the throne.