to take him as king. Then Henry, having knelt down and prayed a while in their midst, was handed to the throne by the two archbishops. After a sermon by Arundel, on the text, "Behold the man whom I spake to thee of, the same shall rule over my people," Henry spoke again: "Sirs, I thank you, both spiritual and temporal, and all the estates of the land, and I do you to wit that it is not my will that any man should think that by way of conquest I would disinherit any man of his heritage, liberties, or other rights that he ought to have, or put him out of that he hath and hath had by the good laws of this realm, save those that have been against the good state and common profit of the realm." And on the morrow, October 1st, Sir William Thirning, as the spokesman of the Seven Commissioners, went to the Tower and addressed Richard, saying, "Sir, ye remember you well that ye renounced and put off the state of king and lordship, and of all the dignity that belongeth thereto." "Yea," said Richard, "but not the ghostly honor of the royal anointing, which I could not renounce or put off." But Thirning went on to say that his renunciation and cession was plainly accepted and agreed to by all the estates and people. And besides this, sir, at the instance of all the estates and people, there were certain articles of default in your governance there read, and there well heard and plainly understood by all the the estates aforesaid, and by them thought so true and notorious and well-known that for these two causes, and for others also, as they said, and having consideration to your own words in your renunciation and cession, that ye were not worthy nor sufficient nor able for to govern because of your own demerits (as it is more fully declared therein), they therefore thought that it was reasonable and cause for to depose you." "Nay, nay," cried Richard, "not for any lack of power, but because my rule did not please the people." "I am but using your words, sir," answered Thirning. "Well," said Richard, smiling, "I look for no more, but, after

all this, I hope that my cousin will be good lord to me." This was the imprisoned king's last free utterance. On the 27th he was condemned by the Lords and Council to perpetual imprisonment, and two days after sent from the Tower to Pomfret. His after fate is as yet unknown.

Richard was ruined, as William Langland says, by redelessness, or lack of good counsel. He was not an idle trifler, like Edward II., nor a shiftless spendthrift, like Henry III.; but a singularly gifted man, handsome, brave, generous, intelligent, merciful, and able to act boldly and quickly when he chose. His path was never free from difficulty and danger, family quarrels, foreign hatred, and English discontent, a heritage of trouble that came to him with his crown; but he was on the verge of safety when he ruined himself by two or three false steps taken in the interest of his friends, rather than of himself or his people. He was ill-advised when, for the sake of peace, he let the irritating misdeeds of his brothers, his officers, and his guard go unpunished; ill-advised when, out of love for art, splendor, and a fair life, he kept up a grand court, and was the patron of poets, painters, and architects, though he knew that his people grudged spending money on any thing but war; ill-advised when, impatient at the ceaseless falsehood and plots of his kinsmen, he used haughty language, and spoke of his royal rights as above the law; and still more ill-advised when he tried to govern well without consulting the likes and dislikes of the people he had to rule, banishing their favorites, breaking down their privileges, mocking at their cherished beliefs, and overriding the rights to which they clung. But Richard was no brutal or heartless tyrant, and if his luck had not left him, he might have put away the follies, set right the mistakes into which his youth and his young counselors had led him, and so reigned more happily than his supplanter. However, he had had his chance and failed, and the English people, perhaps rightly, would not give him another, though he had a few warm

friends who could not forget his fair face and open hand, and pitied his fate.

[The reign of Henry IV., the first of the Lancastrian kings, was a constant struggle against treason and revolt. His son, Henry V., strong in his position at home, renewed the old quarrel with France. In 1415 he landed with an army in Normandy, captured Harfleur, after a hard siege, and then marched to Calais. On his way thither he encountered and overthrew the French army at Azincourt.]

ON Thursday evening, October 24, the English were encamped in and around the little village of Maisoncelle; the French lay in the open fields near the village of Azincourt, through which ran the road to Calais. The night was cold, dark, and rainy. The French, with feet in the mud, and bodies exposed to the rain, gathered around large fires which had been built near the banners of their chiefs, and awaited the tardy coming of an autumnal dawn. Among them there was a great noise of pages, varlets, and "all sorts of fellows," calling and shouting; "but they had few musical instruments to cheer them, and few of the horses neighed during the night, a fact which many marveled at, and thought full of omen. The English, on the other hand, though weary, hungry, and cold, kept their trumpets and various musical instruments sounding all night long, so that the whole region round about was filled with the noise; and they made their peace with God, confessing their sins with tears, and many partaking of

the sacrament, for they expected certain death on the morrow." But not a shout, not a useless word, was heard among them; the men-at-arms refitted the lacings of their armor, and the archers put new strings to their bows.

At length morning dawned. The French army drew up on the narrow plain of Azincourt, in three deep lines of battle, each directly behind the other, so that neither could render the others any assistance. The little English army presented a front of equal extent to this great multitude, which gained no advantage from the depth of its lines. Nearly all the princes, lords, and great nobles had insisted on placing themselves in the advance-guard, sending to the rear the infantry, the bowmen, and probably the artillery also, as there is no mention of it during the day. Eight thousand gentlemen, magnificently arrayed, pressed into the front line of battle, with the constable, the dukes of Orleans and Bourbon, the counts of Eu and Richemont, and the Marshal Boucicaut, grand-master of the cross-bowmen. Five hundred of these eight thousand nobles, including the duke of Orleans and the count of Nevers, had had themselves invested with knighthood the preceding day. The dukes of Alençon and Bar, and the count of Nevers had very reluctantly consented to take command of the second line; the rear-guard had been intrusted to the counts of Dammartin, Marle, and Fauquemberg; but these noblemen and their followers immediately abandoned their posts, and, rushing on, helped to encumber the advance-guard. With the exception of the two wings, each composed of several hundred lancers, and destined to strike" the English archers and "break their fire," all the men-at-arms of the first two lines had dismounted, and had shortened their lances so as to fight on foot. These warriors, heavily armed as they were, sank half-way to the knee in the freshly-plowed ground, which was soaked with rain, and had been trampled into mud by the horses during the night. They could not move, and so resolved, instead of

attacking the enemy, to await his attack. A vague feeling of sadness spread through the ranks; affecting scenes took place. Gentlemen "pardoned each other for the hatreds they had cherished, many embraced and made peace, which was a touching sight to see." The solemnity of the situation awakened kindly feelings in the souls of even these men, steeped, as they were, in pride and sensuality; they became serious in the presence of death.

The English had arrayed themselves by placing the mass of their archers in front; behind these came the men-at-arms on foot, and on the wings were men-at-arms and bowmen intermingled. The archers were protected by a movable palisade, each man carrying a stake sharpened at both ends, which he fixed in the ground in front of him, with the point inclined toward the enemy. The English presented a strange contrast to the French nobles, who were all resplendent in their steel breast-plates, and their coats of mail, embroidered with gold and silver, and variegated with brilliant colors. The archers had suffered so much in this campaign that they looked like a troop of vagabonds and beggars; many of them were barefoot and without helmets; others had head-pieces of waxed leather or of willow, guarded only by a cross-piece of iron, and most of them were without mailed doublets; but they were all the more active for fighting on this muddy and slippery ground, and though their "jackets" were wornout, and their breeches in tatters, their weapons were in good condition, as they speedily proved.

King Henry had begun the day by hearing three masses in succession; then he put on his helmet, surmounted by a crown of gold, mounted a charger, and ordered his men forward into a field of young grain, where the soil was less soaked than elsewhere. He rode along the lines, and reminded them of the "fine affairs which the kings, his predecessors, had won over the French. . . . Moreover he told them that the French boasted they would take all the archers prisoners, and