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and the unfortunate Prince Edward, of whom Shakspere tells,
“A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, -
The spacious world cannot again afford,” was with his mother. They had led the army to Gloucester, with the intention of attacking and taking that place. The energy of Edward the IV., however, prevented them; and so on the second of May, "about foure of the clocke in the afternoone, they came to Teukesburie, having travelled that night last past, and that daie, six and thirtie long miles, in a foule countrie, all in lanes and stonie waies, betwixt woods, without anie good refreshing, so that as well the men as the horsses were right wearie.” We have seen from the chronicler in what place this overworked and weary body fixed their encampment. The Yorkists were as eager in pursuit, and Holinshed continues, " The king
“ The king on this fridaie, verie erlie in the morning, advanced his standards and in good order of battell, having divided his armie into three wards, marched through the plaines of Cotteswold. The daie was verie hot, and having in his armie above three thousand footmen, he travelled with them and the residue thirtie miles and more. By all which waie they could find neither horssemeat, nor man's meat, no not so much as water for their horsses, except one little brooke, of the which they received no great releefe; for what with the horsses and carriages that passed through it, the water became so troubled that it served them to no use; and still all that daie King Edward with his armie was within five or six miles of his enimies, he in the plaine countrie, and they among the woods."
The issue of this great battle is well known. The Lancasterians were completely beaten, and a fierce pursuit and savage slaughter was made by the Yorkists. Somerset was outmancuvred; and in his
1 fury,“ finding the Lord Wenlocke standing still, with his axe he stroke the braines out of his head.”
As was usual in all the wars of the Roses the nobility suffered very severely. The poor prince was afterwards made prisoner and shamefully assassinated by the royal brothers of the House of York; the Duke of Somerset and other noblemen were executed ; Queen Margaret was captured, and afterwards ransomed by her father; and for a time the house of York kept the throne of England. Such were the issues of the battle of Tewkesbury.
What a contrast was this day in the May of 1471 to this day in the May of 1858! Now these fields, then saturated with the blood of Englishmen, by Englishmen shed, are covered with grazing kine and sheep; with all the marks and evidences of peace, civilization, and comfort. The river whose waters were then dyed with the blood which flowed down its banks, now murmurs along, singing the sweet song of delight, and scattering blessings as it flows. Lovers are quietly strolling about breathing the old, old, but never wearying tale, on the very spot where brother was slain by brother's hands,
and where, perhaps, the son fell beneath the swordstroke of him to whom he owed his birth. Now every thing is calm, beautiful, and joyous; and we, rambling over one of the great battle-fields of our land, can listen to the voice of Drayton, and feel with him, and sing with him :“But Saltwarpe down from Nych his nimble feet doth ply, Great Severn to attend along to Teuksbury, With others to partake the joy that there is seen, When beauteous Avon comes unto her sovereign queen. Here down from Eusham’s vale, their greatness to attend, Comes Swilliat sweeping in, which Cotswold Down doth send: And Garran there arrives, the great recourse to see. Where thus together met with most delightful glee, The cheerful nymphs that haunt the valley rank and low (Where full Pomona seems most plenteously to flow, And with her fruitery swells by Pershore, in her pride,) Amongst the batful meads on Severn's either side, To these their confnent floods, full bowls of perry brought; Where to each other's health past many a deep-fetch'd draught, And many a sound carouse from friend to friend doth go.” With such a sound “ carouse
may all be enabled to indulge who visit the now lovely, peaceful, and smiling, but once, alas! “Tewkesbury's
Tewkesbury's bloody fields ! ”
A PILGRIMAGE TO ENGLAND'S MECCA.
EVERY nation has its holy place; some spot made sacred by its associations with some great or pious soul, who has blessed the world by his life and labours. Even sober, Protestant England boasts at least one place, one Loretto shrine, to which thousands on thousands, not only of the children of her own fair land, but of every country in Europe, and from the shores of the New World, have wended their
way, if not with “sandalled shoon and scallop shell ;" yet in the spirit of love, of reverence, and gratitude, they have journeyed to testify how perennial is the feeling which inspired the palmers and pilgrims of old; and for ever, under every variety of worship, form, and fashion, men will pay homage where homage is due. Participating in this tendency of mankind, we lately turned our wandering steps to England's great shrine,-going in pious pilgrimage to our own Mecca,—the birth-place and grave of WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.
It was a fine August morning when we proceeded by rail to Warwick, whence we intended walking to Stratford. It was a most delightful ramble. The scenery was peculiarly English. Fine large wheatfields, in which the many-coloured ears waving and bending beneath the influence of the wind, made a sea of beauty; pleasant copses afforded frequent shelter to rest-seeking wayfarers; the pleasant undulations of the land, and the sylvan character of the whole so thoroughly Warwickshire, caused continual expressions of joy and admiration almost unconsciously to escape from us. At many a field-gate did we pause, and spent many moments in contemplating the richness and the beauty of the scenery by which we were surrounded. It was pleasant to speculate how the country appeared in Shakspere's time; and how often he might have rambled over the same ground, paused at the same places, admired the same views, treasured up some image of grace and loveliness, and carefully stored in the chambers of his rich and wonderful brain some picture of rural life, to be written down for the world's gratification and joy. As he looked on the fair face of his own noble county, he too must have felt, as we did on the memorable morning, a just and worthy pride in his fatherland; glorious to all its children, and still more glorious from the fact, that Shakspeare was one of its sons.
From Warwick to Stratford, there are two ways at the choice of travellers. One is the usual turnpike road, which we took; the other, through Charlecote Park, the possession of a descendant of that Lucy whom the poet has handed down to posterity, in the character of Justice Shallow. On a second visit we took this road; and we advise all who go to Stratford, to make more than one pilgrimage, in order to have the same