being slowly, but surely, knocked to, pieces. We were fighting the Dutch very hotly indeed in these same waters not long afterwards, but they were serving us astonishingly well now. Lord Henry Seymour, cruising on the coast of Flanders, was nobly supported by Count Nassau. The business of checkmating the Duke of Parma was intrusted to the sturdy broadbeamed Hans Butterboxes, as Charles II. loved to call the Dutch, and with the characteristic thoroughness of that plodding and much-to-be-admired people was that obligation fulfilled. In truth, the duke's people were so honestly terrified by the sight of the Holland and Zealand ships that day and night the business of desertion proceeded as regularly as the ebb of the tide. The spectacle of the flat-bottomed boats was too much for the disheartened creatures. How on earth were they to break through those floating batteries, lying yonder under the shadow of the horizontal tricolor in fabrics as flat as spoons, and as ungovernable as a barge adrift on a running river? So they wisely took to their heels, and we hear no more of them. Meanwhile, the English continued to pound the Spaniard with their great ordnance and flaming missiles. The Dons retorted handsomely, but their shots flew so high that our Jacks might have imagined they were bombarding the heavens. It was a dead calm on the 24th; the towering vessels lay lifeless, slewing slowly to every compass point with the fingering of the tide, and the reflection of their shining canvas lay under each bristling hull in a waving sheet of silver. But the enemy had four great galleasses, with an army of slaves for the multitudinous oars of each of them, and these craft, heavily armed, and crowded with fighting men, made for the Queen's ships, but without the least result, saving that they, on their part, were most cruelly mauled by the chain shot our demi-cannon hurled at them. Day after day was this great fight waged, slowly rolling up Channel, and there was no point of British coast from Bolt Head to Dungeness that did not echo the thunder of the contending fleets. To follow the conflict in its close details would demand such space as cannot be afforded here. There was a terrible fight on the 25th, the ships being abreast of the Isle of Wight, when the "Lyon" (Captain Lord Thomas Howard), the "Elizabeth Jones" (Captain Sir Robert Southwell), the "Bear" (Captain Lord Sheffield), the "Victory" (Captain Barker), and the galleon "Leicester" (Captain George Fenner) sheared desperately into the very heart of the Spanish fleet, engaging the enormous carracks within a hundred yards, firing so rapidly that their broadsides were like volcanic upheavals, flame after flame with scarce an intermission, until the tormented Spaniards tailed on to their topsail halyards to compact their timber castles into an impenetrable front. It was on this occasion that Master John Hawkins and honest Captain Frobisher were with others rewarded by the Lord High Admiral with the order of knighthood. That same day the false ironical rumor spread like wildfire from sea to land that the Spaniards had conquered England! On the 27th the Spaniards at sunset had hauled into Calais Roads and let go their anchors, intending presently to push on for Dunkirk, where — for they were still buoyed up by vain hopes - they believed the forces of the Duke of Parma would join them. It was now that Lord Henry Seymour united his little fleet with that of the Lord High Admiral; and it was on this day that the noble Howard was directed by letters from her Majesty the Queen to drive the Spanish fleet from Calais. The Sovereign knew her sailors, and was fearless in the instructions she gave them. Thereupon, the next day being Sunday that is to say, at two o'clock on Sunday morning-the night being dark, and an inshore wind blowing dead upon the Spanish fleet along with a strong wash of tide, the Lord Admiral of England let slip some fire ships in charge of two bold captains, Young and Prowse. They drove accurately into the thick of the Don, blazing wildly, vomiting shot the while from heavy cannon which had been loaded to the muzzles. It is the wildest of all the scenes of this mighty show: sky and sea lighted up for leagues by the high and writhing flames of the fire ships, with the yellow-tinctured phantasms of near and distant Spanish galleons hurriedly and confusedly getting under way, cutting their hemp cables, toiling at brace and halyard, with the wild and agitated shouts and cries of the armies of soldiers, mariners, slaves, and priests rolling shorewards upon the damp night wind, with a sound as of sullen moaning of breakers. But the end was not yet, though near at hand. A great galleass stranded, and the English made for her, but were driven from their prey by the heavy ordnance of the Calais batteries. There was another desperate fight on the 29th, off Gravelines, and it is impossible to follow even three hundred years later the superb seamanship of the English on this occasion without something of those emotions of triumph and pride which must have swelled the hearts of the contemporaries of Drake and Frobisher. Three great Spanish ships were sunk, two big Portuguese galleons abandoned; and vast mischief in other ways done to the Don. And now still on this same 29th we witness the Spaniards running, with the English in full pursuit. The cloths they spread were warrant enough that their stomach was gone, and that they had had enough. Lord Henry Seymour with his squadron clung to the coast of Flanders to held the Duke of Parma idle, whilst Lord Charles Howard pursued the Spaniards into the North Sea, to as high as 57 degrees of latitude. He then quietly shifted his helm for home, making little doubt that the Norwegian and Hebridean surge, with the weather of Cape Wrath and the bewildering navigation of the islands round about, would effectually complete the work he and his hearts of oak had begun. No schoolboy but knows what follows: how there came on to blow a succession of heavy gales, which drove upwards of thirty ships ashore on the Irish coast, with the loss of many thousands of men; how of all that Invincible Armada, twenty-five vessels only, with the Duke of Medina Sidonia aboard one of them, yet alive to relate the incredible tale of disaster, succeeded in making the Bay of Biscay; how many large ships were lost upon the Western Isles and upon the coast of Argyleshire. The story is old indeed, but the occurrence of its anniversary renders even an insufficient reference to it a justifiable expression of patriotic pride. It is a marine pageant fitly, nobly, gloriously closed by that quaint old spectacle of queenly, national, and civic thanksgiving, to the sight of which we are admitted by the grace and diligence of the old chroniclers. “Likewise the Queenes Maiesty herself, imitating the ancient Romans, rode into London in triumph, in regard of her own and her subjects glorious deliverance. For being attended upon very solemnly by all the principal estates and officers of her Realme, she was carried thorow her said Citie of London in a triumphant chariot, and in robes of triumph, and from her Palace into the Cathedrall Church of Saint Paul, out of which the ensigns and colours of the vanquished Spaniards hung displayed. And all the Citizens of London in their Liveries stood on either side of the streets, by their seurall Companies, with their Ensigns and Banners; and the streets were hanged on both sides with blew cloath, which, together with the foresaid Banners, yielded a very stately and gallant prospect. Her Maiesty being entered into the church, together with her Clergy and Nobles, gave thanks unto God, and caused a publike Sermon to be preached before her at Pauls Crosse; wherein none other argument was handled, but that praise, honour, and glory might be rendered unto God; and that God's name might be extolled by thanksgiving. And with her own Pryncely voyce she most Christianly exhorted the people to do the same: whereupon the people with a loud acclamation wished her a most long and happy life, to the confusion of her foes." ULYSSES AND THE SIREN. BY SAMUEL DANIEL. [1562-1619.] Siren. COME Worthy Greek, Ulysses, come, Enjoy the day in mirth the while, Ulysses. Fair nymph, if fame or honor were Then would I come and rest with thee, And leave such toils as these. But here it dwells, and here must I With danger seek it forth, To spend the time luxuriously Siren. Ulysses, O be not deceived With that unreal name, Begotten only to molest Our peace, and to beguile, The best thing of our life, our rest, Ulysses. Delicious nymph, suppose there were Yet manliness would scorn to wear For toil doth give a better touch To make us feel our joy, And ease finds tediousness as much Siren. Then pleasure likewise seems the shore And perish oft the while. Find never tedious day, Ulysses. But natures of the noblest frame And with the thoughts of actions past Are recreated still: When pleasure leaves a touch at last To show that it was ill. Siren. That doth opinion only cause, |