the privilege of touching his
hand. The young prince looked his best; the hereditary melancholy
which cast its shadow over the faces of all the Stuarts was for the
moment dissipated. Flushed with easy triumph, popular applause, and
growing hope, the young prince entered the palace of his ancestors like
a king returning to his own. James Hepburn of Keith, with drawn sword,
led the way; beautiful women distributed white cockades to enraptured
Jacobites; the stateliest chivalry of Scotland made obeisance to its
rightful prince. The intoxicating day ended with a great ball at the
palace, at which the youthful grace of Charles Stuart confirmed the
charm that already belonged to the adventurous and victorious Prince of
Wales. September 17, 1745, was one of the brightest days in the Stuart
calendar.

The conquest of Edinburgh was but the prelude to greater glories. Cope
was rallying his forces at Dunbar--was marching to the relief of
Edinburgh. Charles, acting on the advice of his generals, marched out
to meet him. Cope's capacity for blundering was by no means exhausted.
He affected a contemptuous disregard for his foes, delayed attack in
defiance of the advice of his wisest generals, was taken unawares in
the gray morning of the 21st at Prestonpans, and routed completely and
ignominiously in five minutes.

[Sidenote: 1745--Bore the news of his own defeat]

Seldom has it been the misfortune of an English general to experience
so thorough, so humiliating a defeat. The wild charges of the Highland
men broke up the ordered ranks of the English troops in hopeless
confusion; almost all the infantry was cut to pieces, and the cavalry
{215} escaped only by desperate flight. Cope's dragoons were
accustomed to flight by this time; the clatter of their horses' hoofs
as they cantered from Coltbrigg was still in their cars, and as they
once again tore in shameless flight up the Edinburgh High Street they
might well have reflected upon the rapidity with which such experiences
repeated themselves. General Preston of the Castle refused to admit
the cowards within his gate, so there was nothing for them but to turn
their horses' heads again and spur off into the west country. As for
Cope, he managed to collect some ragged remnant of his ruined army
about him, and to make off with all speed to Berwick, where he was
received by Lord Mark Ker with the scornful assurance that he was the
first commander-in-chief in Europe who had