rehend
neither the vast truths of life nor the grandeur of ideal art, and
who ask from poet or narrator the poor and petty morality of "Poetical
Justice,"--a justice existing not in our work-day world; a justice
existing not in the sombre page of history; a justice existing not
in the loftier conceptions of men whose genius has grappled with the
enigmas which art and poetry only can foreshadow and divine,--unknown
to us in the street and the market, unknown to us on the scaffold of the
patriot or amidst the flames of the martyr, unknown to us in the Lear
and the Hamlet, in the Agamemnon and the Prometheus. Millions upon
millions, ages upon ages, are entered but as items in the vast account
in which the recording angel sums up the unerring justice of God to man.

Raw, cold, and dismal dawned the morning of the fourteenth of April. And
on that very day Margaret and her son, and the wife and daughter of Lord
Warwick, landed, at last, on the shores of England. [Margaret landed at
Weymouth; Lady Warwick, at Portsmouth.] Come they for joy or for woe,
for victory or despair? The issue of this day's fight on the heath of
Gladsmoor will decide. Prank thy halls, O Westminster, for the triumph
of the Lancastrian king,--or open thou, O Grave, to receive the
saint-like Henry and his noble son. The king-maker goes before ye,
saint-like father and noble son, to prepare your thrones amongst the
living or your mansions amongst the dead!

CHAPTER IV. THE BATTLE.

Raw, cold, and dismal dawned the morning of the fourteenth of April. The
heavy mist still covered both armies, but their hum and stir was already
heard through the gloaming,--the neighing of steeds, and the clangour
of mail. Occasionally a movement of either force made dim forms, seeming
gigantic through the vapour, indistinctly visible to the antagonistic
army; and there was something ghastly and unearthlike in these ominous
shapes, suddenly seen, and suddenly vanishing, amidst the sullen
atmosphere. By this time, Warwick had discovered the mistake of his
gunners; for, to the right of the earl, the silence of the Yorkists was
still unbroken, while abruptly, from the thick gloom to the left, broke
the hoarse mutter and low growl of the awakening war. Not a moment was
lost by the earl in repairing the error of the night: his artillery
wheeled rapidly from the right wing, and, sudden as a storm of
lightning, the fire from the cannon flashed through the dun and heavy
vapou