bushy pyramid of her auburn hair. John Blagrove, the mathematician, whose cloaked and ruffed effigy in this church still grasps the typical globe and quadrant, left a strange legacy for the encouragement of Reading maidservants. The churchwardens of the three parishes were every year to choose so many maidservants of five years' standing, who were to meet and throw dice for a purse of ten pounds on Good Friday. "Lucky money," says Ashmole, "for I never yet heard of a maid who got the ten pounds but soon after found a good husband."
Quick-beating wings bear the crow to Newbury, where the fame of Jack of Newbury invites him to a moment's rest on some house-roof of the quiet solid-looking town by the swift Kennet. Immortal Jack was a poor clothier, who, by prudence and industry, contrived at last to set a hundred looms at work. When the Scotch invaded England, in Henry the Eighth's reign, Jack's quota of defence was four pikemen and two horsemen; but his generous heart disdained so poor a levy, and he marched northward, followed by fifty tall horsemen and fifty footmen, well armed and better clothed than any. If he ever reached Flodden, Jack no doubt did good service there against the Scottish spears. When the king returned to England, he went to see the brave clothier, and was splendidly feasted by Jack, who sensibly refused the invidious honour of knighthood. This worthy man's best work was carrying to a conclusion a commercial treaty with France and the low countries, which Wolsey for a long time thwarted, suspecting Jack of Lutheran principles. But Jack was bold, and said: "If my Lord Chancellor's father had been no faster in killing calves than my Lord Chancellor is in despatching of poor men's suits, I think he would never have worn a mitre." Jack is the hero of Newbury: an incitement to poor men's sons for century after century: a ceaseless source of good and blessing to the Berkshire town.
The reformers were much persecuted at Newbury. Three martyrs were burnt at the sand pits, a quarter of a mile from the town. When they came to the stake they fell to the ground. Palmer, one of them, a fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford, repeated the thirty-first Psalm, and then all rose and kissed the stake. When Palmer warned the Newbury people of Popish practices, a brutal bailiff's servant flung a fagot, and struck him in the face. The sheriff broke the rascal's head for it, calling him a cruel tormentor. When the quick flames began to dart upward, the three martyrs held up their hands to Heaven, and crying, "Lord Jesus strengthen us!" died peaceably.
In the civil war, Newbury was the scene of two hot battles. In the first, the cavalier officers fought in their shirts, not waiting to put on their doublets before they took horse. Essex's men wore branches of fern and thorn in their hats. The London train-bands held very firm at Newbury Marsh, though Prince Rupert charged them with the war cry of "Queen Mary in the field!" Six thousand men were left upon the ground. Eventually, after six hours' fighting, Essex retired to Reading, Prince Rupert cutting his rear guard to pieces as it got entangled in Dead Man's-lane, near Theale. That same night sixty cartloads of slain were brought into Newbury, including the blameless Falkland, the cavalier "sans peur et sans reproche," who had predicted his own death. A poplar still marks the spot where he fell. The young Earl of Carnarvon, who led the cavalry, was brought back to Newbury thrown across a horse "like a dead calf." The second battle was in 1644. Charles was on his way to relieve Donnington Castle. Manchester's army first attacked Shaw House, while Waller, crossing the Lambourn, seized Speen—a suburban village—and attacked the king's horse. The Puritans advanced on Shaw House, singing psalms. Colonel Lisle, unarmed and in his Holland shirt, chased them bravely, shouting, "For the Crown!" "For Prince Charles!" "For the Duke of York!" while the bullets stormed on them from the windows and parapets of the manor house. Cloud after cloud of pikemen gave way before the cavalier charges. From that stately old red brick Elizabethan house, which the crow still sees surrounded by old-fashioned gardens, the cavaliers shouted approval of brave Colonel Lisle and his deeds. At last the king's men drew off to Donnington, and thence to Oxford on a fine moonlight night: sullenly leaving the church where Jack of Newbury lies buried and the market house which contains his son's portrait.
One waft of the wing brings the crow to Donnington, to that fine old ruin falsely supposed to be the castle given to Chaucer by John of Gaunt. It did, however, really belong to the poet's grand-daughter, Alice, and the great oaks in the park were probably planted by Thomas Chaucer, the poet's son. This castle is the spot held so bravely for the king by Colonel Boys, who being told of three of the towers being down, and that the Puritans would give no quarter, and would not leave one stone upon another, exclaimed, like a brave cavalier as he was: "That he was not bound to repair the castle, but, by God's help, he would keep the ground for the king."
Now, fast towards Wiltshire and the broad downs, where the wind blows free as over the ocean, the crow speeds its flight.
Fatal Zero.
A Diary Kept at Homburg: A Short Serial Story.
Chapter IX.
Friday.—Just returned from Frankfort. Such a charming old town, refreshing to see in its reverend innocence and hoariness, after the flaunting garishness of that new and wicked spot. I saw the merchant, who received me very graciously, and had lunch ready. After it was over we talked of business, and he began by saying that he
