children of God. The highest angels are not exempted from this service, nor the lowest saints excluded from the benefit of it.

The angel told Zacharias, "I am Gabriel, that stand in the presence of God." It implies his prepared disposition to receive and perform all his commands. It is said, "they hearken to the voice of his word:" the first signification of his will puts them in motion. They entirely obey him; there is no alloy, no mixture of contraries, in their principles, nothing suspends or breaks the entireness of their activity in God's service. They obey him with all their powers, and the utmost efficacy of them. It is said, “He maketh his angels spirits, his ministers a flame of fire," to signify their celerity and vigour in doing God's will. They fly like the wind, to rescue the saints from imminent destructive evils; and, like a flame of fire, are quick and terrible to consume the wicked. They fully perform his commands. The two angels that were sent to preserve Lot from the destruction of Sodom, while he lingered, took him by the hand, and brought him out of the city; and would not destroy it till he was safe. They freely and cheerfully obey God, esteeming his service their glory and felicity. They are styled " thrones and dominions, principalities and powers;" but they are more pleased in the title of his angels,—that is, messengers, and in the relation of his servants. They esteem it their highest exaltation and happiness to obey God. They, with as much diligence and delight, watch over the meanest saints, though never so obscure and despicable in the world, as those who are in royal dignity; because they in it obey the orders of God. They are steady and uniform in their duty, above all temptations from hopes or fears that may slacken their endeavours and unstring the bent of their resolutions in his service. There is an eternal constancy in their

obedience.

It may be said, this example is above our level in the present state; our wings are broken, we flag, and cannot reach so high a flight. We sometimes conceive more clearly, sometimes more darkly, of our duty. We are sometimes declining, sometimes reviving and returning. We do not practise obedience with the diligence that is commanded. The weakness of the flesh controls the willingness of the spirit. How should it upbraid us, that we fall so short in the imitation of angelic obedience, who are under equal, nay, peculiar obligations to please God? The grace of God in our redemption is more illustriously visible than in their creation. The goodness of God was most free in making the angels, but it is infinite mercy in saving man from extreme misery, the desert of his disobedience. The divine power made the angels, but men are redeemed by the dearest price,—the blood of the Son of God. In this God commendeth his love to us, that when we were sinners he gave his Son to die for us. Now beneficence is magnified by the principle and

motive of it. Gifts are endeared by the affection of the giver; and ingenuous thankfulness chiefly respects that. All the precious benefits and vital influences that we receive are from the dearest love of God. Supposing the angels receive as great favours from his bountiful hands; yet there is a clearer discovery of his heart, his tender and compassionate love, in our salvation. How should this consideration inspire our prayers with a holy fervour, that God would enlighten our minds, to know his holy, acceptable, and perfect will, incline us to choose it, and enable us to do it, as the angels, the most illuminate and zealous servants of God!

The scripture has lighted up excellent examples of holiness in the lives of the saints upon earth, for our direction and imitation.

There is a great advantage in looking on examples; they are more instructive than naked precepts, and more clearly convey the knowledge of our duty. A work done in our sight by another directs us better in the practice of it; it is more acceptable and of more powerful efficacy to reform us, than counsel and admonition by words. A reproof, if spoken with an imperious air wherein vanity has a visible ascendant, is heard with distaste, and often with disdain; but an excellent example is a silent reproof, not directed immediately to irregular persons, but discovering what ought to be done, and leaving the application to themselves, so that the impression is more quick and penetrating than that of words. In difficult precepts, no argument is more effectual than examples; for the possibility of performance is confirmed by instances, and the pretence of infirmity is taken away. The command binds us to duty. Examples encourage us to performance. The pattern of the angels, who are pure spirits, is not so influential upon us, as the pattern of the saints, which is more correspondent and proportionate to our present state; as the light of the stars, which are so vastly distant, is not so useful in managing our affairs, as the light of a candle that is near us. The saints are verily allied to us; they were clothed with the same frail garment of flesh, they had like passions, and were in the same contagious world; yet they were holy and heavenly in their affections and actions. They lived in civil conversation with men, and spiritual communion with God. This takes away the pretence of infirmity; for we have the same word of grace, and Spirit of grace, to strengthen us.

into his grand and pathetic historical play. In more modern times, Tyrrel, Rapin, Turner, Lingard, and other historians, have made great use of this French metrical history, quoting it as an authoritative document of an otherwise very obscure part of English history. But the manuscript itself was never published in a perfect form until the year 1824, when the Rev. John Webb enriched the twentieth volume of the Archæologia with it, together with an admirable English translation in prose, and copious explanatory notes. From this translation, which, with the foot notes, occupies two hundred and forty pages of a quarto volume, we will select a few passages, which relate more immediately and personally to the ill-fated Richard.

Richard's expedition to Ireland, in the summer of 1399, opened the way into England to the exiled Henry Bolingbroke. Our French knight accompanied the king to Ireland, and wrote an account of the short but difficult campaign in that country. He was with Richard at Dublin when the fatal news was brought to him that Bolingbroke had landed on the English coast, that the Archbishop of Canterbury had publicly preached a sermon in his favour, and that the great body of the nobility, as well ecclesiastic as lay, had joined him. He describes how the king's face turned pale thereat, and how many of the nobles with him treacherously detained him in Ireland for many weeks, with the view of facilitating the progress of Bolingbroke. He heartily sympathizes with Richard, and still more heartily curses his rivals and the nobility and people of England, like one that has forgotten or that has never known the enormous faults and errors of the sovereign. Yet he honestly confesses that his partiality is owing in good part to Richard's fondness for Frenchmen. He says:

'I sincerely loved him, because he heartily loved the French; and besides, he was humble, generous, gentle, and courteous in all his doings. He gave most largely, and his gifts were profitable. Bold he was, and courageous as a lion. Right well and beautifully did he also make ballads, songs, roundels, and lays. Though he was but a layman, so gracious were all his deeds, that never, I think, shall that man issue from his country in whom God hath implanted so much worth as was in him."

At last Richard reached Milford Haven. But before he landed, a great army which had gathered in Wales for his service was either disbanded or won over to Bolingbroke. In this great fear he disguised himself like a poor Franciscan friar, and set out at midnight from his host, attended by only a few persons, of whom our Frenchman was one. He travelled hard all night, and reached Conway by break of day. There he learned that his enemies had reported him to be dead, and that wellnigh all was already lost. He uttered many pious ejaculations; but he knew not what course to take. At length he resolved to send the Duke

of Exeter and the Earl of Surrey to tell Henry of Bolingbroke that he was doing much amiss, but that he, the rightful King of England, would pardon him and reinstate him in all his honours and lands, if he would but desist. Henry, who was at Chester, made Exeter and Surrey his prisoners. Upon receiving this intelligence, the king, who had "continued all sorrowful at Conway," with his intimate friends, "all sad and distressed," went straight to Beaumaris. There was a strong castle there that could not have been taken in ten years, if it had only been victualled and furnished with a sufficient and faithful garrison. But there were provisions in none of the king's castles in these parts, and there was fidelity and affection to him in no place whatsoever. Not being able to stay at Beaumaris he went to Caernarvon Castle, which he found totally unfurnished.

"In all his castles to which he retired, there was no furniture, nor had he anything to lie down upon but straw. Really he lay in this manner for four or six nights, as, in truth, not a farthing's worth of victuals or of anything else was to be found in them. Certes, I dare not tell the great misery of the king."

Richard returned to Conway, where he greatly bewailed his young absent wife, who, by this time, was in the hands of the Bolingbroke party. He also bewailed that he was by day and by night in danger of bitter and certain death. While he was lying at Conway, doing nothing but bewailing his hard fate, the Earl of Northumberland waited upon him from Duke Henry, who prevailed upon him to put himself in his hands, and trust to the decisions of the English parliament, the earl, it is said, swearing upon the eucharist that no harm should befall him. Richard quitted Conway-where he certainly could not have stayed much longer-and soon found that he was a prisoner, for the Earl of Northumberland had placed a numerous body of troops in ambuscade on one of the mountain-passes.

Then

"When the king beheld them he was greatly astonished, saying, 'I am betrayed! What can this be? Lord of Heaven help me!' were they made known by their banners, that might be seen floating. And then were all in bitter dread. I could have wished myself at that time back in France. There did the king demean himself so very sorrowfully, that it was pity to behold."

The Earl of Northumberland told him that he must carry him to Duke Henry; and they rode away together towards the Castle of Flint, the king still wearing the cowl and dress of a monk.

"And now," says our metrical chronicler, "I shall treat of the afflictions and sorrows of King Richard in the Castle of Flint, where he awaited the coming of the Duke of Lancaster, who set out from the city of Chester on Tuesday the 22nd day of August, in the year of the incarnation of our Lord 1399, with the whole of his force, which I heard