but the cowards tremble, as men who are sore dismayed. The Normans press on the assault, and the English defend their post well; they pierce the hauberks and cleave the shields; receive and return mighty blows. Again some press forwards, others yield, and thus in various ways the struggle pro

ceeds."

The death of Harold's two brothers is depicted, and, finally, his own. It is said that his mother offered the weight of the body in gold to have the melancholy satisfaction of interring it, and that the Conqueror refused the boon. But other writers affirm, and apparently with truth, that William immediately transmitted the body, unransomed, to the bereaved parent, who had it interred in the monastery of Waltham.

With the death of Harold the tapestry now ends, though some writers think it probable that it once extended as far as the coronation of William. There can be little doubt of its having been intended to extend so far, though it is impossible now to ascertain whether the Queen was ever enabled quite to complete her Herculean task. Enough there is, however, to stamp it as one of the "most noble and interesting relics of antiquity;" and, as Dibdin calls it, "an exceedingly curious document of the conjugal attachment, and even enthusiastic veneration of Matilda, and a political record of more weight than may at first sight appear to belong to it." Taking it altogether, he adds, "none but itself could be its parallel."

Almost all historians describe the Normans as advancing to the onset "singing the song of Ro

land," that is, a detail of the achievements of the slaughtered hero of Roncesvalles, which is well known to have been, for ages after the event to which it refers, a note of magical inspiration to deeds of "derring do." On this occasion it is recorded that the spirit note was sung by the minstrel Taillefer, who was, however, little contented to lead his countrymen by voice alone. It is not possible that our readers can be otherwise than pleased with the following animated account of his deeds: *

THE ONSET OF TAILLEFER.

"Foremost in the bands of France,

Arm'd with hauberk and with lance,
And helmet glittering in the air,
As if a warrior-knight he were,
Rushed forth the minstrel Taillefer-
Borne on his courser swift and strong,
He gaily bounded o'er the plain,
And raised the heart-inspiring song
(Loud echoed by the warlike throng)

Of Roland and of Charlemagne,
Of Oliver, brave peer of old,

Untaught to fly, unknown to yield,
And many a knight and vassal bold,
Whose hallowed blood, in crimson flood,
Dyed Roncesvalles' field.

"Harold's host he soon descried,

Clustering on the hill's steep side:
Then turned him back brave Taillefer,
And thus to William urged his prayer :

'Great Sire, it fits me not to tell

'How long I've served you, or how well;
'Yet if reward my lays may claim,
'Grant now the boon I dare to name;

'Minstrel no more, be mine the blow
'That first shall strike yon perjured foe.'

* By Thomas Amyot, Esq., F.S.A.—Archæol., vol. xix.

'Thy suit is gained,' the Duke replied, 'Our gallant minstrel be our guide.'

Enough,' he cried, with joy I speed, 'Foremost to vanquish or to bleed.'

"And still of Roland's deeds he sung, While Norman shouts responsive rung, As high in air his lance he flung,

With well directed might;

Back came the lance into his hand,
Like urchin's ball, or juggler's wand,
And twice again, at his command,

Whirled its unerring flight.—
While doubting whether skill or charm
Had thus inspired the minstrel's arm,
The Saxons saw the wondrous dart
Fixed in their standard bearer's heart.

"Now thrice aloft his sword he threw,

'Midst sparkling sunbeams dancing, And downward thrice the weapon flew, Like meteor o'er the evening dew,

From summer sky swift glancing:
And while amazement gasped for breath,
Another Saxon groaned in death.

"More wonders yet!-on signal made,

With mane erect, and eye-balls flashing,
The well taught courser rears his head,
His teeth in ravenous fury gnashing;
He snorts-he foams-and upward springs-
Plunging he fastens on the foe,
And down his writhing victim flings,

Crushed by the wily minstrel's blow.
Thus seems it to the hostile band
Enchantment all, and fairy land.

Yet still he beckoned to the field,

Frenchman, come on-the Saxons yield

'Strike quick-strike home-in Roland's name—
'For William's glory-Harold's shame.'

Then pierced with wounds, stretched side by side,
The minstrel and his courser died."

We have dwelt on the details of the tapestry with a prolixity which some may deem tedious. Yet surely the subject is worthy of it; for, in the first place, it is the oldest piece of needlework in the world-the only piece of that era now existing; and this circumstance in itself suggests many interesting ideas, on which, did our space permit, we could readily dilate. Ages have rolled away; and the fair hands that wrought this work have mouldered away into dust; and the gentle and affectionate spirit that suggested this elaborate memorial has long since passed from the scene which it adorned and dignified. In no long period after the battle thus commemorated, an abbey, consecrated to praise and prayer, raised its stately walls on the very field that was ploughed with the strife and watered with the blood of fierce and evil men. The air that erst rang with the sounds of wrath, of strife, of warfare, the clangour of armour, the din of war, was now made musical with the chorus of praise, or was gently stirred by the breath of prayer or the sigh of penitence; and where contending hosts were marshalled in proud array, or the phalanx rushed impetuous to the battle, were seen the stoled monks in solemn procession, or the holy brother peacefully wending on his errand of charity.

But the grey and time-honoured walls waxed aged as they beheld generation after generation

consigned to dust beneath their shelter. Time and change have done their worst. A few scattered ruins, seen dimly through the mist of years, are all that remain to point to the inquiring wanderer the site of the stupendous struggle of which the results are felt even after the expiration of eight hundred

years.

These may be deemed trite reflections: still it is worthy of remark, that many of the turbulent spirits who then made earth echo with their fame would have been literally and altogether as though they never had been-for historians make little or no mention of them-were it not for the lasting monument raised to them in this tapestry by woman's industry and skill.

Matilda the Queen's character is pictured in high terms by both English and Norman historians. "So very stern was her husband, and hot, that no man durst do anything against his will. He had earls in his custody who acted against his will. Bishops he hurled from their bishoprics, and abbots from their abbacies, and thanes into prison;" yet it is recorded that even his iron temper was not proof against the good sense, the gentleness, the piety, and the affection of a wife who never offended him but once; and on this occasion there was so much to palliate and excuse her fault, proceeding as it did from a mother's yearnings towards her eldest son when he was in disgrace and sorrow, that the usually unyielding King forgave her immediately. She lived beloved, and she died lamented; and, from the time of her death, the King, says William of Malmsbury, "refrained from every gratification."