escaped with life. The Sire de Renesse fought like a lion; once he was so closely hemmed in by a crowd of knights that his men lost sight of him, but he came safe and sound from the fearful mêlée. William of Juliers was so harassed with fatigue that the blood flowed from his nostrils like water, and one of his squires, John, surnamed the Fleming, who perceived his state, in order to give him time to rest, tore off his surcoat, and throwing it over his shoulders rushed into the midst of the fight, shouting the war-cry of his lord. So cruel a fight and such dreadful slaughter were perhaps never seen. Jean Ferrand, the standard-bearer of Count William, was four times borne to the ground, but though seriously wounded, nothing could make him relinquish his banner or retire from the field.

But the body of French knights who had crossed the stream fought desperately on, and renewed the attack upon the left of Guy of Namur, with such fierceness that his men began to give ground, and fell back upon the Abbey of Groeninghe; a few amongst them even fled, some of whom in endeavouring to swim across the Lys were drowned, and others who made for the city were stopped by the Yprois who manned the ramparts, and driven back to the fight. In this moment of peril Guy of Namur put up earnest prayers to our Lady of Groeninghe for aid, and it came most effectually in the person of the gigantic Baldwin of Papenrode, who, at the head of a strong body of the men of Alost, bore down everything before the blows of his tremendous battle-axe, stained with some of the best blood in France. The Lords of Tancarville and Aspremont, the Count Jacques de Chastillon, and the Chancellor, Pierre Flotte, all fell beneath this formidable weapon.

The battle had now lasted two hours; it was already nine o'clock, and the Count d'Artois, burning with rage and shame to behold his losses, resolved himself to lead an attack at the head of a chosen body. A knight of Champagne, belonging to his suite, warned him that the stream was almost impassable from the number of dead bodies that filled it. Like one doomed, Robert would listen to no remonstrance, and driving his spurs into his courser's sides, dashed at the stream, which he cleared at a single bound; he was followed by all his train. Guy of Namur distinguished his banner, which proudly bore the lilies of France, and rushing to meet him the carnage was renewed with increased fury. The Count d'Artois urged his fiery steed through the thickest of the fray till he reached the standard of Flanders; he seized it by the shaft, and spite of the shower of blows rained on him by sword and axe, tore off a large strip. Unhappily in the struggle he lost a stirrup, but still he bore himself no less bravely, until William of Saeftingen, a lay brother of the abbey of Ter-Doest at Bruges, dealt him so heavy a blow with his club, that horse and rider reeled and fell beneath the shock. He was no sooner down than a multitude of assailants fell on him, dealing desperate wounds at every stroke, and the rash but gallant prince was compelled to cry out that he was the Count d'Artois, demanding if there were no nobleman to whom he might deliver up his sword. He was answered in Flemish that they did not understand his language, and made no prisoners. These words were the signal for his death; a butcher of Bruges, who had already cut off one of his arms with his formidable hatchet, knelt upon the prince's breast and grasping his throat with one hand, with the other

cut out his tongue, and after the battle offered the bloody and disgusting trophy to Jean Van der Marct*.

Thus perished Robert, Count d'Artois, the victim of the same overweening pride and false security that cost his countrymen so dear at Cressy, at Poitiers, and at Azincour!

With him perished the Count d'Eu, and a number of French nobles, and the standard of France was at the same time captured by Hugo Butterman, who had sworn to carry off this trophy before he entered the field; he kept his word at the cost of his life, for he was so grievously wounded that he died a few days after the battle.

At the moment when Count Robert fell, the confusion in the ranks of the French was at its height. The knights who formed the rearward line knew nothing of what was going on in front, from the thickness of the fog in the first instance, and the clouds of dust that afterwards rose, and added to this were the cries of the combatants, the groans of the wounded, the neighing of the horses, and all the hurly-burly of battle, which effectually prevented them from ascertaining the fate of their companions in arms. Having the voice of no leader to guide them, and moved only by the impulse of striking at their foes, they dashed on wildly, at every step increasing the disorder already caused by an overcrowd of combatants. In vain those in front strove to fall back, the advancing masses still drove them on; all were blent in indiscriminate confusion, and more perished in the marshes and deep ditches where they fell, from the trampling of horses, the pressure of the crowd, and the weight of their arms when down, than by the weapons of the Flemings. That part of the field called the long meadow, (Langermeere,) was almost impassable from the heaps of dead that were strown along it.

But when the death of the Count d'Artois became known, dismay filled the hearts of nearly all his followers. One gallant knight, named Le Brum, rallied a body of nobles, amongst whom were Count Robert of Boulogne, Jean de Dammartin, Robert of Clermont, and his son Louis, afterwards the first Duke of Bourbon, and brought them up in order of battle to the long meadow, for the purpose of making a fresh attack upon the left wing of the Flemings. But their courage failed them when again in presence of the enemy, and heedless of the taunts of their foes, or the war-cries shouted by Le Brum and his bravest adherents, this band of craven knights suddenly turned their horses' heads, threw their shields over their backs, and fled ignominiously from the field, bearing down their own infantry, and involving all in inextricable ruin. Le Brum was almost the only one who remained to die.

When the Flemish leaders saw that every pennon fled before them, and that only their own banners still "flouted the sky," they gave the word to cross the ditches, and advance in pursuit. They were led on by Guy of Namur and William of Juliers, and fell upon the wreck of the French army, making no prisoners, but pitilessly putting all to the sword; the

The body of the Count was found after the battle pierced with thirty wounds, and deprived of an arm. It was buried by a Franciscan friar of Oudenarde, a native of St. Omer, beneath the high altar of the church of the convent of Groeninghe.

pursuit was hotly continued beyond the field of battle, nor was it till the gates of Lille were fairly closed behind them that the fugitives deemed themselves secure.

Amongst those who were thus slaughtered in flight, were a body of knights and nobles of Brabant, who sought to save their lives by uttering the war-cry of the Flemings, "Vlaenderen den Leeuw," but they were recognised by their surcoats and the blazon of their shields, and all who wore spurs fell by the edge of the sword. The spot where this massacre took place still goes by the name of the "Bitter" or "Bloedmeersch," as it is indifferently called.

On this fatal day perished the flower of the French nobility, and "there was not," says the historian Daniel, "a single family of note that had not to deplore the loss of a father, a son, or a brother." Besides the principal chiefs, Count Robert d'Artois, the Constable Raoul de Nesle, Sigis, surnamed king of Melida from a fortress which he had captured in Arabia, the Marshal Guy de Clermont, the Vicomte de Melun, the Grand Chancellor, Pierre Flotte, Jean de Briennes, Comte d'Eu, and Godfrey, Count of Boulogne, the French lost a multitude of nobles, whose illustrious names, gathered into one bloody roll, it Iwould be tedious to recount. So many were there, that when the day was over, no less than seven hundred golden spurs were gathered on the field of battle, which were suspended in the church of Our Lady of Courtrai, and from this circumstance arose the name of "The Battle of the Spurs." For many years the glorious event was celebrated at Courtrai by public rejoicings, and a relic of the observance still exists in the popular festival called "Vergaederdagen," which takes place annually. About the middle of the month of July, men and women, belonging to the poorest classes, go from door to door begging for old clothes, which they immediately sell again, as their ancestors sold the rich spoils of the French nobility; and then, preceded by one playing on a violin, they adjourn to the Pottelberg, the site of the French camp, and pass the rest of the day in feasting and jollity.

There is yet another and more appropriate memorial of this bloody fight.

In leaving Courtrai by the Porte de Gand, about fifty paces on the right hand, is a small octagonal chapel dedicated to Our Lady of Groeninghe; it was raised in 1831, and stands exactly in the centre of what was once the field of battle. On the altar of the chapel, above which is a copy of the miraculous image of the Virgin of Groeninghe, may be read in letters of gold the names of the principal French knights who died on the day so fatal to their arms.

In the midst of the vault there hangs a spur of gold.

NELSON'S FIRST VISIT TO NAPLES.

Some, when they die, die all; their mouldering clay
Is but an emblem of their memories:

The space quite closes up through which they passed.
That He has lived, he leaves a mark behind,
Shall pluck the shining age from vulgar time,
And give it whole to late posterity.

No sooner was the transcendent battle of the 1st of August, 1798, achieved, than Nelson bestirred himself to get matters into readiness for service again; and the critical state of passing events naturally drew his attention to Italy. By the 18th of August, having refitted the ships of his fleet, and the prizes, in the best manner that available stores would admit of, he sailed from the scene of his glory, and stood for the then theatre of war. On the 22nd of September, he arrived in the Bay of Naples, in the good old Vanguard, accompanied by his step-son Josiah Nesbit, in the Thalia frigate; where he found the Culloden, Alexander, and Bonne Citoyenne, which had arrived four days before him. The grave events that followed are still in the recollection of numbers of survivors, and they are emphatically designated by the terms-first, and second visits of Admiral Nelson. Here the hope of his country and the idol of his profession, whose splendid exploits had spread his name like lightning through the Mediterranean States, drank deeply of the Circæan cup, and suffered a lamentable moral debasement in that focus of corruption. Without attempting to justify steps which we deeply deplore, there are, if all the conditions of the case are carefully considered, several incidents to be advanced in palliation; and we, feeling somewhat like the ardent lover in Lucretius

Ev'n what we cannot praise, we will not blame,

But veil with some extenuating name.

The decisive battle of the Nile had an instantaneous and surprising effect, in arousing all Europe from the despondency occasioned by the successes of France. In Italy, especially, Gallic arrogance had engendered a bitter rancour among the population; and in Naples, which had hitherto been unscathed, an inveterate hatred was manifested by the Court and the multitude against every tint of republicanism. Much had been expected, when it was known that a British fleet under so gallant an officer as Nelson, was in those seas; and Lady Hamiltonwho was awake to all the intrigues of the Queen of Naples and the Minister Acton-having procured permission for the Admiral to water at Syracuse, was the more anxious regarding the event, as she considered herself a sort of patroness to the expedition. The suspense was at last broken, by the arrival of the Mutine, commanded by the late Sir William Hoste, with the Hon. Captain Capel as his passenger; and both he and his little brig were not only made the most of, but continued to be great favourites at Naples for long afterwards. In the burst of exultation displayed on the arrival of news of the victory, great numbers of all ranks mounted the English cockade; the ladies wore lockets bearing an anchor on a blue enamelled ground, and all the

embroiderers were occupied in preparing scarfs, ribbons, and appropriate inscriptions for the occasion. No sooner had the Vanguard been recognized in the offing, than King Ferdinand instantly went off in his barge, visited Nelson with undissembled gratification, and continued on board until the ship was brought to an anchor. When the hero landed, he was received among the acclamations of a rejoicing people, who looked up to him as their deliverer and protector. Naples was truly alive; the houses and theatres were thrown open, the shops were emptied of whatever could testify the general enthusiasm, fruits and flowers were sent on board the ships in abundance, all business was suspended, illuminations and transparencies varied the scene, and panem et circenses was again a proverb. Balls, dinners, and chez-vous, of every description, were the order of the day; and Nelson and his gallant band of officers inspired enthusiastic joy wherever they went. This was a feeling not quite unknown even to several families who were suspected of Jacobinism, or rather who fell under the awful category, soupçonné d'être suspect.

In the excitement of the hour, old Nasone, as the King was irreverently but usually called, was suddenly inspired with so violent a military fervour, that he must needs sally forth with General Mack, and a courageous-looking army, to attack the French in the Roman territories. Considering the Neapolitan temperament, it is not surprising that General Championet easily repulsed this movement; and, glad of so fair a pretext, he rapidly advanced towards Naples to repay the visit, although his troops were much worn, and reduced to imminent straits. By this resolution all Parthenope was shaken; and from the mismanagement of the Court, and the downright cowardice of the royal soldiers, the capital was brought into immediate danger. Nelson, who through all the infatuation of the time, was a noble lion at heart, could not comprehend these things; for bad as he considered the Neapolitans to be, he expected better from the principal dramatis persona, because Sir John Acton and Lady Hamilton misled him. Although he had accommodated himself to the Circæan den, there was much that displeased him; and he constantly felt that a quarter-deck was his proper sphere. When he arrived, the Marquis del Gallo-afterwards be-duked-was in great power and influence; and as he had been practising both at the French and Austrian Courts as ambassador, he was esteemed a crack diplomatist. The Marquis waited on the hero in great form, with a crowd of grandees, at Sir William Hamilton's; but his political evasions annoyed the British tar to that degree, that he could scarcely conduct himself with civility to him, and heartily wished "his grins and bows at the devil." He also foresaw that the bold advance of the king and Mack was likely to end in vapour, especially as the latter could not "move without five carriages." Still he viewed many men and measures through the medium of Hamiltonian spectacles; although he owned that he was "in a country of fiddlers, poets, prostitutes, and scoundrels," and was at all times ready with his palinodia.

Many of the British residents saw the errors which the noble sailor was falling into, and even amid the rejoicings had foreseen an impending reverse. And Nelson's friend, General O'Hara, the Governor of Gibraltar, said, in a letter to him,-"But between ourselves, it is a matter of astonishment, how Sir William Hamilton, after residing in that