ld, with his banner, woven with gold and jewels, shining
conspicuously in the morning sunlight. Here they stood in the form of
a wedge; there they turned the Normans, and put them to flight. Then
the Normans rallied, pretended to fly, decoyed the brave English from
their position, and by stratagem succeeded in defeating them at last.
Or go to the Madingley Windmill, near Cambridge, and see the fifteen
miles of rich drained cornfields which intervene between "Ely's stately
fane" and the spot on which you are standing. Here read Kingsley's
well-known story of _Hereward; or, The Last of the English_, and instead
of the rich cornfields you will see that black abyss of mud and bottomless
slime into which sank the flower of Norman chivalry as they tried to
cross that treacherous bog to conquer the gallant Hereward and to
plunder the monastery of Ely, the last stronghold of the English. On
they came, thousands upon thousands, rushing along the floating bridge
which they had formed, until at last it gave way beneath the weight, and
the black slime swallowed up the miserable wretches.

Or let us take our stand on the Round Tower, near the summit of the Edge
Hill, and see the site of the first battle between the troops of Charles
I. and the soldiers of the Parliament. The whole of that green lane was
lined with troops. In a cottage which stood at our feet the king
breakfasted before the battle; from that mound he surveyed the forces of
the enemy. Just as the bells in yonder church had ceased to ring for
service on Sunday afternoon the cannon began to roar, and the fight
commenced. There Prince Rupert charged with headlong fury, carrying all
before him. And so we can follow the fortunes of the fight until the
brave Cavaliers retired to rest--

"And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die."

The memory of many a fight is recorded in the names of the fields,
places, and hills on which the battle raged. Lichfield (_i.e._ the
field of the dead), Battlefield, Battle, Battleflats, Standard Hill,
Slaughterford, and many others, all tell the tale of war and slaughter.

In some parts of the country, especially in Oxfordshire, there are fine
avenues of trees, which appear to lead to a large house; but when you
have walked to the end of the trees there is nothing to be seen. These
avenues tell the tale of war, of the destruction of the manor-house of
some old Royalist who fought for his