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ing of the Scottish soldiers; and their matches all out: the battle cry rushed along the line-"The Covenant!" "The Covenant !"- but it soon became more and more feeble, while yet high and strong, amid the war of the trumpets and the musketry, arose the watchword of Cromwell: The Lord of Hosts!" "The Lord of Hosts!" The battle cry of Luther was in that hour the charging word of the English Puritans.

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Terrible! but short as terrible! A thick fog had embarrassed their movements. But now over St. Abb's Head the sun suddenly appeared, crimsoning the sea, scattering the fogs away. The Scottish army were seen flying in all directions-flying, and so brief a fight! They run!" said Cromwell; "I protest they run!" and catching inspiration, doubtless, from the bright shining of the daybeam-"inspired," says Mr. Forster, "by the thought of a triumph so mighty and resistless, his voice was again heard, 'Now let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered!'" It was a wonderful victory; wonderful even among wonderful triumphs! To hear the shout sent up by the united English army; to see the general make a halt, and sing the 117th Psalm upon the field. Wonderful that that immense army should thus be scattered 10,000 prisoners taken, 3,000 slain, 200 colors, 15,000 stand of arms, and all the artillery!—and that Cromwell should not have lost of his army twenty men.-Oliver Cromwell.

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OOD, THOMAS, an English poet and humorist; born at London, May 23, 1799; died there, May 3, 1845. After the death of his father, a bookseller, he was in his fifteenth year apprenticed to a wood-engraver, and acquired some facility as a comic draughtsman. He wrote verses for periodicals while a mere boy. In 1822 the London Magazine passed into the hands of publishers with whom Hood

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was acquainted, and who made him their sub-editor. This position brought him into connection with De Quincey, Hazlitt, Lamb, Hartley Coleridge, Proctor, and other contributors to the magazine. In 1824, in conjunction with his brother-in-law, J. H. Reynolds, published a small volume of Odes and Addresses to Great People. In 1826 he wrote the first series of Whims and Oddities, illustrated by himself. In 1827 he published National Tales, and a volume of Poems, among which were The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies; Nero and Leander, and Lycus, the Centaur, all of a serious character. He edited the annual called The Gem for 1829, in which appeared The Dream of Eugene Aram. In 1829 he brought out a second series of Whims and Oddities. In 1830 he began the publication of the Comic Annual, of which eleven volumes appeared, the last being in 1842. In 1831 he wrote Tilney Hall, his only novel. Pecuniary difficulties and impaired health induced him in 1837 to take up his residence on the Continent, where he remained three years, writing Up the Rhine. Returning to England in 1841, he became for two years the editor of the New Monthly Magazine. He then started Hood's Magazine, which he kept up until close upon his death. He was also a contributor to Punch, in which appeared in 1844 The Song of the Shirt and The Bridge of Sighs, both composed upon a sick-bed from which he never rose. Hood's broken health during the three or four later years of his life rendered his pecuniary condition an embarrassed one; but he accepted the situation bravely and uncomplainingly. In 1841 the members of the "Literary Fund" offered him a present of £50, which he declined in the following letter:

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE.

The adverse circumstances to which allusion is made are unfortunately too well known from the public announcement in the Athenæum by my precocious executor and officious assignee. But I beg most emphatically to repeat that the disclosures so drawn from me were never intended to bespeak the world's pity or assistance. Sickness is too common to humanity, and poverty too old a companion of my order, to justify such an appeal. The revelation was merely meant to show, when taunted with "my creditors," that I had been 'striving in humble imitation of an illustrious literary example, to satisfy all claims upon me, and to account for my imperfect success. I am too proud of my profession to grudge it some suffering. I love it stillas Cowper loved England "with all its faults," and I should hardly feel as one of the fraternity, if I had not my portion of the calamities of authors. More fortunate than many, I have succeeded not only in getting into print, but occasionally in getting out of it; and surely a man who has overcome such formidable difficulties may hope and expect to get over the commonplace ones of procuring bread-and-cheese.

I am writing seriously, gentlemen, although in a cheerful tone, partly natural and partly intended to relieve you of some of your kindly concern on my account. Indeed, my position at present is an easy one compared with that of some eight months ago, when out of heart, and out of health, helpless, spiritless, sleepless, childless. I have now a home in my own country, and my little ones sit at my hearth. I smile sometimes, and even laugh. For the same benign Providence that gifted me with the power of amusing others has not denied me the ability of entertaining myself. Moreover, to mere worldly losses I profess a cheerful philosophy, which can jest. "though china fall," and for graver troubles a Christian faith that consoles and supports me even in walking through something like the valley and the shadow of Death.

My embarrassment and bad health are of such standing,

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