bushy pyramid of her auburn hair. John Blagrove,
the mathematician, whose cloaked and
ruffed efligy in this church still grasps the
typical globe and quadrant, left a strange legacy
for the encouragement of Reading maidservants.
The churchwardens of the three parishes were
every year to choose so many maidservants of
five years' standing, who were to meet and throw
dice for a purse of ten pounds on Good Friday.
"Lucky money," says Ashmole, " for I never
yet heard of a maid who got the ten pounds
but soon after found a good husband."

Quick-beating wings bear the crow to Newbury,
where the fame of Jack of Newbury
invites him to a moment's rest on some house-
roof of the quiet solid-looking town by the
swift Kennet. Immortal Jack was a poor
clothier, who, by prudence and industry, contrived
at last to set a hundred looms at work.
When the Scotch invaded England, in Henry
the Eighth's reign, Jack's quota of defence
was four pikemen and two horsemen; but
his generous heart disdained so poor a levy,
and he marched northward, followed by fifty
tall horsemen and fifty footmen, well armed
and better clothed than any. If he ever
reached Flodden, Jack no doubt did good
service there against the Scottish spears.
When the king returned to England, he went
to see the brave clothier, and was splendidly
feasted by Jack, who sensibly refused the invidious
honour of knighthood. This worthy
man's best work was carrying to a conclusion
a commercial treaty with France and the low
countries, which Wolsey for a long time
thwarted, suspecting Jack of Lutheran principles.
But Jack was bold, and said: " If my
Lord Chancellor's father had been no faster in
killing calves than my Lord Chancellor is in
despatching of poor men's suits, I think he
would never have worn a mitre." Jack is the
hero of Newbury: an incitement to poor men's
sons for century after century: a ceaseless
source of good and blessing to the Berkshire town.

The reformers were much persecuted at
Newbury. Three martyrs were burnt at the
sand pits, a quarter of a mile from the town.
When they came, to the stake they fell to the
ground. Palmer, one of them, a fellow of Magdalen
College, Oxford, repeated the thirty-first
Psalm, and then all rose and kissed the stake.
"When Palmer warned the Newbury people of
Popish practices, a brutal bailiff's servant flung
a fagot, and struck him in the face. The
sheriff broke the rascal's head for it, calling
him a cruel tormentor. When the quick flames
began to dart upward, the three martyrs held
up their hands to Heaven, and crying, "Lord
Jesus strengthen us!'' died peaceably.

In the civil war, Newbury was the scene of
two hot battles. In the first, the cavalier
officers fought in their shirts, not waiting to
put on their doublets before they took horse.
Essex's men wore branches of fern and thorn in
their hats. The London train-bands held very
firm at Newbury Marsh, though Prince Rupert
charged them with the war cry of "Queen Mary
in the field!'' Six thousand men were left upon
the ground. Eventually, after six hours' fighting,
Essex retired to Reading, Prince Rupert
cutting his rear guard to pieces as it got entangled
in Dead Man's-lane, near Theale.
That same night sixty cartloads of slain were
brought into Newbury, including the blameless
Falkland, the cavalier " sans peur et sans reproche,"
who had predicted his own death.
A poplar still marks the spot where he fell.
The young Earl of Carnarvon, who led the
cavalry, was brought back to Newbury thrown
across a horse " like a dead calf." The second
battle was in 1644. Charles was on his way
to relieve Donnington Castle. Manchester's
army first attacked Shaw House, while Waller,
crossing the Lambourn, seized Speen—a suburban
village—and attacked the king's horse.
The Puritans advanced on Shaw House, singing
psalms. Colonel Lisle, unarmed and in his
Holland shirt, chased them bravely, shouting,
"For the Crown!" "For Prince Charles!"
"For the Duke of York!" while the bullets
stormed on them from the windows and parapets
of the manor house. Cloud after cloud
of pikemen gave way before the cavalier
charges. From that stately old red brick
Elizabethan house, which the crow still sees
surrounded by old-fashioned gardens, the cavaliers
shouted approval of brave Colonel Lisle
and his deeds. At last the king's men drew off
to Donnington, and thence to Oxford on a fine
moonlight night: sullenly leaving the church
where Jack of Newbury lies buried and the
market house which contains his son's portrait.

One waft of the wing brings the crow to
Donnington, to that fine old ruin falsely supposed
to be the castle given to Chaucer by
John of Gaunt. It did, however, really belong
to the poet's grand-daughter, Alice, and the
great oaks in the park were probably planted
by Thomas Chaucer, the poet's son. This
castle is the spot held so bravely for the king
by Colonel Boys, who being told of three of
the towers being down, and that the Puritans
would give no quarter, and would not leave one
stone upon another, exclaimed, like a brave
cavalier as he was: "That he was not bound
to repair the castle, but, by God's help, he
would keep the ground for the king."

Now, fast towards Wiltshire and the broad
downs, where the wind blows free as over the
ocean, the crow speeds its flight.

FATAL ZERO.
A DIARY KEPT AT HOMBURG: A SHORT SERIAL STORY.

CHAPTER IX.

FRIDAY.—Just returned from Frankfort.
Such a charming old town, refreshing to
see in its reverend innocence and hoariness,
after the flaunting garishness of that new
and wicked spot. I saw the merchant, who
received me yery graciously, and had
lunch ready. After it was over we talked
of business, and he began by saying that he