his first solemn equipment as a knight, and the various duties which they intimated were impressed on his mind by every circumstance most likely to influence it.

August assemblies were often collected to witness the investiture of some person of rank, and sometimes even national hostilities were suspended for it. When Charles VI. of France knighted the sons of the Duc d'Anjou at St. Denis, the knights and ladies of England were invited to the feast by couriers sent expressly, though the two countries were then at war.

But, perhaps, the most splendid inauguration the world ever witnessed was that which was celebrated in the abbey of Westminster, in the year 1306, when the Prince of Wales, son of Edward I., received his spurs. Three hundred youths, the hope and pride of the kingdom, the scions of its noblest aristocracy, were at the same period invested with the knightly order. Many of them, with the prince, performed their vigil in Westminster Abbey; but even this lordly precinct was not sufficiently spacious to accommodate all, and many adjourned to the Temple. But, at the time of the solemn investment, the whole three hundred youths, then in the very pride of their years, were robed in purple mantles broidered with gold, the gift of the king, and many of them decorated with furs more valuable in that day than gold.

We may fancy the pride with which the ambitious, but brave monarch, would look upon this hopeful assemblage; we may imagine the hearts swelling almost to bursting of the youths themselves; the manly exultation of their brave fathers and sponsors; the proud yet somewhat tearful admiration of the matrons, who witnessed the sons of many tears, of many hopes, thus introduced to the rough highway of the world; the intense earnestness with which the gentle and high-born maidens observed the whole, here and there one endeavoring, all vainly, to conceal her own especial interest therein.

Around, as far as the eye could reach, amid the dim arches and cloistered gloom, the space was thronged with eager beholders, heralds, pursuivants, esquires, minstrels, varlets, pages, their brilliant and party-colored vestments contrasted with the dark cowls of the lay brothers of the monastery, or of other members who were

not privileged to press nearer to the scene of action. Immense multitudes thronged the sanctuary without the walls, and every avenue leading therefrom.

Each happy candidate for the honor of knighthood was attended by two or three experienced knights; and so dense, so fearful was the throng in that part of the abbey near the scene of the ceremony, that, it is said, two knights were crushed to death, and many fainted.

No such catastrophe, however, had taken place, or was anticipated, when the jubilant tones of the organ, and the bustle at the further end of the church, announced to the eager multitude that the great personages were arrived, and that the ceremonies were about to commence.

Dense and unbroken as had appeared the mass, a way was insensibly opened, and first came those bearing the banners of the abbey, which were disposed in convenient resting-places near the head of the choir. Then came the choristers in white robes, chanting as they passed along. Acolytes, with their golden censers, flinging streams of rich incense around, which curled aloft, and melted away amid the rich tracery of the roof, were followed by various members of the abbey, in robes of state, and then by the prior of the convent, richly habited, and walking with the bearing of a prince. A priest, bearing a lofty cross, preceded the abbot, Walter de Wenlock, who wore alb, stole, and cope of the richest embroidery, and a silver miter of priceless value, so richly was it emblazoned with pearls and gems. An immense ruby gleamed in front, and on either side were exquisitely-carved images of St. Peter and St. Edward the Confessor. He carried a crosier in his right hand, turning the crook backward toward himself, indicating that his authority was limited to his own community. By his side walked the Bishop of London; for the Abbot of Westminster acknowledged no inferiority, so peculiarly was Westminster privileged. The bishop held his crosier in the left hand, with the crook forward toward the people.

These personages were followed by a priest, bearing a two-ribbed cross before the Archbishop of Canterbury, the noble, independent, and uncompromising Robert of Winchelsea, that "thorn in the flesh" to Edward I., who had mental nerve to refuse a cardinal's hat; who, though an

archbishop, had been so reduced, in consequence of his unflinching adherence to the principles of his Church, that he had not "one place of all his bishopric whereon to laie his head," and had taken refuge in the house of "a poore persone,”—but whose unlimited hospitality, benevolent heart, high intellect, and conscientious firmness, albeit imbued with some human weakness in the shape of spiritual pride, had ultimately brought him triumphant through his hard ordeal. He was fully reëstablished in the favor of the king; and, until his own death in 1313, undauntedly rebuked the vices of his weak


With a calm and lofty dignity, which seemed so entirely to emanate from himself as to be utterly uninfluenced by surrounding circumstances, magnificent as they were, he proceeded to the high altar, which was literally crowded with gold plate and jewelry. A thousand lights dispersed around on various altars, (that of St. Edward being brilliantly conspicuous,) reflected and refracted interminably the glittering gems and jewelry, the gilded banners, and the brilliant dresses, and daylight streaming in through the deeply stained windows, threw fanciful and fairy-like hues on everything.

This over,

Scarcely had the prelates taken their places, when an interest, to which the foregoing was as nothing, was excited by the approach of the prince and the king. They and their immediate attendants were quickly marshaled to the places appointed for them, (near which the young queen and her ladies were previously stationed,) and the service commenced with the solemn performance of high mass. the prince, the "expectancy and rose of the fair state, and the observed of all observers," modestly approached the altar, ascended the steps, and taking his sword from the scarf to which it was appended, bent his knee, and presented it to the priest. It was laid on the altar, and the priest, extending his hand over it, prayed. A solemn oath to fulfill the duties of a Christian knight-which were shortly recapitulated-was then administered to him, which having taken, the prelate put the sword into his hands.

Other prayers were then offered: after which young Edward retired from the altar, and, approaching the king, his father, knelt before him with clasped

hands. Some appointed questions were then asked by the king, and replied to by the youth; and then the ceremony proceeded by investing him with various parts of the dress of the knight, beginning with the spurs, a magnificent golden pair, which the king handed to the young queen, who placed them on her step-son's feet, and ending with the belt, which was always the last. The king himself girt this on his son; and then giving him, as he knelt, a slight blow on the shoulder, proclaimed him a knight in the name of God and the saints. In an instant a thousand swords were gleaming in the air, while all the knights present hailed their new brother; and their loud acclaim being heard without, was echoed by the jubilant and accordant shout of the myriads congregated around. It sank, but was raised again and again; but, ere the swords were sheathed, and ere the voices had subsided, the tones of prayer and blessing were heard again from the altar.

Prince Edward had now the proud privilege of conferring the honor he had just received on his companions in arms, all of whom received the accolade from him; and no sooner were all admitted to the "Holy Order," than preparation was made for another ceremony.

Amid the clangor of trumpets and the din of martial sounds, drowned, however, it is said, by the shouts of the people, several attendants passed along the abbey, bearing two swans, covered with golden nets, and almost hidden in the studs of gold with which they were adorned. Being placed as appointed, the king advanced toward them; and, raising his hands over them, he vowed to Heaven and the swans that he would go to Scotland, and though death should be the result of the exertion, he would avenge the fate of Comyn, and the violated faith of the Scots. He adjured the prince, the nobles, and the knights, by their fealty and chivalry, that, if he should die on his journey, they would carry his body forward, and never bury it till his son had established his dominion. All assented: excited by the scene, the knights vowed themselves to various chivalrous undertakings and Prince Edward, in the enthusiasm of the hour, vowed never to rest two nights in one place until he had accomplished his royal father's will; a vow, by-the-way, which he full soon forgot.

to mingle with the retrospect, thrones overturned, dynasties swept away, hopes which towered to heaven flung into perdition, curses both loud and deep.

THE following description

our entrance

Tof the Duke of Wellington's attendance being read, ran the psalms of the day were


at church was written by the Rev. Thresham Gregg, of Dublin, and is copied from the Constitution and Church Sentinel of that city:

"I agreed with a friend to go to early service (at eight o'clock A. M.) at the Chapel Royal, St. James's Palace, on a Sunday morning in February. The fact that the Duke of Wellington habitually attended there was the subordinate inducement; for assuredly, in going to the court of the great King, the Lord of the whole earth, to worship and adore him must be motive paramount to every other. I had never seen the duke, and I felt that I should have to sustain a feeling of self-reproach if, with the opportunity of seeing him within my reach, I allowed the greatest captain of this age, perhaps of any age, to leave the world unseen by me.


"It was a bleak morning-there had been a heavy fall of snow. Our way to the chapel lay through St. James's Park. We did not meet a single person. The stillness of London on the earliest hours of Sundays has often struck me. The state of the weather made this stillness seem greater than usual on this morning, and raised a suspicion in our minds that, in so far as our visit to the chapel involved the hope of our seeing the duke, it would be attended with disappointment.

"Arrived there, however, and, with the usual preliminaries, admitted within, we found a singularly interesting congregation. The Chapel Royal is remarkable for a large attendance of the aristocracy, and we saw before us a congregation of rank, fashion, fame, power, worth, and wisdom, such as is rarely witnessed. In a word, the congregation consisted of one single personthe duke alone! Bleak as was the morning, there he was, ladened with more of earth's honors, dignities, and renown, than any living man, and with but one stain upon his character, intently occupied with the worship of his God, and all alone with the clergyman. Thoughts came flowing in upon us from all quarters Waterloo, Victoria, Salamanca; clashing thousands, the wounded, the dying; the silent camp, 'the imminent deadly breach;' glorious victories, admiring millions, applauding senates, grateful princes, gorgeous courts-all, in fact, that is viewed as great and glorious in this lower world, with the one exception, as so related to the great personage before us, that they, in our minds, connected themselves with him, and were, by his presence on this occasion, forced before our imagination, and, as it were, seen realized. Here was the giant spirit which had been raised to sit upon the whirlwind and rule the storm; which had, instrumentally, for years decided the fortunes of nations, and peoples, and kindreds, and tongues, and received more of the incense of human gratitude, thanksgiving, and praise, than had, perhaps, ever before been awarded to a mortal. Nor did there fail

with the clergyman. He spoke with an utterance that was thick and indistinct, and oc

casionally stammered a little ere he got out a word, but still his voice filled the chapel. The duke was as painstaking in the performance of his duty as ever parish clerk was, and much more so than many of the fraternity whom I have happened with. The rubric was punetiliously observed. At the creed he turned to the communion table, repeated the words distinctly and aloud; and all through impressed the spectator with the idea that he was intently engaged in the fulfilment of an important business of his own. The emphasis in the Litany was strong and marked, 'We beseech thee to hear us, good Lord.' And at the commandments, Incline our hearts to keep this law,' was thus repeated on each occa


"The lessons for the morning were Genesis ix and Mark xiv. The sermon was remarkable, on Exodus, chapter xxiii, and 2d verse. It briefly but strongly showed the dangers connected with too great a subserviency to the popular voice, and of course, without any intention on the part of the writer and preacher, dealt some strokes which the duke must have. felt; for here, as all through, the attention which he paid was exemplary.

"With respect to the personal appearance of the duke generally, it was much more robus tious than the portraits would lead one to suppose. The popular idea is, that His Grace is a little and delicate old man, whose frame wears an appearance of great frugality. Not at all-quite the contrary. He never would be remarked as 'a little man,' and has not the slightest appearance of delicacy. In fact, both face and person realize the 'Iron Duke.' The former is remarkable for a deep tan, which would bespeak habitual exposure to the sun and tropical climes; the latter for a particularly strong build-shoulders broad, the calf of the leg full. The knee and the body straight and erect, but the head much stooped. The gait can only be described, so as to make the reader understand it, as a toddle-something like (saving the reader's favor) that of a little tipsy -from side to side. He wore a blue frock coat and cross-barred trowsers; the boots rather loose, and evidently of long standing; indeed all the clothes, without being shabby, had seen some service. The stock was white cambric with a tie in front, but buckled behind with a large steel, military-looking buckle, which from the stoop in the head was very conspicuous. He wore also a gold apparatus for the improvement of the hearing, which, taken in connection. with the buckle of his stock, gave to his upper man a very metallic tone, as though he were in some sort an artificial man, made up of and supported by a combination of metals. We followed him at a respectful distance, as he walked to his cab, which, with his servant in it, awaited his arrival. He got in without assistance, and was driven away."


is generally known that Mr. Hall did in which he says:


forty-fifth year of his age. In May, 1813, his first son Robert was born. He was considered to be a remarkably lovely and interesting child, though Mr. Hall himself, having no peculiar attachment to boys, took no special delight in him. The infant Robert, however, became generally admired for his intelligent appearance, and supposed resemblance to his father, and soon became a great favorite among the ladies. Persons of distinction, passing through Leicester, would often send to beg the favor of seeing and caressing the miniature Robert Hall. Care, however, was always taken to conceal these attractions from the father, who certainly would not have permitted this species of adulation.

Alas, that the admired little fellow was not destined long for earth; at the end of nine months, in February, 1814, he was taken suddenly ill of croup, and in four hours, almost before danger was apprehended, like the pearly dew-drop,

"He sparkled, was exhaled, Then went to heaven."

edition of Mr. Hall's Works may be found a letter, addressed to one of his reverend brethren, a few days after the sad event,

This sudden and unexpected event had a most agonizing effect on the father, who


till then had not been aware of the extent of his parental affection. As soon the child expired in its mother's arms, he fell prostrate on the spot, and, amid sobs and tears, exclaimed, "The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away, and blessed be the name of the Lord-yea, blessed be the name of the Lord!" In this position he continued for several minutes, offering the most melting supplications for an entire acquiescence in the divine will, and acknowledging the wisdom and justice of God in all his dealings.

Early next morning he visited the lovely looking corpse, and was occupied from day to day in imagining the departure of the spirit, and its flight to another world; he was with difficulty drawn from the room, and very unwilling that the child should be removed out of his sight. In the awful presence of death he loved to meditate, to pray, and to prostrate himself before the Great Eternal.

In the third volume of the American

"I am greatly obliged to you for your kind and consolatory letter, replete with those topics

whence alone true consolation can be deduced.

seemed to me as if I felt more on this occasion

The stroke has been very severely felt by us She was dotingly fond of our lovely boy. For both, but certainly most by dear Mrs. Hall. my own part, I was not at all aware my affec tion for him was so strong, until he was removed from us; my anguish was then great. It than I should at the loss of either my others. This feeling, I suspect, was delusive, and arises from our being incapable of estimating the strength of our attachment to any object till it boy; for [recollecting] my own extreme and is removed. I was disappointed in his being a portentous wickedness, I fancied there was something in the constitution of boys peculiarly tending to vice, and adverse to their spiritual seemed much more susceptible of religious impressions than men. On these accounts I

interests. I had also remarked that females

trembled for his salvation, and did not feel the gratitude for the blessing vouchsafed me which

I ought. I suspect I greatly displeased God by my distrust of his goodness, and that he saw it meet to adopt this method of chastising me. May it be sanctified as a means of making me humble, heavenly, and submissive. It is a very solemn consideration, that a part of myself is in eternity; in the presence, I trust, of the Saviour. How awful will it be, should the branch be saved, and the stock perish! Pray for me, my dear friend, that this may not be the case; but that I may be truly sanctified, and permitted to walk in the fear of the Lord, and in the consolations of the Holy Ghost."

On the Sabbath following this bereavement, Mr. Hall appeared in the pulpit at the usual hour, his countenance overspread with peculiar solemnity, and beaming with the devout and tender aspirations of a celestial intercourse, so that no one could be at a loss to see that he had been strengthened from above. This breaking through, in this instance, the modern custom of not appearing in public worship immediately after a domestic calamity was admirably sustained in the sermon he delivered, written, according to the usual length of Mr. Hall's pulpit "Notes," by the side of the lovely corpse. By the earnest entreaties of a brother in the ministry, Mr. Hall lent his manuscript, with permission to transcribe it; and a copy has been forwarded to the NATIONAL MAGAZINE by a personal friend of both the author and the transcriber. It is entirely unknown in this country, and nearly so in England.

"I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."-2 Sam. xii, 23.

We have in this short narrative an awful instance of the sad effects of sin, and a touching display of parental affection. While the child lived, David fasted and wept, for he said, "Who can tell but the Lord will be gracious?" but when the event was decided, "he arose, put on his apparel, and went to the house of God." Here was fortitude and manly resolution! His conduct in this particular deserves imitation. He sought comfort at the house of God; where could he have gone better? It is common for persons under bereaving providences, to stay away from the house of God on one or more succeeding Sabbaths; this is accommodating ourselves to the false maxims of society. The public worship of God ought never to be neglected, but should be most attended in seasons of calamity. Who besides God can help you?

The words of the text imply the happy state of the deceased child. "I shall go to him." David did not merely mean that his body would lie in the dust with him, but that his spirit would again enjoy his society. We shall consider the probable evidence that deceased infants enter a state of blessedness.

As we have no direct information on this subject in the Scriptures, this evidence is in danger of losing its power over the mind. Although it has been the prevailing opinion of the pious in all ages that infants are saved, yet some weak minds are troubled because they have not positive evidence. It is, therefore, a question of considerable moment, as one half the human race die in their infancy. And as it is a point of such importance for the comfort of Christian parents, you will' pardon me for bringing the subject before you.

God has implanted in the heart of man a principle of affection toward his offspring. Now to suppose that the Divine Being should produce sentiments opposite to his own would be highly absurd. We may instance his gracious regard to the city of Nineveh. He spared it, though its sins were great, because it contained six-score thousand persons who knew not their right hand from their left. And God condescends to give a reasonable motive for

We have not chosen to mar this fragment by omitting some allusions which may not receive the concurrence of the reader any more than our own.

his conduct, to show us what disposes him to the exercise of mercy. It is true, when we reason on the compassion of God, we are apt to reason amiss, and to draw many conclusions, forgetting that his justice is armed against all sin. But infants are unconscious sinners; and when there appears no claim of justice to intervene, He is wont to communicate the largest discoveries of mercy. He hateth nothing that he hath made. But to proceed to a more particular consideration of the probable evidence of the safety of infants, we shall remark

First. That there appears to be no passage of Scripture to necessitate the misery, or to favor the opinion of the future misery of children. It is true they are born in sin, therefore cannot be saved on account of their native innocence. The hope of immortality and eternal life is entirely founded on the death and mediation of Christ. As Adam is the federal head of all our race, so Christ is the spiritual head. All parallels fail in something; with respect to Adam we only derive from him two things, which awfully prove our depravity, first, a subjection to death; secondly, the transmission of a corrupt nature. We all are found in a state of alienation from God; and this native tree would produce fruit unto eternal death, except it were counteracted by divine grace. Infants inherit the original sin of Adam, and are thereby subject to death; but not to eternal death. To suppose that the Father of spirits would damn infants for the sin of Adam, would be to reflect infinite dishonor on his moral perfections. How is this a state of trial, if the destiny of all is before determined by an irrevocable sentence?

Secondly. All those passages of Scripture which speak of a judgment day have respect to the conduct of men. We have no intimation of the proceedings of that day but what has reference to the actions of mankind. Every man shall be judged according to his works; and as infants, morally considered, are unconscious beings, they cannot violate any known law or established principle.

Thirdly. If infants are necessarily consigned to misery in a future state of existence, then are they in a worse state than any of their fellow-creatures. The gospel is glad tidings, but never was proposed to them; they are incapable of

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