some caustic repartee from Harry Marten, or some fearless sarcasm from Lucy Carlisle.  But the Cavaliers softened labor and sweetened care with their little jokes.  It was rather consoling to cover some ignominious retreat with a new epigram on Cromwell’s red nose, that irresistible member which kindled in its day as much wit as Bardolph’s,—­to hail it as “Nose Immortal,” a beacon, a glow-worm, a bird of prey,—­to make it stand as a personification of the rebel cause, till even the stately Montrose asked newcomers from England, “How is Oliver’s nose?” It was very entertaining to christen the Solemn League and Covenant “the constellation on the back of Aries,” because most of the signers could only make their marks on the little bits of sheepskin circulated for that purpose.  It was quite lively to rebaptize Rundway Down as Run-away-down, after a royal victory, and to remark how Hazlerig’s regiment of “lobsters” turned to crabs, on that occasion, and crawled backwards.  But all these pleasant follies became whips to scourge them, at last,—­shifting suddenly into very grim earnest when the Royalists themselves took to running away, with truculent saints, in steeple-hats, behind them.

Oxford was the stronghold of the Cavaliers, in these times, as that of the Puritans was London.  The Court itself (though here we are anticipating a little) was transferred to the academic city.  Thither came Henrietta Maria, with what the pamphleteers called “her Rattle-headed Parliament of Ladies,” the beautiful Duchess of Richmond, the merry Mrs. Kirke, and brave Kate D’Aubigny.  In Merton College the Queen resided; at Oriel the Privy Council was held; at Christ Church the King and Rupert were quartered; and at All Souls Jeremy Taylor was writing his beautiful meditations, in the intervals of war.  In the New College quadrangle, the students were drilled to arms “in the eye of Doctor Pink,” while Mars and Venus kept undisturbed their ancient reign, although transferred to the sacred precincts of Magdalen.  And amidst the passion and the pomp, the narrow streets would suddenly ring with the trumpet of some foam-covered scout, bringing tidings of perilous deeds outside; while some traitorous spy was being hanged, drawn, and quartered in some other part of the city, for betraying the secrets of the Court.  And forth from the outskirts of Oxford rides Rupert on the day we are to describe, and we must still protract our pause a little longer to speak of him.

Prince Rupert, Prince Robert, or Prince Robber,—­for by all these names was he known,—­was the one formidable military leader on the royal side.  He was not a statesman, for he was hardly yet a mature man; he was not, in the grandest sense, a hero, yet he had no quality that was not heroic.  Chivalrous, brilliant, honest, generous,—­neither dissolute, nor bigoted, nor cruel,—­he was still a Royalist for the love of royalty, and a soldier for the love of war, and in civil strife there can hardly