“Then a creaking cart came slowly, which a charcoal-burner drove;
He found the dead man lying, a ghastly treasure-trove.
He raised the corpse for charity, and on his wagon laid,
And so the Red King drove in state from out the forest glade.”
MATILDA, “LADY” OF ENGLAND.
“Old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago.”
Now you shall witness a striking scene. You are gazing at the castle of Oxford, that stands up grim and square in the midst of its encircling waters. Oxford is already renowned as the abode of quiet scholars and learned men; for “Beauclerc,” who has now gone to his rest, made it an academy and a sanctuary of letters. He it was who built this grim castle, in which to sojourn when he came to Oxford to enjoy the converse of the bookish men who dwelt beneath its shadow. It is, however, no learned concourse of scholars, no peaceful trial of wits, which we are about to witness, but an incident of stern warfare.