Being at Rome, he induced the Pope to espouse his cause; he then went to Paris, and king Louis XV., having promised to assist him, fitted out a fleet, with 15,000 men; but they were defeated by the English, as they were on the point of sailing. After this, the French king would do no more for Prince Charles Edward, and the daring young man set out, in 1745, in a little vessel of eighteen guns, and arms for 1500 men.
He landed on the northwest coast of Scotland, and the people there seemed delighted to see him. He was a descendant of the former kings of Scotland, of the Stuart line, and it was natural enough for them to have a feeling of favor for one who thus claimed kindred with them. Accordingly, the Scottish nobles flocked to the standard of Edward, bringing with them hundreds of their brave soldiers.
He was soon at the head of a large and powerful army. With this he marched forward, defeated the English troops that advanced to meet him, and, in three months after his arrival, he took Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland.—France now sent him aid, and, with a force of 7000 men, he marched southward into England, and took the town of Carlisle. At Preston Pans, he defeated an English army of 4000 strong; and such was his success, that the English government, under King William, of Orange, trembled for their safety.
They therefore made great efforts, and in April, 1746, they sent a large army against him, under the Duke of Cumberland. At Culloden, the two armies met, and a terrible battle followed; Prince Edward was defeated, and his army entirely dispersed. He was scarce able to save his life by flight; and, indeed, he wandered about, from place to place, among the wilds of Scotland, being every day in danger of being seized and given up to the English government, who offered $150,000 to anybody who would bring him to them. It seems strange that so large a bribe could be resisted; but, such was the love that the Scottish people bore him, and such their fidelity, that no one was found to betray him, though many people were entrusted with the secret of his being among them. Even the poor mountaineers refused to give him up, though offered a sum of money that would have made them very rich.
At last, a faithful Scottish nobleman, by the name of O’Neil, took him in charge, and after wandering along the sea-shore in a skiff, flying from island to island, and experiencing the greatest sufferings and dangers, he was put on board a French frigate, that had been sent for his rescue. He was now taken to France, and soon after, giving up all hopes of seeing his family restored to the throne, he settled in Italy, where he died in 1788, in the 68th year of his age. He was the last of the Stuart line, and was called the Pretender, on account of his pretending to set up claims to the throne of England.
Winter.
December has come! Winter is here! These are common-place words, but they mean more, perhaps, than we are apt to consider.
Winter, then, means that the myriad leaves of the forest are shrivelled and torn from the trees, and scattered in the valley: it means that the sap of the trees has ceased to flow, and that these giants of the vegetable world have passed into a state of stupor, in which they must remain till spring again returns.
Winter means that the myriad races of annual weeds and plants are dead, to revive again no more; that myriads of blossoms have faded forever from the view; that the verdure of the forest has passed away; that the gemmed garment of the meadow is exchanged for the thin, brown mantle of leanness and poverty; that the velvet of the lawn has given place to the scanty covering of dried and faded grass.
Winter means that the minstrelsy of the birds is gone, and that the field and forest, so lately cheered by a thousand forms and sounds of happy existence are now silent, or rendered more dreary and desolate by the moaning winds. It means that the birds are gone to their southern retreats; that the myriad races of insects are dead; that the whole generation of butterflies has perished; that the grasshoppers have sung their last song; that even the pensive cricket has gone to his long home. It means that death has breathed on our portion of the world, and that nature herself, as if weary of her efforts, has fallen into a cold and fearful slumber.