“The great empire of England shall be all-powerful ( πᾶν-potens) for more than 300 years.[67] Then great armies shall come by sea and land, and the Portuguese shall not be satisfied therewith.” This seems to foreshadow that the naval power of England will be suppressed by sea-borne armies overwhelming her on her own shores, and the Lusitanians, or Portuguese, the oldest allies of England, will not be content, because, probably, Portugal at the same instant will be overwhelmed by Spain simultaneously. This is as far as we can go in English history under the guidance of Le Pelletier. But, nevertheless, I shall adduce several more quatrains, bringing the sequence down at least to the establishment of the House of Hanover on the English throne in the person of George I. (_To be continued._) [Illustration: text decoration] Down a Yorkshire River. _PART I._ Had any one been able to sail down the River Calder, say a hundred years ago, long before the present little manufacturing towns had arisen on its banks, he would have passed through some of the most lovely scenery and through one of the loveliest mountain valleys in the county of York. Even to-day, when ugly mills and numberless prosaic tenements of trade disfigure, from an artistic point of view, the once grassy glades and the once gloriously wooded slopes, the prospect in many spots retains much of its virginal sweetness and romantic beauty. There are yet long tracts which commerce has not irremediably mutilated--pleasant meadowlands as fair with wilding flowers as of old; sylvan haunts of birch and elm whose dusky quietude is well-nigh as unbroken and solemn as of yore; bonnie tributary brooklets flashing and hurrying, like silver-footed naiads, through clough and dell and dene. As the eye takes a loftier and farther sweep the rugged contour and massive forms of forest-clad and moorland-capped mountains may be seen to wear much the same aspect they wore in the primal historic days of Roman and Celt. The conquests of commerce over both material and mental difficulties are apparent almost everywhere on the lowlands, for which all sensible and right-thinking minds are grateful, plain and anti-poetical as the outward signs may be in the jumble of viaduct and railway station, of factory and shop. But the old world of chivalry and romance is not altogether pushed aside: there are the ruins of stately and curiously carved gateways whence issued squire and yeoman to join the Pilgrimage of Grace, or later, gallant cavaliers, eager to mingle in the fray on the far-away field of Marston Moor; there are a few old Elizabethan halls with mullioned window and grey stone porch, in whose cool recesses the inmates waited anxiously and breathlessly for tidings about the great Armada; and here and there, built by pious hands that have been still for centuries, there are relics of quiet, quaint chapelle, where repose the ashes of Crusader knight, and of knights who fought so