ish commerce was more than suspected, they seldom failed, by threats or persuasion, to obtain what they desired from the islanders. Perhaps they sailed thence to the west coast of Africa, and eagerly gathered up a troop of negroes, by capture or by purchase from marauding chieftains, to be sold as slaves in Cuba or Hispaniola. No cargo, Englishmen knew, would be more welcome to the Spanish colonists, in spite of King Philip's strict orders prohibiting such trade. More commonly, however, the adventurer proceeded directly westward from the Azores, hoping on the way to encounter some rich galleon from Mexico or the Isthmus and obtain at the very outset a prize which should make all the adventurers rich. It is astonishing to see the audacity with which the little English vessels attacked these argosies with portly sail, Like signiors or rich burghers on the flood, In one of his earlier voyages, Sir Francis Drake and his men, in three pinnaces so small that they had been stowed away in pieces on board one of his little ships, sailed up to a great Spanish ship in the harbor of Cartagena, so large that they found difficulty in climbing up her sides, took possession of her, drove the Spaniards below, cut the cables, and in mere bravado towed her up under the guns of the fort and left her there. Cavendish, in the Desire, one hundred and twenty tons, and the Content, sixty tons, attacked and captured, off the coast of California, a great galleon, the Santa Anna of seven hundred tons burden, laden with spices and rich treasure from the Philippine Islands. Later, near Manilla, he captured a Spaniard, and sent him with a message to the Spanish governor, to the effect that he should come again with ample force in a few years' time, when he should expect the enemies of God and man to have ready an abundant store of wealth for him to seize ! If the adventurer lands upon one of the West Indian islands or on the Spanish Main, we see the same audacious courage and often the same marvelous success. Rich cargoes of gold and silver, pearls and emeralds, sugar, cochineal, and hides, were brought back to delight the hearts of merchant-adventurers in London or Exmouth or Devonport. The gains of Drake's expedition to the West Indies in 1585 and 1586 amounted to sixty thou sand pounds sterling. From Hawkins' second West Indian voyage he and the friends who helped him to fit it out obtained a profit of sixty per cent upon their investment; and this was ostensibly simply a trading voyage. In 1572 Drake, with seventy-three men, making a bold dash at Nombre de Dios, on the Isthmus, almost succeeded in capturing a treasure estimated at a million pounds sterling, contained in the treasure-house there, "wherein the golden harvest brought from Mexico and Peru to Panama was hoarded up till it could be conveyed into Spain." As it was, he and his men held all the region around in terror for months, and finally returned to England unmolested by the most powerful monarchy in the world. But English pluck and audacity were not always rewarded with success. In 1567 Sir John Hawkins, with the Jesus of Lubeck, the Minion, and four smaller vessels, sailed boldly into the harbor of Vera Cruz, where were twelve ships lying in port, with cargoes amounting to £200,000 in gold and silver. Scarcely were the Englishmen established in possession of the harbor, however, when a fleet of thirteen great ships of Spain appeared in the offing, having on board the new viceroy of Mexico. The English commander haughtily refused him entrance into his own port. An amicable agreement was made, however, and the Spaniards sailed in. But scarcely two days had passed when, in the early morning, the Spaniards attacked the English from their ships and their land fortifications at once. All day long the fight raged. Finally the Minion and one of the smaller vessels escaped; the other four were wrecked or taken by the Spaniards. The Minion was badly damaged and so overcrowded that famine ensued. Finally Hawkins felt obliged to put one hundred or half of his company ashore, that the rest might reach home. The poor men who were abandoned on the shore of the Gulf wandered for many days through pestilential morasses, attacked and stripped of clothing by Indians, torn by the brambles, and plagued almost to madness by mosquitoes. At last they came to a Spanish town, whence they were driven to Mexico in chains. There they were imprisoned, or hired out as slaves. When the Inquisition was established, a few of them were burnt, and some were sent to the galleys. Many adventurous attempts to escape were made, followed often by recap ture and still more cruel sufferings. ashore in Mexico. Nearly in April his fleet came in sight of Cadiz, the greatest port of Spain. Drake in a letter to Walsingham said: all died in Mexico. A few died or were burned in Spain. One, making an almost miraculous escape, reached England in 1582. Another, Job Hartop, managed to reach England in 1590, twenty-three years after he had been set During this time he had suffered imprisonment in Mexico two years, in the Contractation House in Seville one year, in the Inquisition House at Triana one year. He had been in the galleys twelve years, in the Everlasting Prison four years, and had been for three years the menial servant of a Spanish gentleman. And he that will know more of what a sea-rover might have to suffer, let him read the narratives of Miles Philips and Job Hartop in the third volume of Hakluyt's Voyages.* The story of such sufferings as these, selfprovoked though they in large measure were, served only to add fuel to the English hatred of Spain. As public feeling rose, Elizabeth ventured on acts of more and more open hostility, until finally the execution of Mary Queen of Scots, coming at the end of a long series of causes of conflict, brought upon England the dreaded Armada. The repulse of that formidable armament was largely achieved by the sea-dogs who had won fame in the expeditions we have described. In respect to organization, however, it was the work of the royal navy, and not of those irregular enterprises which form our especial subject. We leave its story, therefore, to be read in the glowing pages of Froude or of Motley; but we may properly speak of Drake's famous attack upon the Armada the year before. Already in the early part of the year 1586 it was known to Englishmen that the King of Spain was making great preparations for a naval invasion of their country. Sir Francis Drake was eager to follow up his exploits in the Spanish colonies by a direct attack upon Spain itself, or in his own picturesque phrase, "to singe King Philip's beard." With four ships and two pinnaces lent by the Queen, and about twenty more large and small crafts, Drake set out from Plymouth, with devout prayers to God, for the spoliation of the Spanish Antichrist. On a Wednesday afternoon Besides Hakluyt and Purchas, very useful books are Fox Bourne's English Seamen under the Tudors, Barrow's Naval Worthies of Queen Elizabeth's Reign, and Payne's "Voyages of the Elizabethan Seamen." Kingsley's novel, "Westward Ho!" gives a wonderfully interesting and vivid picture of the times.-J. F. J. There we found sundry great ships, some laden, some half laden, and some ready to be laden with the king's provisions for England. I assure your Honor the like preparation was never heard of, nor known, as the King of Spain hath and daily maketh to invade England. His provisions of bread and wines are so great as will suffice forty thousand men a whole year, which if they be not impeached before they join, will be very perilous. Our interest therefore is, by God's help, to intercept their meetings by all possible means we may, which I hope shall have such good success as shall tend to the advancement of God's glory, the safety of her Highness's royal person, the quiet of her country, and the annoyance of the enemy. Here then was the prey. Its destruction would probably delay for a year the dreaded assault upon the Protestant Queen and her island kingdom. What followed must rank as one of the most marvelous achievements of this age of marvels. Drake was in the road of Cadiz on his errand some thirty-six hours at most. Within that short period, he and his twenty-five little vessels sank a Biscayan ship of one thousand two hundred tons, burnt the one thousand five hundred ton ship of the Marquis of Santa Cruz, King Philip's high admiral, destroyed thirty-one other ships of one thousand, eight hundred, six hundred, four hundred, and two hundred tons apiece, removing the most valuable portions of their cargoes, and carried away with them four ships laden with provisions. The vessels destroyed had in the aggregate a tonnage twice as great as that of Drake's whole fleet, and the loss of stores, to the King of Spain and his subjects, was estimated at half a million ducats,* or nearly three-quarters of a million dollars. The Spanish force in the harbor was twice as great as Drake's in number of vessels; in number of men and guns it was four or five times as great, for many of the great Spanish galleys were twice or thrice as large as the largest of Drake's ships; and forty galleys from neighboring ports were sent to join in the attack upon it. Throughout the whole fight Drake lost only one small vessel, which had but five English * These coins were so called from the Latin legend on the early Sicilian pieces which, translated, reads, "May this duchy [ducat-us] which you rule, be devoted to thee, O Christ." men on board. After this tremendous exploit, he withdrew in good order, and cruised in a leisurely way along the coast of Spain, plundering and destroying everywhere. On the way home, he fell in with and captured the San Felipe, "the King of Spain's own ship come from the East Indies, and the greatest ship in all Portugal, richly laden." Finally he returned to England, having in a little voyage of twelve weeks inflicted unexampled damage on the most dreaded power in Europe, and won an almost unexampled amount of booty. Even after the destruction of the Armada, the work of the sea-rovers went on, especially in and around the Azores. It was here, in 1591, that gallant Sir Richard Grenville won imperishable glory in the famous last fight of the Revenge. Finding himself face to face with fifty-one Spanish vessels, nearly all of them twice or three times as large as the Revenge, he refused to flee, and proudly resolved to force his way through the Spanish squadron. From three o'clock in the afternoon until daybreak the next morning, Grenville and his handful of men fought with heroic courage against these overwhelming odds, and when at last all the powder was gone, and nearly all the men had been slain or wounded, Grenville, mortally wounded but still proudly refusing to surrender, was borne on board the Spanish admiral's ship. There attended with reverent admiration by the Spanish officers, he lingered two or three days and then died with these memorable words upon his lips: and a quiet mind, for that I have ended my life as Here die I, Richard Grenville, with a joyful his country and his Queen, for honor and rea good soldier ought to do, who has fought for ligion. Wherefore my soul joyfully departeth out of this body, leaving behind it an everlasting fame, as a true soldier who hath done his duty as he was bound to do. Such were the men, and such the exploits, by which the naval greatness of England was founded. [April 5.] LIFE A GAIN. SUNDAY READINGS. SELECTED BY BISHOP VINCENT. life has much value. So soon as there is a suspicion that there is not an eternal goodness behind and under life, it changes color I came that they may have life, and may have it abun- and grows cheap and poor. dantly. St. John, x. 10. TH `HERE is a strange question that has come under discussion of late,-a question symbolizing the audacity of the age and something of its lack of reverence,—namely, "Is life worth living?" The book that made it a title is nearly forgotten, but the question still enters into the speculations of the schools and into the common talk of men. It seems strange that any one should ask the question in soberness and sincerity, and as though it were debatable, until we recollect that a philosophy has won for itself recognition that has for its main thesis that life is not worth living because this is not only a bad world, but the worst possible world. It is not difficult to detect the genesis of this brave philosophy. So soon as one begins to doubt the goodness of God, or to suspect ever so vaguely that God is not infinitely good, one begins to doubt if It happens just now that in several directions the goodness of God, or, at least, the proofs of it are being questioned. The philosopher is still stumbling over the problem of the ages, the existence of evil, with partial but not entire relief in the doctrine of evolution; the why is simply carried further back. The scientists, many of them, are saying that for their part they see no clear evidence of a creating goodness; see much indeed that looks in an opposite direction, or simple indifference, to happiness. The reactions of an intense age, and the revelations of motives in a state of society in which there is no secrecy, an age strong in analysis but weak in synthesis, favor the same tendency. Suddenly, the world seems to have discovered that it suffers, and that man is selfish ;. it can dissect life with alarming accuracy, but it has not yet learned to put it together. When there is doubt as to the source, there will be doubt of the value of whatever flows from it. If God is not good, His greatest gift may not be good. If the infinite force does not act beneficently, no inferior force can evolve any good. A philosophy that flies in the face of the existing and the inevitable, forfeits its name. And a philosophy which, having found out that life is undesirable, proposes to get rid of it, the position of the pessimist-school, namely, to educate the race to the wisdom of universal and simultaneous suicide,-has, at least, a difficult matter in hand, the end of which need not awaken concern. There is some other issue before mankind than selfextinction. Life may get to appear very poor and worthless, but the greater part will prefer to live it out to the end. Great nature has us in hand, and, while allowing us a certain liberty, and even wildness of conduct, has barriers beyond which we cannot go. You may rail at existence," she says, "but you cannot escape it." It may be impossible to escape by what is termed self-destruction. We were not consulted as to the beginning of existence; it may be that we can have no voice as to its end. We may throw ourselves over the battlements of the life that now holds us, but who can say that we may not be seized by the mysterious force that first sent us here, and be thrust back into this world, or some other no better, to complete an existence over which we have no power? If a malignant or indifferent force evolved human existence, it is probable that, by reason of these very qualities, it will continue this existence; were it to permit extinction it would violate its own nature. If existence is so wretched that extinction is desirable, it is necessary to suppose a good God in order to be certain of attaining it; no other would permit it. But will He not rather deliver from the misery and preserve the life? That there are gains and losses, wrought even into the texture of life, there is no question, but which are in excess, is a matter of debate. That multitudes make life a waning process through evil, there is no doubt. The real question is, Is life so organized that it is a process of gain rather than loss, with the further question if the loss does not subserve the gain? [April 12.] mate of the loss and gain as we pass our allotted years. 1. We lose the perfection of physical life, its grace and exuberance. The divineness of childhood, the exultation in mere existence, the splendor of youth, the innocence that knows no guile, the faith that never questions, the hope that never doubts, the joy that knows no bounds because the limitations of life are not yet reached,—these all pass away. "But are not these immense losses?" we say. "What can be better or greater than these?" In a certain sense there is nothing better or higher, but these qualities are not properly our own; they are colors laid on us, divine instincts temporarily wrought into us, but not actual parts of us; they fall away from us because they are not. Yet they are not wholly and forever lost; they recede in order that we may go after and get firmer hold of them. The child is guileless by nature-the man because he has learned to hate a lie. The child is joyous, it knows not why-God made it so; it is Nature's joy rather than its own; but a man's joy is the outcome of his nature reduced to harmony,-thought, feeling, and habit working under personality to the same end. One is necessarily ephemeral, the other is lasting, because it is the product of his own nature; it may not be so complete and divine of aspect, but it has become an integral and permanent factor of the man. The loss, therefore, is not so great as it seems; it is rather a transformation. 2. We lose, in time, the forceful, executive qualities. We no longer undertake enterprises of pith and moment, or take on heavy responsibilities. Old men do not explore unknown continents, or learn new languages, or found new institutions, or head reforms, or undertake afresh the solid works of the world; the needed energy is gone, but not necessarily lost; it may have been transmuted, as motion is changed into heat and light. 3. When we come to mental qualities, there is smaller loss. It is sometimes thought that the imagination decays with years, but it rather changes its character. In youth it is more erratic, and may better be named as fancy; in age it is steadier and more subservient to the other faculties, entering into them, making the judgment broader, the sense of truth keener, and bring Let us, if we can, make a comparative esti- ing the possibilities of truth within reach of us would choose, if we might, to go back to any previous phase, and stay there. We may long for the innocence of youth, but who would take it with its ignorance-for the zest of youth, but not at the expense of immaturity; for the energy of mid-life, but not at the cost of the respose and wide wisdom of age. thought. In the greater minds the imagina- and "round to a separate mind." None of tion rather grows than lessens. Sophocles, Milton, Goethe, lead a vast host of poets and philosophers who never waned in the exercise of this grandest faculty. It is to be doubted if there is such a thing as decay of mental power. When one is tired one cannot think, words come slowly, the thread of discourse is easily lost, memory is dull, the judgment loses its breadth, the perception its acuteness; but a few hours of sleep restore the seeming loss. So what seems decay may pertain only to the age-wearied flesh; the mind is still there, as it was in weariness and sleep, with all its strength and stores. It is true that in the years of middle life, there is a certain thoroughness and intensity in all things done or thought, that comes from strength, but the judgment is not so sure, the grasp is not so comprehensive, and the taste so correct, as later on. This, then, seems to be the sum of the losses sustained in life; a certain natural or elemental divineness of early childhood not to be kept as such, but to be lost as a divine gift, and reproduced as a human achievement; the bloom and zest of youth; the energy and force of maturity, and certain features or sides of our mental qualities. But we detect no loss of moral qualities, and but little of mental. The order is significant; the physical changes utterly, the mental partially, the moral not at all, if the life is normal. [April 19.] What now do we gain as life goes on? 1. This evident progress from the lower to the higher must be accounted a gain. It does not matter how this progress is made, whether by actual loss of inferior qualities supplanted by higher, or by a transformation of forces, though the latter is more in accord with natural science, which asserts that force is indestructible—an assertion of tremendous scope of inference; for if force is indestructible, it must have a like basis or medium through which it acts; thus it becomes a potent argument for an unending life. However this be, each phase of existence is so beautiful that we are loath to see it yield to the next; still it is a richer stage that comes on. A mother, enraptured with the perfect beauty of her babe, wishes, with foolish fondness, that she might keep it a babe forever, yet is content to see it unfold its larger life, 2. Though we lose energy and courage and present hope, we gain in patience, and, upon the whole, suffer less. It is glorious to defy fortune with strength, but it is better to be able to bear fortune with patience. We are under illusion while we are pitting our energy against the forces of the world, but when at last we can say, "I cannot conquer but I can endure," we are no longer acting under illusion but in true accord with the might and majesty of our nature. Ulysses could not contend against the tempest, but he was superior to it when He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured. "Man is but a reed," says Pascal, "but he is a thinking reed; were the universe to crush him he would still be more noble than that which kills him, for he knows that he dies, and the universe knows nothing of the advantage it has over him." This elaborated patience and knowledge of one's relations to life, is an immeasurable gain over the untested strength and false measurements of our earlier years. 3. We make another gain as thought grows calm, and the judgment is rounded to its full strength. Knowledge becomes wisdom. Passion and prejudice pass away from our estimates. And especially we gain in comprehensiveness and so lose the spirit of partisanship. This not only renders age valuable to the world, but it is a comfortable possession; it is a deliverance from the small tempests that fret the surface of life. Then only, truth feeds the mind with its unalloyed sweetness. 4. There is a great gain in the later years of life, in certain forms of love and sympathy. The passion of early love, its semiselfishness, and the restriction and prejudice of early sympathy, pass away, but love itself remains in all its strength, purer, calmer, more universal. It takes on a yearning quality, it pities, it forgives and overlooks, |