Sir Tristram at the Court of Arthur.(From the fresco by William Dyer, R.A., in the King’s Robing-Room in the Houses of Parliament.)

Sir Tristram at the Court of Arthur.(From the fresco by William Dyer, R.A., in the King’s Robing-Room in the Houses of Parliament.)

“The blue-eyed raceWhose force rough-handed should renew the world.”

“The blue-eyed raceWhose force rough-handed should renew the world.”

“The blue-eyed raceWhose force rough-handed should renew the world.”

“The blue-eyed race

Whose force rough-handed should renew the world.”

What warriors be these who now pass by? Tall, big-boned, blue-eyed men they are, with long yellow hair falling upon their shoulders from beneath their winged helmets.

Their home is a sad, barren, overcrowded country, and their poverty drives them to a life of plunder on the seas and to the shores of more favoured lands. They love fighting as the breath of their nostrils; and now, in their long ships, these dreaded pirates harry Britain at a hundred points. Death frights them not, for he who falls gloriously in battle rides Odin’s horse to Valhalla, where his days will be spent in cleaving the helmets and hacking the limbs of like heroes with himself, and his nights in feasting on a great boar whose flesh never grows less and in drinking great draughts of mead out of the skulls of his enemies. For the “niddering” coward who dies ingloriously in his bed these English pirates have nothing but scorn and contempt. To avoid the shame of a peaceful death they will hurl themselves from the cliffs, or push out in a frail craft into tempestuous seas, and perishing amidst the wind and the waves, win the right to enter Odin’s halls. A Roman poet says of them: “Fierce are they beyond other foes; the sea is their school of war and the storm their friend; they are sea-wolves that live on the plunder of the world.” Such are the foes against whom Arthur fights and falls.

The warriors whom we now greet are Hengist and Horsa, the two English chiefs who first won a foothold for themselves on the soil of Britain. An old legend tells us that they were scouring the coasts of Kent what time Vortigern, the British king, was sore beset by the Picts and Scots. Half beside himself with terror at their raids, he calls on these adventurers to aid him. If they will drive back the northern barbarians, they shall have food and pay for their services. The bargain is struck. Hengist and Horsa beach their keels on the gravel spit at Ebbsfleet and land their warriors. The Picts and Scots are driven back, and the victorious English return from the fray. Then they ask a whimsical boon—namely, as much land as a bull’s hide can encompass. The request is granted, and Hengist cuts his bull’s hide into long strips, and with them engirdles a rocky place, whereon he erects a fortress. Thus the English secure their first foothold in Britain.

The news is wafted across the sea, and a new swarm of “sea-wolves” appears. They come in seventeen ships, and on the stern of the leading vessel the banner of the White Horse waves in the breeze. With the newcomers arrives a new conqueror, wearing no helmet and carrying no battle-axe, but armed only with a pair of beautiful blue eyes and a face of surpassing loveliness. She is Hengist’s fair daughter Rowena, the English princess who is destined to win more British acres by her bright glances than the “sea-wolves” have won by their swords and numberless forays. Vortigern feasts with her father, and she hands him the cup of greeting which she has kissed, and bids him “Waes hael.” He falls a willing victim to her charms; he woos and wins her, and as a marriage gift Vortigern bestows upon her brothers a large part of his kingdom.

Bitterly resenting this gift, the jealous Britons gather in arms and attack the English. Horsa is slain at the battle of the Fort-of-the-Eagles, and for a time the banner of the White Horse is trailed in the dust. Hengist, driven to his ships, returns with reinforcements, offering peace to the British chiefs, whom he invites to a feast. Both sides are to come unarmed to the hospitable board; but Hengist orders his followers to conceal their swords beneath their garments, and when the wine-cup has gone round, the fatal signal is given, and they fall upon their guests and slaughter every Briton present save Vortigern. The legends vary, but the truth remains that the English mastered the Britons on the south and east coasts, and established large settlements. Hengist’s success was the signal for a host of other English adventurers to put their fortune to the test. They swarmed across the North Sea, and the work of conquest and settlement began.

Little boots it to tell of the savage and gory strife that raged in this island during the century and a half which followed. “Some of the Britons,” says an old chronicler, “were caught in the hills and slaughtered; others were worn out with hunger, and yielded to a life-long slavery. Some passed across the sea; others trusted their lives to the clefts of the mountains, to the forests, and to the rocks of the sea.” One hundred and fifty years after Hengist and Horsa landed on the Isle of Thanet the English ruled in this land from the North Sea to the Severn, and from the English Channel to the Firth of Forth.

Britain had become England. No longer was it the land of the Britons but the land of the English. In the wild, rugged western part of the island the Britons alone remained independent. Gradually their land was shorn from them till only the hills and valleys of Wales were left to them. There they remain to this day, speaking the speech of Arthur, and singing the lays of those far-off ages when the whole fair land of Britain was theirs from sea to sea.

“Our clock strikes when there is a change from hour to hour; but no hammer in the Horologe of Time peals through the Universe when there is a change from Era to Era.”

“Our clock strikes when there is a change from hour to hour; but no hammer in the Horologe of Time peals through the Universe when there is a change from Era to Era.”

Hand in hand a king and queen pass by, linked in wedded love and in undying fame. She is a sweet Frankish princess, with the light of tender affection in her eye, and the sweet serenity of an uplifting faith on her brow. He is a tall, bearded Saxon, with the martial air of one who has fought battles from his youth up; yet withal he is calm and reflective, equally at home on the battlefield, in the council chamber, and on the judgment seat. He is a pagan and she is a Christian; he bows before Odin, she before Christ.

Well-nigh a century and a half have gone since Hengist and Horsa sped their keels to these shores as the advance-guard of those great invasions which planted a new race on the soil. Generations of English men and women have come and gone since their sires with battle-axe and brand reft the land from its old inhabitants. No longer do the English war with the Britons, the remnant of whom dwell safely in the wild mountains and valleys of the west, or serve their new masters as slaves. They now war with each other. Ambitious kings strive to make themselves supreme in the land, and many a fierce fight is fought between the rivals. Now and then a powerful king reduces his fellow-kings to obedience, but frequently the conqueror of one month is the hunted fugitive of the next. Ethelbert, the king who now passes by with Bertha his wife, has made himself overlord of all the land except Northumbria. With this exception, his sceptre is supreme from the Forth to the English Channel.

Rome, once the proud and ruthless “mistress of the world,” has lost for ever her ancient sway. No longer does the wide world stand in awe of her. But on the ruins of her lost dominion a new, a merciful, and a blessed power is springing up. She has become the centre of the Christian religion, and ere long she stretches out her missionary arms to the isles of the west. St. Patrick is commissioned as the ambassador of God to convert the Scots in Ireland to the new faith. Devoted men in skin-clad boats of wicker-work cross the channel from the Emerald Isle to carry the good news to the natives of south-west Scotland. Amongst them is the great Columba of Donegal, prince in the eyes of his fellows, but in his own a meek bondsman of Christ. With his twelve companions he steers for the rising sun, and his barks run ashore on the little bare island of Iona, where he lands and builds his wattled church and the rude huts of his infant monastery. From this retreat, which has become one of the most sacred spots on earth, Columba’s friends go fearlessly through the land into the wildest glens and the remotest clachans, preaching the gospel, and slowly and surely winning the Picts and Scots to Christianity.

But England is still in her pagan darkness; she knows nothing except by vague rumour of the new faith which is slowly transforming the world. The English still worship their fierce old deities; still swear by oak, thorn, and ash; still look to Valhalla as the meed of the warrior who dies in hard-fought battle. Men of kindred blood still struggle for mastery under their kings, and the vanquished are still found in the slave-markets of the Continent.

It is the sight of English lads exposed for sale in Rome which touches the heart of a young deacon, and stirs him to cherish the conversion of these islanders as the great ideal of his life. He sees the white limbs, the fair faces, the blue eyes, and the yellow hair of the lads, and asks the merchant whence they come. “From Britain,” is the answer. “Are they Christians or pagans?” is his next question; and when he learns that they are pagans, he sighs heavily and exclaims, “Ah! grief of griefs that the prince of darkness should lay claim to beings of such fair form; that there should be so much grace in the countenance, yet none in the soul.”

When he learns that they are of the race of Angles, his propensity to pun—ever the weakness of the scholar—finds a rare opportunity. “The Angles,” cried he, “should beangels. From Deira come they? They shall be snatchedde ira Dei—from the wrath of God. And their king, say you, is Ella?Hallelujahshall be sung in Ella’s land.” Thus out of his infinite pity for the afflicted and distressed, Gregory’s heart begins to yearn towards the far-off islanders still in heathen bondage. The old stories tell us that he purchased the slaves, clothed them and taught them, and sent them back to England. Several times he begs to be allowed to visit England in order to realize his old wish, but Rome cannot spare him. In the fullness of time he becomes Pope, and though the triple crown is on his head and he is surrounded with the splendour of a sovereign, he does not forget the beautiful barbarians in their island home, and he only waits a favourable opportunity to send a mission to them.

The long-looked-for opportunity soon arrives. Ethelred of Kent weds the fair daughter of the King of the Franks, and the marriage contract guarantees the Christian princess the right to exercise her religion unmolested. She brings in her train a single priest, and in the little church of St. Martin’s, Canterbury—built in Roman times, and still remaining as the oldest Christian church in the land—she kneels before the altar, and prays oft and earnestly that the land of her adoption may be won for Christ. She pleads with her noble-minded husband to forsake his gods and embrace the new faith. He hears, and he ponders, and at length, in answer to her prayers, sends a message to Rome, inviting Gregory to send the mission which he has long contemplated.

And now let the pageant proceed. Splendid and imposing it is. Somewhere on the Isle of Thanet, where Cæsar’s legions had landed, and Hengist and Horsa had drawn their keels ashore, a double throne is set up beneath the open sky. Ethelbert and his chiefs will meet the monks under no roof, lest witchcraft should prevail. Beneath the canopy of heaven king and queen—he willing to be convinced, but withal calmly critical; she, prayerfully expectant—seat themselves. They have hardly done so before the voices of the monks chanting a psalm are borne on the breeze. Louder and louder it swells as the procession draws near, headed by a picture of the Saviour and a silver crucifix.

Halting at the foot of the throne, the head of the mission, Augustine, begins to declare with all the fervour of his nature the blessings and hopes of the new faith, and earnestly beseeches the king to forswear his gods. Ethelbert listens, but the hour of his conversion is not yet. His answer reveals his clear judgment and his open mind. “Your promises are fair, but new and uncertain. I cannot abandon the rites which my people have hitherto observed, but I will hold you harmless and treat you hospitably. Nor will I forbid any one whom you can convince to join in your faith.” No fairer answer can be expected, and Augustine begins his labours under happy auspices. Ere long Ethelbert is baptized with ten thousand of his subjects, and Augustine has done his greatest and most enduring work; he has won a kingdom for his Master.

Pass on, Ethelbert and Bertha, linked in wedded love and in undying fame! It is your blessed privilege to plant the cross of Christ in the southern shires of this our England. Long and sore will be the struggle ere its beams irradiate the whole land, but it will conquer at last, and in the long roll of saints and martyrs who have striven valiantly in the divine work your twin names shall stand proud and high.

COLUMBA PREACHING.(From the picture by William Hole, R.S.A.)

COLUMBA PREACHING.(From the picture by William Hole, R.S.A.)

Augustine preaching to Ethelbert and Bertha.(From the picture by Stephen B. Carlill.)

Augustine preaching to Ethelbert and Bertha.(From the picture by Stephen B. Carlill.)

“Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken.”

“Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken.”

“Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken.”

“Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken.”

Who comes hither? A simple, shy monk, half-withdrawing from the gaze of the bystanders, and unwitting that it is he whom men greet with such resounding acclaim. Kings and knights have flaunted their plumed helms and storied banners before us; but here is a conqueror in the realm of peace, a paladin of the mind and heart. His home was in the abbey which royal Hilda had founded on the wind-swept east cliff of Whitby. Not always did he wear the cowl of the monk. When the divine gift which placed him first in the muster-roll of English poets descended upon him he was an obscure cowherd who tended the cattle and slept in the byre. When the day’s work was done, and the servants of the abbey feasted together, he was wont to flee abashed as the harp came towards him and his turn arrived to tune the simple lay for the entertainment of his fellows.

Once when he had risen from the feast and crept quietly to his shed, he fell asleep and dreamed that One came to him and said, “Cædmon, sing Me something.” “I know not how to sing,” replied the man; “and for this cause left I the feast.” “Yet,” said the Vision, “you must sing to Me.” “What shall I sing?” he asked. “Sing,” the Vision said, “about the beginning of created things.” At once Cædmon began a hymn in praise of the Creator of the world. Beautiful images flashed into his mind, noble words flew to his lips. He had won a victory far beyond that of any conqueror in any age; he had marshalled in triumph the legions that most surely sway the hearts and inspire the deeds of his countrymen; he had composed the first great English song.

We salute thee, Cædmon. Thy name will ever be dear to those who cherish their noble English tongue, and rejoice in the majestic literature which has glorified it for all time.

Chapter IV.THE VIKING INVASIONS.

“What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Their frozen sails, the low, pale sunOf Thule’s night has shone upon.”

“What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Their frozen sails, the low, pale sunOf Thule’s night has shone upon.”

“What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Their frozen sails, the low, pale sunOf Thule’s night has shone upon.”

“What sea-worn barks are those which throw

The light spray from each rushing prow?

Their frozen sails, the low, pale sun

Of Thule’s night has shone upon.”

ROOM for the Vikings! the sons of the creek, the bluff, stalwart rovers who love the salt sea with a consuming passion, and shout with glee as the waves foam beneath them and tempest roars about them. Mighty warriors are they, wild and untamed as the element they love, swift as the falcon, remorseless as the vulture, fierce as the wolf. From the shores of the Baltic they come, swarming out of their barren homelands, and descending with fire and sword upon all the coasts of Western Europe. Every champion amongst them ardently desires to be aBerserk, and thus to be regarded as the bravest of the brave, utterly contemptuous of death. These Berserks within sight of the foe are wont to lash themselves into a frenzy, so that they bite their shields and rush to the fray, wielding club or battle-axe with almost superhuman strength.

No Christian message of peace and brotherhood has touched their hearts; they still swear by the Asir, and still glory in their descent from the grim gods of their dark and hopeless creed. They lust for blood, and their fiercest loathing is reserved for them who have abandoned Odin and Thor for the mild faith of the “White Christ.” They shed with unholy joy the blood of priests; they glory in the plunder and the burning of churches. They are a scourge, not only to England, Scotland, and Ireland, but to the whole of Europe; and men pray in their churches, “From the fury of the Northmen, good Lord, deliver us.”

Never in the whole history of the world have men “followed the sea” with such fearlessness and keen delight as these Vikings. The sea is their “swan road,” their “Viking path,” their “land of the keel,” their “glittering home.” Their ships are “deer of the surf” and “horses of the sea.” Frail barks they seem to us, small and not very seaworthy; but the men who man them are consummate sailors, and they make astounding voyages with nothing but a thin plank between them and destruction. The Orkneys know them; they have seen Hecla shoot out its fiery lava in remote Iceland; they have even trodden the icy shores of Greenland, far across the dreaded Western Ocean.

A Viking fleet is even now heading for our shores. Look at the long black ships, with their high prows curved in the semblance of a serpent. The sun glints on the bright shields which protect their bulwarks, on the mail which the warriors wear, and on the battle-axes and spears which they wield. The great sails flaunt painted devices—the eagle, the bear, the wolf, and the raven. Fierce are these creatures, but fiercer still the men who now come to harry these shores.

Yonder little village is happy and peaceful in the morning sunshine. The cosy farmhouses and the smiling fields with their rich promise of harvest tell the tale of comfort and contentment. Alas! the scene will change when these sea-wolves arrive. They will sail up the river-mouth, throw up stockaded earthworks to secure their retreat, and then begin the congenial work of pillage and slaughter. Men, women, and innocent babes will be slain, cattle will be driven off, and the smoke of burning roof-trees will darken the sky. Yonder minster, where the frightened monks are trembling before the altar, will be raided; its treasures, the gifts of generations of pious souls, will be seized; the gilded cross will be torn down and trampled upon, and blood-eagles will be carved on the backs of the hated priests. Then torch and flame will do their work; and the Vikings, having devastated the countryside like locusts, will retire to their ships glutted with blood and laden with booty.

Again and again they will return, bolder and bolder, and at length they will covet the fair land as their home. They will come in such force that they will reave half the land from the English, and then a Viking will rule the realm. Ay, and Englishmen will come to honour and love him. Then the Viking settlers will disappear, absorbed into the mass of the nation, and endowing the national character with a new strain of courage, daring, and adventure. But before that happy day dawns the land will run red with blood, many homes will be ruined, many patriotic hearts will break, and the star of England will seem to have set for ever.

“Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,The pious Alfred, king to Justice dear;Lord of the harp and liberating spear,Mirror of princes!”

“Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,The pious Alfred, king to Justice dear;Lord of the harp and liberating spear,Mirror of princes!”

“Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,The pious Alfred, king to Justice dear;Lord of the harp and liberating spear,Mirror of princes!”

“Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,

The pious Alfred, king to Justice dear;

Lord of the harp and liberating spear,

Mirror of princes!”

Now, amidst the gloom, the greatest of all our kings appears. “England’s Darling,” and “Truth-Teller,” men called him in his lifetime, and these proud titles well attest the affection and esteem in which the men of his own age justly held him. Nor has his glory faded with the passing of centuries. The more his career is studied, the greater he grows and the brighter shines his peerless fame. His nature was a beautiful blend of courage and tenderness, perseverance and patience. He loved justice and mercy, and he lived and died for his people. Warrior, statesman, scholar, lawgiver, and true patriot, he stands for all time as the type and model of the perfect king. A thousand years have sped since his pure spirit departed, but still he is one of the greatest glories of our land. His life was one long struggle against fierce foes, against the darkness of ignorance, against the desolation of ruin and the cruel pangs of bodily pain, but he triumphed over all—

“Not making his high place the lawless perchOf wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage-groundFor pleasure; but through all this tract of yearsWearing the white flower of a blameless life.”

“Not making his high place the lawless perchOf wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage-groundFor pleasure; but through all this tract of yearsWearing the white flower of a blameless life.”

“Not making his high place the lawless perchOf wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage-groundFor pleasure; but through all this tract of yearsWearing the white flower of a blameless life.”

“Not making his high place the lawless perch

Of wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage-ground

For pleasure; but through all this tract of years

Wearing the white flower of a blameless life.”

And now for his story, which writers have loved to dwell upon in every succeeding age. Born in royal Wantage, where his statue now stands, he was but three years of age when the Vikings made their first settlement in England. In that year a great army of Danes, with three hundred and fifty ships, swept up the Thames, sacked London and Canterbury, and put to flight an English army. Two years later, Alfred’s father, Ethelwulf, and his elder brother, Ethelbald, met them in battle, and after a stubborn fight won a great victory. Such a desperate struggle had not taken place in England for many years, and more than half the Danish army perished on the field. Another victory followed, and for a time the Danes were checked. So far, their coming had been but the low mutterings of the fierce storm which was soon to burst in all its fury. Alfred was cradled in an hour of terrible anxiety and ever-present danger.

Almost the first incident which his biographer recounts is the pretty story of how his mother sought to encourage her sons to learn to read. Showing the lads a beautifully-illuminated volume of English verse, and reading aloud some of its contents, she promised the volume to the first of them who could read it for himself. Fired by the desire to possess the volume, and also to learn something more of its wondrous pages, Alfred sought out a tutor, and ere long was able to claim it as his own. The love of letters, thus early demonstrated, grew with the years. In his later and more peaceful days he surrounded himself with scholars, and loved their company and converse better than aught else. Asser, the Welsh monk, who was his devoted friend, tells us that as “Alfred advanced through the years of infancy and youth, he appeared more comely in person than his brothers, and his countenance, speech, and manners were more pleasing than theirs. His noble birth and noble nature implanted in him from his cradle a love of wisdom above all things.”

In his twentieth year Alfred married a noble Mercian lady named Mercill. Meanwhile, the Danes, growing bolder and bolder, had become a grievous peril to the land. In the year of Alfred’s marriage they marched on York, and capturing it, pushed into Mercia and wintered at Nottingham. In the twenty-second year of Alfred’s life they triumphed over Edmund, King of the East Angles. Him they dragged forth and bound to a tree. Then with fiendish glee they shot arrows into his limbs, and at length, unable to break his proud and confident spirit, they struck off his devoted head. They parted his realm amongst themselves, and placed their chief, Guthrum, on his throne.

Next year King Ethelred and Alfred were overcome by the Danes at Reading. Roused by grief and shame at the loss of this battle, the English mustered in force and advanced against their foes at Ashdown. While Ethelred remained in his tent at prayer, Alfred led his men to the fight, and “with the rush of a wild boar,” charged up the slopes on which the Danes had stationed themselves. Long and fierce was the fray, but at nightfall victory rested with the English.

Their joy was short-lived; a fortnight later the Danes were again victorious, and soon another Viking army from across the sea joined them. In the same year died Ethelred of his wounds, and Alfred was crowned king of a realm which was little more than a name. A month later his small army was overcome, and black indeed was the outlook. “Let no one be surprised,” says Asser, “that the English had but a small number of men, for they had been all but worn out by eight battles in this self-same year; in the which there died one king, nine chieftains, and innumerable troops of soldiers.”

Two years of desperate fighting followed, and the Danes were victorious almost everywhere. At length Alfred was forced to withdraw with the little band which still followed him to the marshes of Somersetshire. Here, in the midst of a vast morass where the Tone and the Parret join their waters, lay a low lift of ground some two acres in extent, girded in by almost impassable fen-lands. This was the island of Athelney, and here Alfred threw up a fort, and waited and longed for happier days. It was about this time that the fugitive king, flying from his foes, entered the hut of a cowherd and begged for shelter. In the hut occurred that incident which is so familiar to every reader of English history. Asser tells the story, and doubtless he had it from Alfred’s own lips. It happened that on a certain day the wife of the cowherd prepared to bake her bread. The king, sitting near the hearth, was making ready his bows and arrows and other warlike implements, when the rough countrywoman beheld her loaves burning at the fire. She ran forward and hastily removed them, scolding the king for his inattention and carelessness:—

“Casn’t thee mind the ca-akes, man, and doossen zee ’em burn?I’m bound thee’s eat ’em vast enough, zo zoon as ’tis thee turn.”

“Casn’t thee mind the ca-akes, man, and doossen zee ’em burn?I’m bound thee’s eat ’em vast enough, zo zoon as ’tis thee turn.”

“Casn’t thee mind the ca-akes, man, and doossen zee ’em burn?I’m bound thee’s eat ’em vast enough, zo zoon as ’tis thee turn.”

“Casn’t thee mind the ca-akes, man, and doossen zee ’em burn?

I’m bound thee’s eat ’em vast enough, zo zoon as ’tis thee turn.”

“The unlucky woman,” continues Asser, “little thought that she was addressing the King Alfred.” We can readily imagine the momentary anger of the king as he heard the shrill clamour of the angry housewife, and the good-natured smile that almost immediately followed when he recognized the justice of the reproof. Legend, which has been very busy with this period of eclipse in Alfred’s career, tells us that he persuaded his host to study, and that in after and happier years the cowherd held high office in the Church.

Though apparently at his last extremity, Alfred did not abandon the struggle. Scarcely a day passed but he sallied forth at the head of his little band, to assail such forces of the enemy as approached his neighbourhood. In this guerilla warfare, amidst the swamps whose secret paths were quite unknown to the stranger, Alfred schooled himself in the arts of surprise, rapid onset, and equally rapid retreat. Patriotic Englishmen joined him in his fastness, and day by day his forces grew.

At length the dark night passed away, and the dawn of a new day began to flash the horizon. The hour of deliverance had arrived.

The Danes had established themselves in a strongly fortified camp at Chippenham, in Wiltshire. The hill which they occupied is still pointed out, and from the neighbouring plain it still appears rugged, abrupt, and difficult of ascent. The English forces were too few to venture on an unpremeditated attack; therefore Alfred arrayed himself as a wandering minstrel, and, harp in hand, approached the enemy’s outposts. Thescaldwould be right welcome, for the Danes ever loved a song, and camp life was dull. Alfred sang and played to the Danes, and was led even to the tent of Guthrum, the chief. As he struck the chords and trolled the lay, his keen eyes were busy photographing the defences of the camp on the sensitive plate of his memory. Dismissed with praise and gifts from the Danish entrenchments, he hastened to his island retreat, and there matured his plan of attack. The naked sword and the war-arrow were borne by loyal hands through the length and breadth of the south-western counties, and soon all was ready for the fateful battle.

Alfred drew up his forces on the plain, and Guthrum marshalled his men in front, with Bratton Hill, crowned by its strong encampment, as a secure retreat in the rear. Massing his men in a close shield-wall, the English king gave the signal for battle. His soldiers rushed on the enemy; they broke the Danish ranks, and a fierce hand-to-hand fight raged on the plain. Furious was themêléeof sweeping sword, crashing battle-axe, and sharp javelin, and slowly the Danes began to gain ground, when a storm of arrows suddenly fell upon them, followed by an impetuous charge of English spearmen. The Danes were swept to earth; and through the island ranks ran the inspiring rumour that a renowned English saint had joined the fray, and that angelic hosts were fighting for the stricken land. The English had fought stoutly before; now they were irresistible. The Danes fell before their onslaught like corn before the reaper’s sickle. All was over; the shattered remnant of the Vikings turned and fled to their hill-top camp, leaving the field strewn with their dead and dying.

Then Alfred girdled the hill with his forces, and for fourteen days closely besieged the Danes. Hunger, cold, fear, and despair gradually undermined the resolution of the besieged, and every day Alfred’s triumphant army was swelled by new recruits. On the fourteenth day Guthrum yielded, and humbly sued for peace. “They engaged to give the king as many hostages as he pleased, and to receive none from him in return—in which manner they had never before made peace with any one.”

“The king took pity on them, and received from them hostages, as many as he would. Thereupon the Danes swore that they would straightway leave the kingdom, and their king, Guthrum, promised to embrace Christianity and receive baptism.” Alfred himself was Guthrum’s sponsor at the ceremony, “receiving him as a son by adoption, and raising him up from the holy font of baptism. After this he remained twelve days with the king, who, together with all his companions, gave him rich gifts.”

In the year 879 the Danes left Chippenham, and after a time retired into East Anglia and settled down quietly in the Danelaw, according to the solemn treaty which the two kings had made. Again and again Viking fleets assailed Alfred, but he was more than a match for them. He no longer awaited their onsets, but built ships stronger and swifter than those of his foes, and thus was enabled to meet them on their own element. Alfred built the first English navy, and inaugurated that policy of naval defence which Britons of every succeeding age have recognized as the wisest and best. The foe who threatens our island shores must be met and vanquished on the encircling sea.

Right nobly did Alfred bestir himself during the few years of life remaining to him. He restored the towns, he founded monasteries, he gathered learned men about him, and laboured to build up England anew. Studious from his early years, he endeavoured to enrich his own mind and to encourage his people to learn the arts of reading and writing. Into the homely language understanded of the people he translated the best and most useful works of the Latin writers of his time, and founded schools, that the sons of his nobles might not grow up unlettered as their fathers. He gave the best of his attention to the four greatest things of national life—law, justice, religion, and education. He collected and studied the old laws of the nation: what was good he retained, what was bad he rejected. Never was king more eager to advance learning and make new discoveries. He sent embassies to the remotest parts of the then known world, and our earliest accounts of Arctic exploration are from his pen.

Method and order were the rule of his life. One portion of his income he allotted to his warriors and attendants; another to the buildings which his architects from beyond the seas erected for him; a third for the relief of foreigners; and the remainder for the Church, the schools, and the poor. His time, too, was methodically bestowed on good works. Eight hours each day were devoted to rest and refreshment; another eight hours to affairs of state; the remaining eight hours to study and religious exercises. To enable him rightly to apportion the time which he deemed so precious, he fashioned wax candles, six of which, burned in succession, marked the lapse of twenty-four hours. To guard against the irregularities caused by draughts, he enclosed his candles in lanterns of thin, transparent horn. Thus he measured his time, zealous that the golden sands should not run out unheeded, and that no day should pass without its tale of duty done, opportunities seized, and benefits conferred.

And now we must bid farewell to this peerless king. A thousand summers have come and gone since his countrymen bore him to his tomb, deeming that the light of their land had been extinguished. They loved and honoured him, and we revere his memory as that of probably the most perfect character in history. He remains as the mirror of monarchs in which they may perceive the elements of true majesty, and an inspiring example to all of triumphant devotion, fortitude, and faith.

Alfred in the Camp of the Danes.(From the design by H. A. Bone. By permission of Antony Gibbs, Esq.)

Alfred in the Camp of the Danes.(From the design by H. A. Bone. By permission of Antony Gibbs, Esq.)

“Canute o’ercame the race of Ethelred, and Danes wielded the dear realm of Angle-land, eight-and-twenty of winters numbered.”

“Canute o’ercame the race of Ethelred, and Danes wielded the dear realm of Angle-land, eight-and-twenty of winters numbered.”

“Canute o’ercame the race of Ethelred, and Danes wielded the dear realm of Angle-land, eight-and-twenty of winters numbered.”

“Canute o’ercame the race of Ethelred, and Danes wielded the dear realm of Angle-land, eight-and-twenty of winters numbered.”

No saint he who now strides by—a thrice-crowned king, with the Viking blood surging tumultuously in his veins. England, Norway, and Denmark own his sway; but though Denmark is the land of his birth, England is the land of his love and pride. Dane he is in form and feature, but his lust of strife and fierce Berserk rage are controlled by cool judgment and the generous instincts of a good but wayward heart, so that in his later days he grows wise and temperate. His father, Sweyn, “lighting his war-beacons in blazing homestead and town,” has harried the realm of England in revenge for a cruel massacre of his kinsmen by a weak and ruthless king, and Canute, ere his beard has grown, has entered into a glorious heritage.

Not without fierce strife has this kingdom of England come to him. He has met his match in Edmund Ironside, true hero and true Englishman. But Edmund is dead, and the young Dane is unchallenged master of the land. And now, secure in the possession of three kingdoms, he sets himself to win the confidence of his new subjects. The armed bands with which he has conquered his new realm are sent home, save for a stalwart bodyguard. He will trust his Englishmen, and will link his fortunes with theirs. He marries the beautiful widow of the late king, and labours to hold the balance even between Dane and native. As the years go by his new subjects come to be his best supporters, and England is England still, though a Dane sits on the throne.

A pagan born, he nevertheless becomes a zealous Christian, and many a fair monastery is reared and endowed by him. He strives to do justice to all men, and he pledges himself to rule according to the old and cherished law of the realm. One day, however, the fierce spirit within him suddenly flames up, and he slays with his own hand a soldier of his guard. When his wrath has died down he bitterly repents of the deed, and deplores the evil example which he has set to others. Then he descends from his throne and bids the Witan judge him and punish him, regardless of his rank and power. Flinging himself prostrate on the ground, he awaits the verdict which his judges dare not give, despite his promise of free pardon. They bid him appoint his own judgment. The fine for slaying a man is forty talents of silver. Canute sentences himself to pay nine times the sum, and nine talents of gold in addition. Some see in this act a mere theatrical display, a crafty method of re-enforcing the law which he, the lawgiver, had violated. Let us be charitable, and believe that he was sincere and honest in desiring to atone for his crime.

Better known is the story of the rebuke which he administered to the flattering courtiers who crowded round his throne. They, recounting his mighty deeds of valour, his conquests, his glories, were not ashamed to say, “Great lord, even the sea obeys you. The rising tide dare not wet the hem of your garment.” On the seashore Canute set up his throne, and as the waters rolled in and splashed about his feet he cried, “Confess ye now how frivolous and vain is the might of an earthly king compared with the Great Power who rules the elements, and can say unto the ocean, ‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.’ ”

“And he strongly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,But alone to praise and worship that which earth and seas obey;And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.King Canute is dead and gone; parasites exist alway.”

“And he strongly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,But alone to praise and worship that which earth and seas obey;And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.King Canute is dead and gone; parasites exist alway.”

“And he strongly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,But alone to praise and worship that which earth and seas obey;And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.King Canute is dead and gone; parasites exist alway.”

“And he strongly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,

But alone to praise and worship that which earth and seas obey;

And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.

King Canute is dead and gone; parasites exist alway.”

An old chronicler tells us a pleasing story of his love of minstrelsy. It was on the eve of a feast which he desired to keep in the abbey at Ely. As his barge sped through the maze of waters by which the island was approached, the voices of the chanting monks were borne faintly on the breeze. Bidding the rowers cease their work, Canute listened with unfeigned delight to the strain, rendered all the more harmonious by distance and the intervening waters. Then as the boat shot forward once more he composed the following verse, keeping time with the beat of the oars:——

“Merrily sang the monks of Ely,As Cnut the king rowed by;Row, knights, near the land,And let us hear these good monks sing.”

“Merrily sang the monks of Ely,As Cnut the king rowed by;Row, knights, near the land,And let us hear these good monks sing.”

“Merrily sang the monks of Ely,As Cnut the king rowed by;Row, knights, near the land,And let us hear these good monks sing.”

“Merrily sang the monks of Ely,

As Cnut the king rowed by;

Row, knights, near the land,

And let us hear these good monks sing.”

In Rome, the heart of Christendom, the Viking was still regarded as a heathen pirate, a deadly enemy alike of civilization and true religion. Canute was eager to remove this impression, and to bring his empire into union with the greatest spiritual power of the world. He therefore undertook a pilgrimage to Rome. West Saxon kings for three hundred years past had visited the Pope and the tombs of the saints, but now, for the first time, a Dane set out on the pious journey. A long train of attendants accompanied him, but he himself wore a pilgrim’s robe and carried a pilgrim’s staff in his hand. As he journeyed along the pilgrims’ route, he bethought him of those who should hereafter follow him, and made treaties with the masters of the Alpine passes, so that his subjects should come and go unmolested. Arrived in Rome, he prayed before the altars, placed rich gifts on every shrine, and purchased relics for the churches at home.

From Rome he wrote to the Witan a letter which reveals him in a most favourable light. Ere Canute passes by and our pageant knows him no more, let us extract one passage from the message which he sent to his people: “I would have you know that I have made a vow to Almighty God to regulate my life by the dictates of virtue, and to govern my people with judgment. If during the rashness of youth I have done anything contrary to justice, I will for the future, with the help of God, amend this to the best of my power. Wherefore I require and command all my counsellors to lend themselves to no injustice, either in fear of me or to favour the powerful. I recommend them, if they prize my friendship and their own lives, to do no harm or violence to any man, rich or poor. Let every one, in his place, enjoy that which he possesses, and not be disturbed in that enjoyment, either in the king’s name or in the name of any other person, nor under pretext of levying money for my treasury, for I need no money obtained by unjust means.”

Truly a kingly resolve! Looking down the long avenue of time, we recognize Canute as a “conscious creator of England’s greatness.” His empire was destined to fall to pieces at his death, and ere seven years had sped his line was extinct. A brief space more, and another tide of conquest swept over his beloved England. Another king of Viking breed held the sceptre which had fallen from his hand. Once more the English bowed their necks to a foreign lord; but Canute’s work was never undone, and the England of to-day acclaims him as her benefactor.

A GREAT VIKING.(From the picture by H. W. Koekkoek.)

A GREAT VIKING.(From the picture by H. W. Koekkoek.)

Chapter V.THE COMING OF THE NORMANS.

“Yet shall a third both these and thine subdue;There shall a lion from the sea-bord woodOf Neustria come roring, with a crewOf hungry whelpes.”

“Yet shall a third both these and thine subdue;There shall a lion from the sea-bord woodOf Neustria come roring, with a crewOf hungry whelpes.”

“Yet shall a third both these and thine subdue;There shall a lion from the sea-bord woodOf Neustria come roring, with a crewOf hungry whelpes.”

“Yet shall a third both these and thine subdue;

There shall a lion from the sea-bord wood

Of Neustria come roring, with a crew

Of hungry whelpes.”

NOW a remarkable scene diversifies our pageant. You see before you the great hall of the Norman castle of Bayeux. Baron, knight, bishop, and priest fill up the background, and you perceive at once that an important crisis has arrived. Your eye instantly fastens on the two chief actors in the scene; and you do well to study them closely, for rarely in the history of our land have two such notable men stood face to face.

The one, albeit he betrays some signs of anxiety, claims, at first sight, your admiration and sympathy. He is tall and comely, with the blue eyes and the golden beard and flowing locks of the Saxon. You picture him as a bluff, good-humoured Englishman, proud of his strength of arm, his prowess in the chase, his skill in warfare, and his sense of fair play. You can readily believe him to be winning and courteous in public life, calm and cool in the hour of danger, easy and sociable when the fight is over. He is Harold of England, the most gifted of the sons of old Earl Godwin, that dogged earl who, in his lifetime, was the champion of Englishmen at the court of the feeble but pious King Edward, now reigning in England. Edward loves the Norman and despises the Englishman, and his court swarms with aliens, on whom he lavishes land and wealth. Men say he has bequeathed his sceptre to a Norman, but his subjects will have none of it. Yonder fair-haired Englishman is their pride and choice, and him they will seat on the throne when Edward is dead. King Edward is now fast sinking into his grave, his last hours disquieted by the appearance of a comet which the priests assure him betokens ruin for his country.

Now turn your attention to the other chief actor in the scene. You know at a glance that he is a great man, and that he is destined to make history. He is a giant in stature; no man living but he can bend his mighty bow. Rough and hard has been his upbringing, and rough and hard is his temper. He, too, is of Viking blood. His ancestor was that fierce outlaw Rollo, so long of leg and so heavy of frame that no horse could carry him. This fierce and crafty Viking had wrested a province from the imbecile King of France, on condition of doing homage to the poor simpleton. But Rollo would bow the knee to none save the rugged gods of his fierce Northern creed, nor would any of his chieftains so demean themselves. A common soldier was Rollo’s deputy, and even he disdained to bow, but seized the foot of the king and in bringing it to his mouth jerked the poor monarch off his throne!

Rollo lives again in William, this mighty Norman duke at whom you are now gazing. His father’s nature is well set forth in the nickname which his followers gave him—Robert the Devil. William’s mother was a tanner’s daughter, and his haughty nobles once sneered at his base origin. They dare not do so now, for they know full well the weight of his mighty arm. As a boy he was heir to the most turbulent dukedom in Europe, but while in his teens he curbed the wild lawlessness of the barons and put a hook in their proud nostrils. Full well they remember the fate of those townsmen of Alençon who insulted his mother’s memory by hanging hides from their walls as a fitting welcome to “the tanner.” They will not soon forget how, in his wrath, he lopped off the feet and hands of his prisoners, and bade his slingers hurl the ghastly trophies into the town. Watchful, patient, cunning, ruthless, yet withal clear and sure of vision, he stands before you as by far the greatest warrior and statesman of his time.

What manner of man this masterful Norman duke is, you may learn from the story of his wooing. He did not seek his wife with smiles and honeyed words, nor did he deign to display his best graces to win her heart. That is not his way. When Matilda, daughter of the Earl of Flanders, rejected his suit, both on account of his birth and because she loved another, he was not daunted—not he. He waited for her in the streets of Bruges, and forthwith rolled her in the dirt and soundly cuffed her ears. Strange to say, his new mode of wooing was successful. Matilda went home, changed her attire, put ointment on her bruises, and when next her lover presented himself declared that “the marriage pleased her well.”

And now his mind is bent on quite another conquest, but the same masterful method will prevail. He has visited England. He has embraced the old king, who owes a debt of gratitude to Normandy; for was it not in that civilized land that he found shelter, succour, and education when Sweyn the Dane drove him as a callow boy into exile? William sees with his own eyes that the poor old king is not long for this world; and he notes with satisfaction that Normans surround his throne, tend him at table, and administer to him the rites of the Church. William has willing allies now, and he will have helpers, he thinks, when the time comes. So he returns to Normandy, and announces that Edward has named him as successor to the English throne.

But how come William and Harold, these rivals for a throne, to be under the same roof? Sooth to tell, the one is the captive of the other. Harold’s bonds are very real, though not apparent. Some months ago he was cruising in the Channel, when an unlucky storm drove him on the Norman shore. The neighbouring baron seized him, and rejoiced at the prospect of a heavy ransom; but William claimed him, and welcomed him to his court with a show of cordiality. Together they have waged war on the Bretons, and Harold has done prodigies of valour. They have shared the same tent and have fed at the same table. To the outward eye they are brothers.

But why does Harold’s countenance betray signs of anxiety? William has deemed the hour ripe for displaying the iron hand beneath the velvet glove. He now declares that Edward has bequeathed him the English crown, and bids Harold swear to assist him in securing it. The Englishman knows not what to do. An oath will be demanded, and this he must give, or death or life-long imprisonment will be his fate. Yet he knows full well that once in England he will forswear the oath, and ascend the throne which his countrymen deem him worthy to fill. The oath, he argues, can be of none effect, for hemustswear or perish.

His decision is made. A crucifix lies on a cloth of gold, and Harold is bidden to place his hand on it and swear to aid his captor to obtain the kingdom of England after the death of Edward. Reluctantly he does so, and then the cloth of gold is removed, and beneath it are discovered all the sacred relics which William has collected from a score of churches. Harold grows pale at the sight; his strong limbs tremble, and his heart fails him. He has sworn to befriend the Norman duke by an oath of the most terrible solemnity. Even the Normans standing by cry, “God help him.”

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