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                          [Cover Illustration]




                     =“_History is a pageant,_=
                     =_and not a philosophy._”=

                            =AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.=




[Illustration: =Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey.=
 (_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the Guildhall Art
   Gallery, London._)]




                           =THE  PAGEANT  OF=
                           =BRITISH  HISTORY=


                            =DESCRIBED  BY=
                 =J.  EDWARD  PARROTT,  M.A.,  LL.D.,=

                          =AND  DEPICTED  BY=
                    =THE  FOLLOWING  GREAT  ARTISTS=
 =_J. M. W. Turner_, _G. F. Watts_, _Benjamin West_, _Lord Leighton_,=
   =_Sir John Gilbert_, _Daniel Maclise_, _C. W. Cope_, _John Opie_,=
      =_William Dyce_, _Sir L. Alma-Tadema_, _Sir John Millais_,=
         =_Paul Delaroche_, _W. Q. Orchardson_, _E. M. Ward_,=
          =_Stanhope Forbes_, _F. Goodall_, _Seymour Lucas_,=
                 =_Ford Madox Brown_, _W. F. Yeames_,=
                        =_Clarkson Stanfield_,=
                            =_etc._, _etc._=

                            =[Illustration]=



             =T H O M A S   N E L S O N   A N D   S O N S=
             =London,  Edinburgh,  Dublin,  and  New  York=
                                 =1908=




[Illustration]
                           F O R E W O R D .

_The Master of the Pageant spurs into the arena; he waves his baton, and
the trumpets sound. In the distance you see a long procession begin to
wind its way across the greensward, and as it draws nearer and nearer
you recognize the form and fashion of men and women whose names are writ
large in the annals of our land. Here they come—king and queen,
statesman and priest, warrior and merchant, poet and man of law, shipman
and craftsman, yeoman and peasant—a motley throng, all sorts and
conditions of men and women, high and low, rich and poor, gentle and
simple, noble and base, hero and craven; yet each in his or her several
degree a maker of history. These are the “counterfeit presentments” of
the men and women who through twice a thousand years have made us what
we are, and our glorious land what it is._

_As they troop by, let a humble chronicler—who prays that he may not be
considered intrusive—recall the story of their heroisms, their trials,
their sufferings, their glories, or, it may be, their failures, their
treacheries, and their shames. Perchance ’twill be a twice-told tale,
“familiar as household words” yet it is a recital that can never lack
hearers while men love the land that bore them, and would fain find
example and warning, inspiration and guidance, from the story of the
past. The chronicler pretends to no philosophy save this—that since we
have, under Providence, been created a “noble and puissant nation” and
entrusted with a heritage without peer in the history of the world, we
should be false to our sires, false to ourselves, and false to our
destiny were we, by selfishness, sloth, or ignorance, to neglect to be
great through “craven fears of being great.” And since the best and only
true foundation of patriotism is knowledge, he would fain hope that
these sketches may stimulate in some who are growing towards manhood and
womanhood a humble pride in the greatness of their land and a fervent
desire so to play their part that Britain may be what she was meant to
be—the Vicegerent of the Almighty in the uplifting and ennoblement of
the world. In this belief he echoes the prayer of the poet:_—

           “_Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,_
           _How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?_
           _Wider still, and wider, shall thy bounds be set;_
           _God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet._”

[Illustration]




                          =_C O N T E N T S ._=

                                 ——••——

       _I._ _Britain before the Roman Conquest._
                   _The Phœnicians_                                  9
                   _The Ancient Britons_                            12
                   _The Druids_                                     17
                   _The Coming of Cæsar_                            20
      _II._ _The Shadow of Rome._
                   _Caractacus_                                     27
                   _A Warrior Queen_                                30
                   _The Iron Hand_                                  33
     _III._ _The Coming of the English._
                   _King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
                     Table_                                         41
                   _Hengist and Horsa_                              46
                   _Ethelbert and Bertha_                           50
                   _The Singer of the First English Song_           55
      _IV._ _The Viking Invasions._
                   _The Coming of the Sea-Kings_                    57
                   _Alfred the Great_                               60
                   _King Canute_                                    69
       _V._ _The Coming of the Normans._
                   _Harold of England and William of Normandy_      74
                   _The Eve of the Invasion_                        79
                   _The Battle of Hastings_                         83
                   _Hereward the Wake_                              91
      _VI._ _England under the Normans._
                   _William the Red_                                96
                   _Matilda, “Lady” of England_                    100
                   _The Great Archbishop_                          106
                   _Strongbow_                                     113
                   _Richard of the Lion Heart_                     118
                   _King John and Magna Charta_                    127
     _VII._ _The Three Edwards._
                   _The First Prince of Wales_                     135
                   _William Wallace_                               140
                   _Robert the Bruce_                              149
                   _Merciful Queen_                                157
                   _The Black Prince_                              163
    _VIII._ _On French Fields._
                   _King Harry the Fifth_                          169
                   _Joan, the Maid_                                176
      _IX._ _The Wars of the Roses._
                   _The King-Maker_                                184
                   _The Little Princes in the Tower_               191
       _X._ _Tudor Times._
                   _John and Sebastian Cabot_                      195
                   _King and Cardinal_                             200
                   _The New Worship_                               207
      _XI._ _A Tragic Story._
                   _Mary Queen of Scots_                           210
     _XII._ _In the Spacious Days._
                   _The Spanish Armada_                            224
                   _Sir Walter Raleigh_                            232
    _XIII._ _The Great Rebellion._
                   _Charles the First_                             242
                   _Oliver Cromwell_                               252
                   _Robert Blake_                                  258
     _XIV._ _From the Restoration to the Revolution._
                   _The Restoration of Charles the Second_         268
                   _James, Duke of Monmouth_                       278
      _XV._ _After the Revolution._
                   _William the Third_                             292
                   _The Great Duke of Marlborough_                 297
     _XVI._ _Bonnie Prince Charlie._                               310
    _XVII._ _Makers of Empire._
                   _Robert Clive, the Daring in War_               323
                   _James Wolfe, Conqueror of Canada_              335
   _XVIII._ _Nelson of the Nile._                                  347
     _XIX._ _Wellington._                                          363
      _XX._ _Victoria the Good._                                   376
     _XXI._ _Edward the Peacemaker._                               383




               =L I S T   O F   I L L U S T R A T I O N S=

                                ———••———

                               IN COLOUR.

   Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey,
   Hunters and Traders,
   Caractacus in Rome,
   Sir Tristram at the Court of Arthur,
   Augustine preaching to Ethelbert and Bertha,
   Alfred in the Camp of the Danes,
   Coronation of William the Conqueror,
   Death of Becket,
   Crusaders on the March,
   King Richard and the Young Archer,
   Hubert and Arthur,
   The Trial of Wallace,
   Edward the Third at the Siege of Calais,
   The Black Prince being made a Knight of the Garter,
   The Little Princes in the Tower,
   The Departure of John and Sebastian Cabot on their First Voyage of
     Discovery, 1497,
   Cardinal Wolsey on his Way to Westminster Hall,
   The Murder of Rizzio,
   The Armada in Sight,
   Charles the First leaving Westminster Hall after his Trial,
   Cromwell dictating Dispatches to Milton,
   The Fall of Clarendon,
   The Last Sleep of Argyll,
   The Prince of Orange landing at Torbay,
   The British Assault on the Village of Blenheim,
   A Royal Fugitive,
   The Battle of Trafalgar, and the Victory of Lord Nelson over the
     French and Spanish Fleets, October 21, 1805,
   The Death of Nelson,
   Napoleon on Board the _Bellerophon_,
   The Meeting of Wellington and Blücher after the Battle of Waterloo,
   Saving the Colours: An Incident of the Battle of Inkermann,
   Jessie’s Dream,

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           IN BLACK AND WHITE.

   The First Invasion of Britain by Julius Cæsar,
   The Invasion of the Emperor Claudius,
   The Emperor Hadrian visiting a Pottery in Britain,
   Columba preaching,
   A Great Viking,
   The Death of Harold,
   Hereward yielding to William,
   “God Wills It!”
   The First Prince of Wales,
   The Battle of Bannockburn,
   The Morning of Agincourt,
   The Coronation of Charles the Seventh at Rheims,
   Joan of Arc storming the “Bulwark” (Orleans),
   Death of Warwick,
   Richard the Third at the Battle of Bosworth,
   Trial of Queen Catherine,
   Henry the Eighth,
   At Sea. “Farewell, France!”
   Escape of Mary Queen of Scots from Loch Leven Castle,
   Queen Elizabeth at Tilbury Fort,
   The Boyhood of Sir Walter Raleigh,
   Cromwell at Marston Moor,
   Jane Lane helping Prince Charles to escape,
   Rescued from the Plague, London, 1665,
   The Arrest of Alice Lisle,
   Bonnie Prince Charlie,
   After Culloden: Royalist Soldiers searching for Jacobite Fugitives,
   Clive at Bay,
   Death of Wolfe,
   Queen Victoria in her Coronation Robes,
   Queen Victoria at St. Paul’s,
   Edward the Seventh,




[Illustration]




                               Chapter I.
                   BRITAIN BEFORE THE ROMAN CONQUEST.


                            THE PHŒNICIANS.

                “_The bond of commerce was designed_
                _To associate all the branches of mankind;_
                _And if a boundless plenty be the robe,_
                _Trade is the golden girdle of the globe._”

THE procession advances. Who, you ask, are these swarthy, Jewish-looking
men leading the way? They are Phœnicians, the first visitors from
civilized shores to our island. These restless wanderers are keen
traders, who have sped their barks from distant Tyre or Carthage in
quest of merchandise. One of them, urging his ship northward towards
this fabled happy land of the western ocean, has sighted through the
clearing mists the distant line of an unknown shore. He has landed and
come into touch with the natives. Spreading out his tempting treasures
of purple cloth, glittering trinkets, and gleaming glass to the
astonished gaze of the Britons, he has begun to barter his wares for the
native products of the isle.

His keen eyes soon discover that the Britons possess something far more
precious than the furs which they proffer. Tin, the most precious metal
of the ancient world, abounds here. The Phœnician’s eyes gleam as he
makes the discovery; visions of untold wealth flash before him. Tin to
him is the most desirable of all metals. In due proportion it will
transform soft, yielding copper into bronze, which makes the best
weapons of the age. The art of tempering iron is still unknown, and
swords and spear-heads of bronze still decide the battles of the ancient
world. Alike in peace or war, tin is sought and prized as gold is
to-day. The statues of the temples, the urns that hold the ashes of the
dead, the ornaments with which men and women delight to adorn
themselves, owe their beauty and value to tin. All this the Phœnician
knows full well; he has discovered a Klondyke which will make him rich
beyond the dreams of avarice.

Again and again he visits this land of Britain, and every voyage he
grows richer and richer. He takes infinite precautions lest his secret
treasure-house should be discovered. He comes and goes mysteriously.
Other traders, greedy for similar gains, follow in his wake and closely
beset him; he even runs his ship on a foaming reef, and escapes by
swimming, rather than betray the source of his wealth. But all in vain;
his secret is discovered, and other barks in quick succession steer for
the Tin Islands. An important trade springs up between Britain and
Southern Europe. Thus, by means of those mineral treasures which have
made Britain what she is, our land becomes known to the civilized world.

Some three hundred years before Christ, an explorer from Marseilles pays
the island a visit, and on his return writes a brief account of what he
has seen. He tells us of the Kentish farms, with their granaries piled
high with golden grain; and he describes the mead of honey and wheat
which the islanders drink. More than two long centuries pass away before
another explorer arrives to lift the veil still further. He pushes into
the interior and makes acquaintance with the rustic Britons, rough and
uncouth, the hunters and graziers of the island. He visits the mines of
Cornwall, and tells us that the tin is found in earthy veins in the
rocks; that it is extracted, ground down, smelted and purified, and
exported in knuckle-shaped slabs. Packed into wagons, it is carried
during ebb-tide to a neighbouring island, which may be St. Michael’s
Mount or the Isle of Wight, and there sold and shipped to Gaul, whence
it is carried overland on the backs of pack-horses to Marseilles.

Pass on, ye Phœnicians! We salute you as the fathers of that vast
British commerce which has built up the mighty Empire in which we
rejoice to-day. Our busy hives of industry with their great factories
and roaring looms; our myriad ships that carry, over every sea to every
land, the woven fabrics of our workshops, the coal of our mines, and the
iron and steel of our furnaces and forges, all owe their beginnings to
you who first set ajar for us the golden gates of trade.




[Illustration: =Hunters and Traders.=
 (_From the painting by Lord Leighton, P.R.A., in the Royal Exchange,
   London._
 _By permission of Mr. Matthews._)]




[Illustration]


                          THE ANCIENT BRITONS.

          “_Where the maned bison and the wolf did roam,_
          _The ancient Briton reared his wattled home;_
          _Paddled his coracle across the mere;_
          _In the dim forest chased the antlered deer;_
          _Pastured his herds within the open glade;_
          _Played with his ‘young barbarians’ in the shade;_
          _And when the new moon o’er the high hills broke,_
          _Worshipped his heathen gods beneath the sacred oak._”

Here come your first Britons, tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired, long of
limb, and ruddy of countenance. Some, from the dense forest interior,
are clad in the skins of the bears and other wild animals which they
have slain; others wear garments of the rough cloth which they have
woven on their own rude looms, or have obtained by barter from traders
of distant and more civilized lands. None of them are mere yelling
savages, bedaubed with blue war-paint; they have long passed that stage.
They are all warriors born and bred, fierce in fight but sociable and
friendly in peace. They live in tribes under their “kings;” they graze
their cattle, till the land, and search the gravels of the rivers for
tin.

Let us visit a British “town” of Kent, a century or so before the coming
of the Romans, and learn something of the old British mode of life. We
plunge into the dark shades of the forest, and follow a narrow track
that winds hither and thither through the dense undergrowth. We are
armed, for in the thickets and in the caves of the rocky hillocks lurk
the gray wolf, the fierce boar, the black bear, and the wild cat. Now
and then a startled deer gazes at us for a moment, and bounds away into
safety. In the stream which we ford herons are fishing and beavers are
building. Overhead the hawks are sailing by, and from a neighbouring
marsh comes the boom of a bittern.

On we go, and at length reach a great cleared space. The trees have been
felled, and some of the land is under tillage. Horses, sheep, oxen, and
swine are quietly feeding, and here and there are strips of grain and
barley. Half a mile away is the town. All round it is a moat, with an
earthen wall topped by a stockade of oak logs. As we approach the narrow
entrance, we see the pointed roofs of many huts, from which thin lines
of blue smoke are curling up into the summer air.

We enter the town by a zigzag road, and pass the homesteads, square or
round in shape, and built of unhewn or roughly hewn trees placed on end,
with roofs of interlaced boughs thatched with rushes or covered with
turf. Each homestead consists of one room, large enough to contain the
whole family. The floor is of earth, or perhaps covered with thin
slates. In the middle of it is the family fire, which continues to burn
night and day all the year round; when it dies out, the home is
deserted. The smoke escapes by a hole in the roof. Round the fire, along
the sides of the room, is a bed made of rushes and covered with hides or
coarse rugs. On this the members of the family sit at meals, and sleep
at night with their feet towards the fire. The rushes and green grass
which are placed between the family fire and the family bed serve as a
table, and on this at meal times are placed large platters containing
oatmeal cakes, meat, and broth.

In front of the entrance to one of the homesteads a blue-eyed,
fair-haired woman, in a tunic of dark-blue cloth, sits grinding corn
with a quern or handmill. Little boys, clad in strips of bear-skin,
engage in a wrestling match hard by. Sturdy little lads they are, for
their rearing has been of a Spartan character; they were plunged into
the water of the stream at birth, and they received their first taste of
food on the point of their father’s sword. Yonder old woman is boiling
water by making pebbles red-hot in the fire and dropping them into an
earthen water-pot.

Passing on, we reach a long, low dwelling, which by its size indicates
the superior condition of its owner. It is, indeed, the home of the
chieftain of the tribe. Big mastiffs and wolf-hounds growl over their
bones at the door. Within, the walls are covered with skins. Round
shields of hide with shining metal bosses and rims of iron, spears with
bronze or iron heads, and bows with quivers of reed arrows tipped with
flint adorn the walls. One sword in particular holds the place of honour
as a rare prize; it is of iron, with a sheath of bronze studded with red
coral.

The chieftain comes forward to welcome us—a tall, well-made man, blue
of eye, with long, fair hair and a tawny moustache of which he is vastly
proud. Over his flame-red blouse, which is belted at the waist, is a
twisted _torque_ of gold, cunningly fashioned and adorned with beautiful
tracery; across his blouse is thrown a tartan plaid fastened at the
shoulder by a brooch of polished boar tusk. His trousers fit closely to
the ankles, and are so characteristic an article of his attire that he
is known as “wearer of breeches” in distant Rome. Where his skin is
bare, we notice that it is painted with patterns of blue. He greets us
heartily, and a slave at his direction hands us a great silver-rimmed
horn filled with mead.

His wife shares in the welcome. She is a robust, healthy matron, fit
mother of her stalwart sons, who she prays may grow up as heroes, and do
ere long some doughty deed which shall entitle them to the heroic names
which they have yet to possess. When the day’s work is done, she will
gather them about her knees and recite the wild legends of their sires,
whose mighty feats of war still inspire young Britons to the fray. She
wears a tunic with a scarf of red-striped plaid fastened by a pin of
bronze. A string of dusky pearls hangs about her neck, and spiral rings
of silver adorn her fingers. The ivory bracelets and the amber beads
which she proudly wears have been brought from afar by the traders who
visit the town from time to time.

The wife is mistress of the home. She has the management not only of all
household affairs, but, as she is the wife of a warrior, the care and
direction of the whole concerns of the family both indoors and out. She
and her sisters spin, knit, weave, dye, sow, cook, grind corn, and milk
the cows—indeed do most of the hard work that is done. Her husband
considers field-labour and farm-work entirely beneath his dignity. War
and hunting are his work, and right well does he excel in both. Probably
safely housed in a hut hard by is his precious scythe-wheeled chariot,
in which he goes forth to war when the horn is sounded, the shield is
struck, and the _cran-tara_—the “fiery cross”—is sent through the
tribe as a call to arms. He and his fellow-warriors spend much time in
their warlike exercises; the slaves, the weaklings, and the old men tend
the flocks and herds and conduct the tillage.

Let us continue our tour of the town. Here is a man cleverly weaving
baskets of wicker-work; yonder is a fisherman returning from the river,
his broad back bearing a coracle, such as you may see on the Dee at
Llangollen or on the rivers of South Wales to-day. Not far away is the
metal-worker’s hut, where the craftsman is busy mixing his bronze, and
moulding it into axes, lance-heads, and sword-blades. Another worker is
busy chipping flints brought from the quarry in yonder chalk hills. The
potter who labours close at hand kneads out his yellow clay and fashions
his pots by hand, ornamenting them by pressing a notched stick or braid
against the wet clay. Such is a British town in the most civilized part
of the land a century or so before the coming of the Romans.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: The Druids]




                  “_Sage beneath a spreading oak_
                  _Sat the Druid, hoary chief._”

Room for the Druids! Their solemn progress, their patriarchal beards,
their white robes of office, and the chaplets of oak leaves on their
brows proclaim them at once. Priests, judges, magicians, and instructors
of youth, they rule the Britons with a rod of iron. Their altars and
idols are set deep in the gloomy shades of dense forests amidst the
gnarled and twisted stems of aged oaks. The secrets of their cruel creed
are close locked in their bosoms, and over all their words and works
they cast a dread mystery that chills the heart of the boldest Briton in
the land. Their word is law, their curse is death. Their richest
treasures go unguarded save for the awe which they inspire. Deep in
their forest shades they offer their mysterious sacrifices; sometimes
human beings, imprisoned in huge wicker-work images, are burnt to death
to appease the angry gods. The Druids claim to hold sway even over the
spirits of the departed, and the Briton trembles as he hears the voices
of tormented souls wailing in the night wind. Every shadow is a terror;
every flying cloud is an omen of good or ill; every spring, river, and
fountain has its guardian deity. Fire is the element which the Druids
hold in the highest reverence; the sacred flame on their altars never
dies.

Four times a year solemn festivals are held. On Midsummer Eve, New
Year’s Day, May Day, and Hallowe’en the great Beltane fires are lighted,
and Britons from near and far assemble for worship. The mistletoe
growing on an oak is held sacred in the highest degree, and on the sixth
day of the moon a feast is prepared beneath the hallowed branches. White
bulls are dragged to the tree, and their broad foreheads are bound to
its stem, their loud bellowings mingling with the strain of the wild
anthem which the worshippers raise. When the beasts have been
slaughtered as sacrifices, the chief Druid, clad in his flowing white
robes, his golden collar and bracelets, ascends the oak, treading on the
backs and broad shoulders of blindfolded slaves. With a golden
pruning-knife he severs the mistletoe, and beneath him attendant Druids
receive it on a white linen cloth. It is then distributed to the awed
and expectant multitude, who carry home and carefully preserve a sprig
of the all-healing plant. The Christmas mistletoe beneath which youths
and maidens now make merry at the most sacred season of the Christian
year annually recalls this heathenish rite.

Much of the Druids’ lore is imposture, but they have wrested from Nature
some of her secrets. They know the stars in their courses; they are
skilled in the lore of plants and the healing properties of herbs and
simples. They practise the arts of public speaking and poesy. Their
bards sing the songs of heroes, and inflame warriors with the lust of
battle. But over all broods the cruel shadow of death, and men tremble
as they pray.

Dread and mighty as these Druids are, the day of their doom is coming.
Even now the Roman galleys are on the sea, and their prows are rising
and falling as they furrow the heaving waters towards the white cliffs
of Albion. Centuries will elapse before the gospel of love and mercy
sweeps away the blood-stained rites of the Druids’ creed. The gods of
Rome will destroy the deities of the isle. Jupiter and Mars will
dethrone them; and in their train, how or when we know not, the message
of Christianity will be whispered, until at length the daystar rises,
never to set, on the forests of Britain.

Gone are the Druids, but their name still survives in the mountains and
valleys of Wales, where the ancient Britons found their refuge in a
later age. Our modern Druids love letters and music, and the other
beautiful arts which touch and kindle souls. Theirs it is to encourage
men and women to build the lofty rhyme, to weave the golden strands of
melody, and to limn the loveliness of earth and sea and sky. Thus
transformed, the Druid is a prophet of sweetness and light, not an
enslaver of souls.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]


                          THE COMING OF CÆSAR.

               “_The foremost man of all the world._”

A king amongst men now draws near. As he strides by, a proud and
majestic figure, you know that you are in the presence of one of the
world’s greatest men. He bears himself like a conqueror, yet he is far
more than a mere victorious general. Scholar, statesman, writer, orator,
and architect, he is the “noblest Roman of them all.” Look at his stern,
powerful face, his eagle-like nose, his thin, firm-set lips, his lofty
brow, and his massive head crowned with a wreath of laurel. “_Cæsar!_”
you cry, and it is none other than he.

He has subdued Gaul, and now he looks across the narrow strait towards
the white, gleaming cliffs of Dover. A new arena opens before him, a
land untrodden by Roman feet, an island of fabled wealth of pearl and
tin, of waving cornfields and rich pastures, peopled by sturdy warriors
worthy to cross swords even with him. He remembers the fiery charge of
the British on many a Gaulish battlefield, and his wrath rekindles as he
thinks of the havoc they have wrought amongst his legions, and of the
welcome and shelter they have afforded his flying foes in their
unconquered island only a few leagues away. Right well do they deserve
to feel the weight of the Roman hand. He has received invitations, too.
The tribes on yonder coveted island are ever at war with each other;
ambitious chiefs are ever seeking to subdue their weaker neighbours.
Refugees have fled to him beseeching his assistance against their
enemies. Ambition, revenge, and the prospect of easy victory over a
disunited foe, all urge him on to the new enterprise now shaping itself
in his busy brain. “The die is cast.” He will invade and conquer
Britain, and add another laurel to his wreath of fame.

He consults the chief merchants of the Gallic coast, and endeavours to
learn the military strength, the resources, the landing-places of the
island; but they are dumb, and only find their tongues when they
secretly and hurriedly send off messengers to warn the islanders of the
threatened invasion. Envoys from Britain speedily arrive, eager to
appease the wrath of great Cæsar by humbly offering to submit. They are
too late. “The die is cast.”

A Roman galley pushes out to survey the British coast and to fix upon a
suitable landing-place. Meanwhile Cæsar masses his legions and hies him
to _Portus Itius_, where his transports lie. The return of the scout is
the signal for embarkation, and on the morning of August 26, in the year
55 B.C., anchors are weighed and the galleys stream out of the harbour.
By ten o’clock they are under the cliffs of the British shore, and then
they perceive that no easy victory awaits them. Heavy fighting must be
done ere the legions form up on the British shore. The cliffs are black
with warriors, chariots, and horsemen ready to oppose their landing.

With a favouring breeze and the tide in his favour, Cæsar skirts the
shore eastward, until a shelving strand somewhere near Romney Marsh
promises him convenient landing. As his galleys move eastward, the
British on the cliffs move eastward too. There is a long pause; the
transports containing the cavalry are still miles away. They have not
appeared at three in the afternoon; the day is wearing on, and Cæsar
determines to attempt a landing without them.

With difficulty his ships approach the shallow shore, only to find the
full force of the island-army, with horsemen and chariots, drawn up in
battle-array to receive him. The British horsemen spur their steeds into
the waves; and many a half-naked footman, with sharp javelin, heavy
club, or rough-hewn war-hatchet, presses on towards the galleys. For a
few minutes the Roman soldiers are dismayed and dare not leap from their
ships. Then Cæsar orders up his warships and stations them on the flank
of the enemy. Slings and catapults open fire, and the Britons, assailed
as they have never been assailed before, draw back in confusion. Still
the Romans hesitate, but the situation is saved by the standard-bearer
of the famous Tenth Legion. “Leap, fellow-soldiers,” he cries, “unless
you wish to betray your Eagle to the enemy. I at least will do my duty
to the Republic and to my general.” Roused by his example, the Romans
leap from their ships, and immediately a fierce fight rages in the
water.

The waves are red with blood; mailed Roman and naked Briton hack and hew
at each other in confused combat; and slowly but surely the invaders
gain the beach. There they form into ranks, shoulder to shoulder, and
against that solid wall of disciplined valour nothing can stand. The
scythe-wheeled chariots thunder towards the Roman array, the evening sun
glinting from their outstretched blades; but the fiery horses are
impaled on the iron points of the Roman spears. Step by step the Britons
are forced from the strand; fainter and fainter sound the voices of the
Druids singing their frenzied war-chants; and ere darkness has settled
down the islanders have retreated, and the Roman victors remain on the
beach which they have so hardly won.

Next day come chiefs with offers of submission; but four days later,
when Cæsar’s cavalry transports are nearing the coast, a great storm
arises. The anchored galleys are wrecked; the newcomers are driven back
to Gaul. Cæsar is in perilous plight. He has no provisions for his
soldiers, no materials with which to repair his shattered ships. The
autumn storms have begun, and he is on a treacherous coast, harassed by
a fierce, unrelenting foe.

These disasters give new hope to the Britons. They rapidly muster their
men, and form an ambush in an uncut field of grain not far from the
Roman camp. When the Seventh Legion comes out to reap the corn it is
suddenly beset on all sides by a host of horsemen and charioteers. The
cloud of dust raised by the chariot wheels betrays the fight to the
sentinels of the camp. Cæsar hurries to the spot, and just manages to
save the reapers from utter destruction and convey them back to his
stronghold. The Britons follow, and make the grievous mistake of
attacking the Romans in their trenches. Beaten back time after time,
they again retreat to their fastnesses in the woods, and once more offer
submission.

Cæsar is quite ready for peace. His troops are weary, for they have been
seventeen or eighteen days on the island, and the struggle has never
ceased. His twelve thousand men are all too few to overcome the
obstinate Britons. He does not wait even to receive the promised
hostages, but, taking advantage of the first fair wind that blows, he
returns to Gaul, baffled and beaten, without a single token of conquest.

Next year he comes again. The warm spring days that bring the swallows
bring the Roman galleys once more. This time he does not despise his
enemy. Twenty-five thousand foot and two thousand horse, embarked on
eight hundred ships, speed towards the threatened shore. He lands
without striking a blow, and stray prisoners inform him that his advance
is to be challenged at a ford on the Stour twelve miles away. He is
determined not to lose an hour. Through the night his legions tramp over
the unknown country, and in the cold gray of the early dawn they find
themselves on the bank of a reedy river, with the foe drawn up on the
opposite side.

The charge is sounded, and the Roman cavalry dash into the river with
the utmost impetuosity. They break through and through the ranks of the
British infantry, their bronze swords being no match for the tempered
iron of the Roman brands and javelins. Again the Britons give way, and
betake themselves to their woodland fortresses barricaded with the
trunks of felled trees. Here Cassivellaunus, behind his stockade, holds
out stoutly. But his fortifications are carried at last, and the four
“kings” of Kent, who have failed in an attack on the Roman camp, come
once more in humble guise to offer their submission. Cæsar is again
ready for peace. Forest fighting is too perilous for his taste. Amidst
the mazes of the woodland the Roman formations are broken up, and in
hand-to-hand combats the Britons are the equals of his best and most
highly-trained soldiers. So he yields to the inevitable. He receives
hostages and empty promises of annual tribute. Again he departs, leaving
nothing to mark his so-called conquest but the earthworks of his
deserted camps.

Once more he has failed. He may not describe his campaign as he does a
later victory—“I came, I saw, I conquered.” He is fain to confess that
his usual good fortune has deserted the “eagles” in Britain. A few
hostages, a girdle of British pearls for Venus, and a lordly triumph in
Rome—these are the only fruits which Cæsar reaps from his toils and
perils on this side of the Channel. He vanishes from the pageant to win
plentiful laurels on other fields. He has failed in Britain, but
elsewhere he becomes unchallenged master of the Roman world. Ten years
later, having attained the very summit of his ambition, he falls beneath
the daggers of his erstwhile friends.

Cæsar vanishes, and with his departure twilight once more settles down
on the land. For nearly a hundred years no Roman soldier sets foot on
the island. Nevertheless, Britain is nearer to the masterful city on the
Tiber than she has been before. Roman gossips talk of the island in
their streets. Adventurous Romans and equally adventurous Britons
exchange visits. Trade increases between the far-off island and the
heart of the world. Roman huntsmen prize their British hounds, and
British slaves are fashionable in the patrician homes of Rome. Britain
moves onward in the march of civilization, and ere the century of peace
comes to an end she is a real prize of conquest—a laurel worthy of the
imperial brow itself.

[Illustration: =THE FIRST INVASION OF BRITAIN BY JULIUS CÆSAR.=
 (_From the cartoon by Edward Armitage, R.A._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter II.
                           THE SHADOW OF ROME.


                              CARACTACUS.

                      “_What though the field be lost?_
            _All is not lost._”

THE real conqueror of Britain now approaches. We know that British
“kings” in distress more than once appealed to Augustus, and that he
seriously thought of invading the island. The real conqueror, however,
was the Emperor Claudius, who in 43 A.D. sent an army under a trusted
leader. On the road to Britain the troops mutinied. Where Cæsar had
failed, how could they hope to succeed? Besides, the Britons were now
united under Caractacus, a valiant and skilful warrior. The mutiny,
however, was crushed, and again the Romans landed without opposition.
They pushed across the Medway to the Thames, which was forded, and
thence to the capital of Caractacus, deep in the Essex woods. The Roman
legions stormed the British stronghold, and, flushed with victory, the
Emperor Claudius proudly dubbed himself _Britannicus_. But the work of
conquest had only begun. Britain was far from subdued, and probably she
would never have been the prey of the forty thousand or fifty thousand
Romans who accomplished the task had the Britons fully understood that
“union is strength.” Their divisions were worth many legions to the
Romans, who met and conquered various bands of islanders, and never met
a united army. One Roman general is said to have fought three-and-thirty
battles south of the Thames, and to have captured more than twenty
stockaded towns. The gallant Caractacus could make no headway against
his foes, and leaving a brother dead among the Essex swamps, he sought
refuge in the trackless mountains of South Wales.

Here Caractacus rallied the broken tribes for a last stand. He chose his
ground with great skill in the centre of steep and difficult hills, and
raised ramparts of massive stones where an ascent was possible, while
between his army and the road by which the Romans must approach there
flowed a river deep and wide. As the terrible Romans drew near
Caractacus addressed his men, bidding them remember how their sires had
driven back great Cæsar himself, and encouraging them to strike for home
and freedom. The Britons, however, were again conquered. Roman
discipline, Roman armour, and Roman swords were too much for them.
Caractacus escaped, and fled to the court of his step-mother,
Cartismandua, who to her eternal shame basely betrayed him to the foe
against whom he had waged an unceasing struggle for nine years. Roman
chains fettered the limbs of the British champion, and his capture was a
triumph. To Rome he must go, where his exploits were well known, and the
citizens were agog to see him.

With his wife, brother, and child he “graced the chariot wheels” of the
Roman general. Through the majestic city he strode, noble in his simple
dignity, and still unconquered. While his companions in fear begged for
mercy, he, proudly erect, and his eye, which had never quailed before a
Roman brand, boldly bright, recked not of death, deeming honour a
greater prize than life itself. As the triumphal procession passed along
the Sacred Way he saw the stately temples, the massive arches, the
beautiful statues, and the luxurious dwellings of the great city, and
asked, “Why should these Romans, with all their grandeur, covet my poor
hut at home?”

Brought before Claudius, he made a noble defence and a proud appeal for
clemency. Claudius was moved. He bade his lictors strike off the
Briton’s chains and set him free. His after-career is unknown. In his
noblest hour he vanishes from the pages of history.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =Caractacus in Rome.=
 (_From the drawing by G. F. Watts, R.A._)]




[Illustration]


                            A WARRIOR QUEEN.

“_Me they seized and me they tortured, me they lashed and humiliated;_
_Me the sport of ribald veterans, mine of ruffian violators._”

Now move we on. Roman arms triumph in the field, but there is no peace
in the land while the Druids, amidst the shadowy groves of Mona
(Anglesea), cease not to stir the Britons to “mutiny and rage.”

Suetonius Paulinus determines to extirpate them root and branch. He
marches to the shores of Menai Strait, and at nightfall his men essay to
cross in flat-bottomed boats. As they near the other side an
awe-inspiring scene meets their eyes. The Britons are drawn up in dense
array. To and fro run black-robed women, brandishing torches, “fierce as
the Furies,” their long hair streaming in the sea breeze. Behind them
the assembled Druids are lifting their hands to high heaven and calling
down terrible curses on the invaders. Huge fires crackle and blaze, as
though impatient of their victims. The frantic women, the cursing
priests, the flaming torches, the roaring flames paralyze the Romans.
They shudder at the sight, and hesitate to land. But discipline
prevails; they answer to the appeals of their general, and sweep forward
in resistless attack. The carnage is dreadful; the sacred groves are
fired; the Druids perish in their own flames; and the setting sun sinks
on a scene of desolation and death. As the gray embers die out, Druidism
perishes.

But elsewhere the flame of freedom still burns in many a British breast.
While Suetonius is slaughtering the Druids, Boadicea, Queen of the
Iceni, is rousing her followers to fury by the tale of her terrible
wrongs. Her dying husband, to appease his conquerors, bequeathed half
his wealth to them, in the hope that his wife and daughters might enjoy
the rest in peace. He reckoned without his hosts. They seize the whole
of the treasure; they scourge Boadicea with rods; they shamefully wrong
her children, and goad her to madness.

See her now in her war-chariot, her long yellow hair unbound, and
falling below the golden girdle that encircles her waist, her eyes
flashing vengeance as she pours forth burning words and pleads for
revenge. Her men arm themselves, and almost every hut on the wide plain
east of the Chilterns sends forth its warrior sworn to vengeance. They
swoop upon the feebly garrisoned town of Camulodunum, and every Roman in
it—man, woman, and helpless infant—is put to the sword. The Ninth
Legion, coming to the rescue, is cut to pieces, and the whole East of
England is in a blaze of rebellion. London falls before the conquering
tribes, and seventy thousand Romans are butchered by the bloodthirsty
victors. At last it seems that the yoke of Rome is broken, and Britain
is once more free.

The dread news at last reaches Suetonius. By forced marches he hastens
to London. Too late to save the city, he turns north, and takes up a
strong position, with woods and the sea behind and the open plain in
front. The Britons are eager for the fight. So sure of victory are they
that they have brought their women to the field as spectators, and have
placed them in a row of wagons in the rear, so that their shrill cries
of encouragement shall ring in their ears as they charge down on the
foe.

Boadicea, spear in hand, her daughters by her side, hurries from tribe
to tribe in her chariot, exhorting her followers to conquer or die.
“This,” she cries, “is a woman’s resolve; as for men, they may live to
be slaves.” Maddened by her words, the Britons charge the foe, only to
be repulsed with awful slaughter. They recoil from the brazen wall, and
the legions carve their way through the disordered ranks, while the
masterless steeds of the chariots, dashing hither and thither, add to
the slaughter. The Romans are pitiless; they spare not even the women.

The battle is over; Rome has triumphed, and Boadicea, heart-broken and
hopeless, flies from the scene, and in shuddering horror at the fate
which awaits her, ends her life and that of her children with poison.
Cowper, in his well-known poem, represents a Druid in the hour of her
death prophesying the fall of the Roman Empire and the far-off greatness
of her stricken land,—

                   “Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
                      Heaven awards the vengeance due:
                   Empire is on us bestowed,
                      Shame and ruin wait for you.”

[Illustration: =THE INVASION OF THE EMPEROR CLAUDIUS.=
 (_From the painting by Thomas Davidson._)]




[Illustration]


                             THE IRON HAND.

     “_Rome was the whole world, and all the world was Rome._”

The next figure in our pageant to attract attention is again a Roman,
but a man cast in a very different mould from the harsh and tyrannical
Suetonius. In distant Rome the emperor has taken to heart the moral of
the terrible rising led by Boadicea. He now knows that the Britons will
never yield to severity. Consequently Agricola, the new governor, is a
firm, just man, who strives by every means in his power to make the
Roman yoke press as lightly as possible on British shoulders. He rules
Britain much as a British Viceroy governs our Indian Empire to-day. He
fosters the peaceful arts; he introduces the British nobles and their
sons to the pastimes, the dress, the luxuries, and the manners of Rome.
In course of time Britain sullenly submits to her bondage, though she is
still held down by force of arms. The art and practice of war are now
forbidden to the Britons, except to the flower of the youth, who are
drafted into legions which garrison lands far from the call of home and
kindred. The fiery Briton no longer wields the claymore; he becomes a
skilled craftsman, a patient farmer, a delver in the mines.

Still, Agricola has his share of fighting. The Britons of North Wales
are subdued in the first year of his governorship. In the second year
several tribes in North Britain feel the weight of his hand; and in the
succeeding year he pushes into Caledonia, and carries his “eagles” to
the Tay. During the following summer he builds a chain of forts from the
Clyde to the Firth of Forth, vainly hoping that by this means he will
pen the fierce Caledonians in their northern fastnesses. His greatest
campaign is undertaken in the year 84 A.D., when he pushes into what is
now Forfarshire and inflicts a terrible defeat on a host of Caledonians
under their doughty chief Galgacus.

Meanwhile his galleys are creeping northward along the coast. They touch
at the Orkneys, they round Cape Wrath, run down the western coast with
its maze of islands, see the Irish hills on the starboard, and follow
the shores of South Britain until they espy Land’s End, and find
themselves once more in the familiar waters of the Channel. This voyage
proves without a doubt that Britain is an island.

Agricola’s government, wise, firm, and prosperous, comes to an untimely
end. The emperor is jealous of him, and recalls him to Rome on a
trumped-up charge. What befalls him we do not know, but probably he
comes to a violent end. At all events, he fades out of our history,
leaving behind him a fame which emperors cannot dim nor unjust tribunals
take away. Farewell, Agricola! We salute thee as the greatest governor
which Britain ever knew while Rome held sway.

And now the land is happy in having little history to record. A
generation comes and goes, and all the time Rome is building up her
government, carrying out her great military works, and bowing the neck
of the enfeebled Briton to her yoke.

What, you ask, is the appearance of Britain during the long years when
the Roman peace has settled down on the land? Let us suppose that we are
suddenly planted down in the island during the period Britain is part
and parcel of the Roman Empire. Our first impression is that a great
change has taken place in the appearance of the country. In many places
the dense woods have disappeared; broad fields have been carved out of
the forests, and are being carefully tilled by gangs of British slaves.
Britain has become one of the great granaries of the Empire. Cattle and
sheep by the hundred feed on the hillsides; and in Rome they speak of
this land as _Britannia Felix_, “Britain the Happy.”

With the disappearance of the forests the weather has improved. No
longer is the island wrapped in steaming mists; no longer is the sky
always clouded. Many of the rivers which formerly lost themselves in
reedy marshes are carefully banked in, and now flow on as broad, fair
streams. The morasses are crossed by causeways, the fens are drained,
the rivers are bridged, the fords are easy, and the Britons loudly
complain that their hands and bodies are worn out in the toilsome work.

Look at the road beneath your feet. Broad and straight, it runs over
hill and valley, across stream and moor and bog. British labourers,
under the eye of Roman road-engineers—never surpassed before or
since—have dug down to the rocky crust, and upon this have built three
or four layers of squared or broken stones mixed with gravel, lime, and
clay. The upper surface is closely paved, especially in the middle, with
large flag-stones. This is one of the military highways, all spreading
out, as our modern railways do, from London, and enabling the legions to
pass with speed through the length and breadth of the province. Watling
Street, Fosse Way, Hermen Street, Ikenild Street—the chief military
roads of the island—may still be traced, and in parts are used to-day.

While we are examining the road, we hear the tramp of armed men, and a
legion swings by. Swarthy Italian, yellow-haired German, and dusky Moor
march side by side armed with brazen shield, heavy javelin, and short,
thick sword. In the midst is the glittering “eagle,” which the Roman
would rather die than yield to a foe.

Let us follow the legion towards yonder city. On we go, traversing the
broad, white road, now crossing a stream by a bridge, now wading
waist-deep through the ford of a broad river. Here and there amidst the
trees we see the white buildings of a villa, the residence of some Roman
official. Notice the beautiful garden as you pass, and admire the
orchards of apples, plums, pears, and cherries, and the south wall where
the clustering grapes are ripening in the sun. Anon we skirt the fringe
of a cemetery with its mounds of earth marking the hollow graves, each
with its urn of dark clay containing the ashes of the dead.

On and on we march, swinging to the right or left as some mounted
messenger bearing dispatches for his general spurs by. At last the roofs
of the city are seen. Round about it is a great rampart of stone; and
here and there we see a sentinel, who leans on his javelin and shades
his eyes as he peers across the plain. We enter through one of the four
gates, pass the guard, and are at once met with a civilization such as
the Briton of old never dreamt of. We pass by rows of private dwellings
of stone and coloured tiles, glorious with pavements and columns. Here
we see the fluted or leaf-crowned pillars of a temple to Neptune; there
a stately shrine to Minerva. Yonder are the public baths, with their
marble halls and inlaid pavements—unequalled in design and workmanship
outside Rome. Within these heated chambers the chilly Roman official may
recall the comforting warmth of his Southern home, and dream of the day
when he shall see the beloved City once more. Yonder is the court-house,
and in front of it senators in flowing robes, with parchment scrolls in
their hands, pace to and fro.

Make way for the governor! Before him march his lictors with the axe in
its bundle of rods, and behind him follows a guard of honour. Now a gang
of slaves is driven by; and here comes a shock-headed British chieftain
who has been captured in border warfare, and anon will face the judgment
seat.

Hard by is the amphitheatre, where the townsfolk throng to see plays
performed, or better still to see the trained gladiators who fight to
the death “to make a Roman holiday.” Here on the seats, tier above tier,
sit the wealthier Britons of the town, aping their masters in dress,
speech, and manner. No longer do they delight in the battle and the
chase; they love the pleasures of the town. Their golden locks are shorn
and their beards are trimmed in the Roman fashion; they vie with each
other in the fold of a toga and the fit of a sandal; their days are
spent in a weary quest of amusement. They bathe; they drink their wine;
they feast; they dice; they go to the shows; and consider themselves
fine fellows indeed, because they can lisp the tongue of their masters.

The gleaming marble portico of the governor’s residence invites us.
Within, the ladies of his household sew and spin, while their lord
directs the affairs of his town and sits on the judgment seat. On their
dressing-tables are mirrors of polished steel, combs of boxwood, and
pins of bone for their long tresses. They gird up their robes with
brooches of gold and silver; they wear jewelled bracelets on their arms
and dainty shoes of silk on their feet. Supper is at three. Then the
gentlemen will join them, and they will recline on the couches and feast
on the dainties of the island, which they will wash down with a
favourite wine trodden out in the presses of the distant home-land.

Then we pass on to the “poor quarter,” where the workshops of the
multifarious workers are situated and the huts of the humblest part of
the population abound. Here there are squalor and misery in plenty, but
still a touch of Roman manners.

Such is the life of a Brito-Roman town in the palmy days of the Romans
in Britain.

And now let the pageant move on to the closing scenes of Roman sway.
Rome is sinking fast. Within, her citizens have lost their old courage
and genius for government. Without, the fierce Goths and Vandals are
assailing her provinces. Rome’s grip on her Empire is being loosened
more and more every day, and the wild hordes on her frontiers grow
bolder and bolder as the Roman garrisons are withdrawn to defend the
great city itself. So it is in Britain, where the Caledonians swarm over
Hadrian’s Wall and fall upon the Britons of the south. The Roman troops
mutiny, and set up their general as emperor, and even follow him to
Gaul, where stout-hearted Severus, who now appears on the scene, makes
short work of them and their leader.

Meanwhile the ravages of the Caledonians increase, and to save the
province old Severus, now sixty-two years of age and racked with the
gout, crosses the Channel, and, carried in a litter before his army,
sets his face for the border, in the hope of teaching the northern
tribes a terrible lesson. Through the trackless swamps, the woods, the
moorlands, and the wild mountains beyond the Wall, the old general hews
his way until he reaches the shores of the Moray Firth, where the tribes
make peace. Severus has accomplished nothing. His victory is a disaster;
a few more such victories and he will have no army left. When the
watchers on the Wall greet his approach with shouts of welcome, the
bleaching bones of fifty thousand Romans mark his long line of march. He
repairs the Wall, and then, grievously sick, retreats to York, where, on
his deathbed, he plans a new campaign which will never be made.

His death is the beginning of the end. Two hundred years of misery and
constant strife set in. General after general makes himself emperor;
they come and go in blood; and all the time Britain, despoiled of her
youth to rot on foreign fields, is the prey of a pitiless foe. The
Caledonians, who are now known as Picts and Scots, actually march on
London and carry off its citizens as slaves. A new and even more dreaded
foe, the terrible Saxon pirate, has also appeared; there are desperate
attempts at defence, but they are one and all in vain. The hour of doom
has struck, alike for Empire and Province. The Goth is thundering at the
very gates of Rome. All the available troops of the Empire, wherever
stationed, are called in to defend the city.

The last of the legions leaves British shores in the year 407 amidst the
sighs and tears of the defenceless inhabitants, who are now as sheep
without a shepherd. Pitiful appeals—“the groans of the Britons”—are
sent to Rome; but the weak and indolent emperor merely pauses in the
absorbing pastime of feeding his pigeons to tell the despairing
islanders that they must provide for their own safety. Thus Britain is
left to her fate, and for two long centuries darkness closes round her.

“The eagles have flown.” Their glory has departed, and they disappear
from the pageant of our history. Rome found the natives warlike, though
untrained; she left them helpless and feeble. True, she gave them the
benefits of peace; she taught them arts and crafts; she gave them
education, and a measure of comfort and prosperity. But she did not
teach them how to defend themselves, and so, when overwhelmed by hardier
foes, they perished miserably by fire and sword.

[Illustration: =THE EMPEROR HADRIAN VISITING A POTTERY IN BRITAIN.=
 (_From the picture by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, R.A. By kind permission
   of the Artist._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter III.
                       THE COMING OF THE ENGLISH.


            KING ARTHUR AND THE KNIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE.

                        “_In twelve great battles overcame_
        _The heathen hordes, and made a realm and reigned._”

THE light burns low on our pageant, and the scene grows dim and
confused; yet we know only too well that a desperate struggle is going
on. The battle-cries of warriors and the shrieks of the wounded are ever
in our ears. The glare of blazing roof-trees lights up for a moment the
ghastly scene, and reveals the pitiless work of slaughter. As it
flickers out all is gloom and silence; it is the only peace that the
stricken land knows.

The scene shifts, but the drama is ever the same. There seems to be no
end to the hordes of attackers. They come by sea and they come by land;
most terrible of all are they whose serpent-headed ships are now seen
faintly on the strand. The tide of war sets in their favour, though they
are beaten back from time to time before the despairing onset of the
Britons.

Now you see amidst the press the noble form of that gallant British
prince who is the very soul of the island defence. Arthur, the peerless
knight, steps before us, “every inch a king.” He shines like a star in
the gloom. Legend, song, and story have so woven themselves about his
name and fame, so many fables have been told about him, so many wondrous
deeds and miracles have been ascribed to him, that historians dispute
his very existence.

What do the old chroniclers tell us of him? They tell us that he was the
son of Uther Pendragon, a valiant British king, who kept the Saxons at
bay through many hard-fought years. Arthur’s birth had been kept a
secret, and the child had been placed by the great wizard Merlin in the
care of a knight named Sir Ector, who brought him up as his son. The
ruin of the country seemed to be at hand, when Merlin induced the
Archbishop of Canterbury to summon a meeting of all the great barons and
nobles in London on Christmas Eve, in order that a king might be chosen.
To this meeting came Sir Ector, his son Sir Kay, and Arthur.

While they were at prayers a huge block of marble uprose in the
churchyard. On the top of it was an anvil of solid steel, in which was
embedded by the point a sword of marvellous brightness, bearing on its
jewelled hilt these words, “Whoso pulleth me out of this stone and anvil
is rightwise king born of England.” In vain did ambitious knights and
squires, day after day, strive to draw forth the magic sword. All
failed, and men despaired of discovering the rightful king. Now it
chanced that on New Year’s Day a tournament was held, and amongst the
knights who rode to take part therein was Sir Kay, who was accompanied
by Arthur as his squire. As they rode towards the field, Sir Kay
discovered that he had left his sword behind him at his lodging. He
prayed Arthur to ride back for his sword, and Arthur, as a dutiful
squire, obeyed. When, however, he came to the lodging he found it
closed, for all who dwelt there had gone to the jousting.

On his way Arthur had passed the churchyard where the sword was
upstanding in the anvil. Thither he rode, and, seizing the sword, easily
pulled it out and carried it to Sir Kay, who did many warlike feats with
it. Then he showed it to his father, who knew the secret of Arthur’s
birth, and guessed what had taken place. The sword was replaced, but
Arthur drew it forth as easily as before. On this the old knight and his
son knelt before Arthur, and acknowledged him as “rightwise king born of
England.”

On Twelfth Day, in the presence of all the kings and lords of the land,
Arthur again drew the sword from the anvil, though no one else could
move it. Still the great lords were loath to recognize the boy as king;
and Merlin, seeing that Arthur’s right would not be admitted without
bloodshed, gathered as many as he could of the best knights of the
realm, and used all his magic arts to aid the good cause. On one
occasion the kings and barons besieged Arthur in a strong tower, but
when he was in the direst peril he sallied forth and attacked his
besiegers. His horse was slain under him, and he was at the mercy of his
foes. Then he drew the magic sword which he had taken from the anvil,
and the fortune of war instantly turned in his favour. His sword—the
far-famed Excalibur—gleamed like the radiance of thirty torches. Its
flashing beams half-blinded Arthur’s foes—they could not see to strike;
and so he vanquished them, and gained his first victory.

Battle after battle was fought before Arthur was acknowledged as king by
all men in the land, but at length the hour arrived when no one dared to
dispute his title to supremacy. Then he wedded the beauteous but false
Guinevere, and set up again the Round Table which his father Uther had
founded. Around it were a hundred and fifty seats, and on the seats sat
Arthur’s knights, all of equal degree, none first and none last. The
chronicle of their deeds is too long to tell: many were the brave deeds
they did together, many were the battles they fought, many were the
distressed ladies they succoured, and great was the fame and glory that
enshrined them. “Britain for the Britons” was their cry, and they
haughtily sang:——

          “Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May;
          Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away!
          Blow through the living world. Let the king reign!

          “Shall Rome or heathen rule in Arthur’s realm?
          Flash brand and lance, fall battle-axe on helm;
          Fall battle-axe and flash brand! Let the king reign!”

So Arthur leads on the Britons, with the image of the Virgin on his
shield, and points his sword Excalibur towards the swarming foe. Twelve
great battles he fights with the English, and for a time holds them at
bay. Then some of his followers desert to the enemy, and he is sore
beset. One by one his knights fall around him, and then he, too, is
stricken to the ground. Sore wounded, Arthur calls the last of his
knights, and bids him throw Excalibur into a lake. The sword is flung
high into the air, and as it falls, lo, a hand comes out of the water
and catches the magic brand by the hilt. Three times it is brandished,
and then it vanishes for ever beneath the waves.

“Alas!” cries Arthur, “my end draws near. Carry me to the edge of the
water.” The knight does so, and there, awaiting the dying king, is a
black barge, his destined bier. On the deck are three queens, with black
hoods and crowns of gold. “Now, put me in the barge,” says Arthur; and
when this is done, the queens receive him with great mourning and
wailing, and one of them cries, “Ah, my dear brother, why hast thou
tarried so long?” Then Arthur bids the knight farewell, and the barge
slowly moves across the water. Sad and lonely, the knight watches it
disappear

            “Down that long water, opening on the deep,
            Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go
            From less to less, and vanish into light,
            And the new sun rose bringing the new year.”

So fades Arthur from our view, a dim and mystical figure in life, a
vision of undying splendour in death. Let the historians say what they
will, men will still believe in him; they will still see the wearer of
his mantle in every true knight, and still hold him a shining example to
all who “bear without abuse the grand old name of gentleman.”




[Illustration: =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._)]




[Illustration: Hengist & Horsa]




                                     “_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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]


                         ETHELBERT AND BERTHA.

    “_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 be _angels_. From Deira come they? They shall
be snatched _de ira Dei_—from the wrath of God. And their king, say
you, is Ella? _Hallelujah_ shall 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.




[Illustration: =COLUMBA PREACHING.=
 (_From the picture by William Hole, R.S.A._)]

[Illustration: =Augustine preaching to Ethelbert and Bertha.=
 (_From the picture by Stephen B. Carlill._)]




[Illustration]


                 THE SINGER OF THE FIRST ENGLISH SONG.

           “_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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter IV.
                          THE VIKING INVASIONS.


                      THE COMING OF THE SEA-KINGS.

            “_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 a _Berserk_,
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.




[Illustration: ALFRED THE GREAT]




               “_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 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.”

“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.
The _scald_ would 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 the _mêlée_ of 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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =Alfred in the Camp of the Danes.=
 (_From the design by H. A. Bone. By permission of Antony Gibbs, Esq._)]




[Illustration]


                              KING CANUTE.

“_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.”

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.”

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.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =A GREAT VIKING.=
 (_From the picture by H. W. Koekkoek._)]




[Illustration]




                               Chapter V.
                       THE COMING OF THE NORMANS.


               HAROLD OF ENGLAND AND WILLIAM OF NORMANDY.

         “_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 he _must_ swear 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.”




[Illustration]


                        THE EVE OF THE INVASION.

Homeward speeds Harold, and as he crosses the Channel his terror gives
way to wrath at the knavery practised upon him. Speedily he banishes the
hateful memory of his enforced oath; he must be up and doing, for the
aged king lies on his deathbed. With his dying breath Edward declares
that Harold is the most worthy to reign, and the chiefs of the land
concur in his choice. Edward is buried with the utmost solemnity in his
great new church at Westminster, where you may see his shrine to this
day. Then, amidst the loud shouts of the English nobles who throng the
minster, Harold is elected king. Forthwith he takes up the reins of
office, and his subjects rejoice daily in his wisdom, justice, and
unsparing devotion to the good of his country.

But what of William, the rejected candidate for the throne? He is in his
park near Rouen when the trembling messenger breaks the news. His face
grows clouded; he strings and unstrings his bow. Suddenly he hands it to
an attendant, and hurries to his castle. In the great hall he strides to
and fro, sits down and rises again, unable to remain still in any place,
none daring to approach him lest the tempest of his rage should burst on
them. At length a privileged baron addresses the brooding duke. “Sire,”
says he, “why should you conceal from us your news? It is commonly
reported that the King of England is dead, and that Harold, breaking
faith with you, has seized the kingdom.” “They say true,” replies the
duke; “my grief and anger are caused by Edward’s death and Harold’s
wrong.” “Sire,” returns the courtier, “for Edward’s death there is no
remedy, but for Harold’s wrong there is. Strike boldly; well begun is
half done.”

At once William made his resolve, and began to battle with the myriad
difficulties which beset him. He interviewed his barons, and wrung from
them their reluctant consent to the enterprise and their grudging
promises of aid, and persuaded the Pope to send him a consecrated banner
and a bull recognizing him King of England. Then far and wide he
published his proclamation of war, promising liberal pay and the plunder
of England to all who would strike in his cause. Forthwith from every
part of France knights, spearmen, and cross-bowmen flocked to him. The
bulk of them were hardy adventurers, actuated by every kind of greed and
covetousness. During the autumn of 1065 and the spring of the following
year Normandy was as busy as a hive of bees. The woodmen felled the
forests; the shipwrights wrought at the seaports; every armourer’s shop
rang with the blows of artisans fashioning coats of mail, spears, and
swords. Speedily all was ready for the invasion of England.

Meanwhile, what was happening in that threatened land? While the great
armament of the Norman was wind-bound in port, a vast Viking host under
Harold Hardrada, King of Norway, and Tostig, the English king’s brother,
had doubled Spurn Head, and was sailing up the Humber and into the Ouse,
bound for York. Why, you ask, should Harold’s own brother take arms
against him when William of Normandy was arraying a mighty host for his
undoing? Tostig had been Earl of Northumbria, and had ruled his earldom
with harshness and injustice. He had forced peace on a land of feuds and
outrages by taking life and by maiming limb. Loud had been the outcry
against him, and Tostig had been driven from Northumbria by his incensed
subjects. Harold had supported the claim of a rival; and now Tostig, at
the instigation of his brother-in-law, Duke William, had persuaded the
Norse king to join him in a descent upon North England. Harold, whom he
had not forgiven, was to be taken between two fires, and victory seemed
sure.

Harold had mustered his forces on the southern shore, and during the
summer lay in wait for the coming of the Norman. Summer passed, and
autumn arrived when the news reached him that the Vikings were in the
Ouse. Believing that William would not sail until the spring, Harold set
out for York to smite the Northern host before the Norman was ready to
attack. With wonderful speed his troops marched northward, and York was
reached on the fourth day after his departure from London.

The Norsemen were taken by surprise. It was inconceivable that Harold
could be nigh, and so they advanced to York, which had promised
surrender, leaving their coats of mail on board their ships in the
river. As they marched towards the gates, which were to be flung wide at
their approach, they beheld a cloud of dust and the glitter of arms in
the distance. “Who are these advancing towards us?” asked Hardrada.
“Only Englishmen craving pardon and beseeching friendship,” answered
Tostig; but the words had scarcely been uttered before the dust-cloud
resolved itself into an army, headed by King Harold himself. “The
enemy!—the enemy!” muttered the Norwegians. They formed in line of
battle, ready for the fray.

Harold feared not the issue, but he was loath to shed his brother’s
blood, and sent forward a messenger to offer Tostig his old
earldom—one-third of the kingdom—if he would yield. “And what,” asked
Tostig, “will he give my faithful ally, the King of Norway?” “He,”
replied the English messenger, “shall have seven feet of ground for a
grave, or, as he is a very tall man, perhaps a little more.” Tostig bade
the messenger depart, and battle was joined.

Hardly had the fray begun before Hardrada fell with a random arrow in
his throat. The fury of the English onset could not be resisted. The
Norwegians fell back and crossed the Derwent by Stamford Bridge, and the
English followed. For a time a gigantic Norseman, like Horatius of old,
“kept the bridge;” but he was slain at last, and the English swarmed
after the retreating foe. At nightfall the Norsemen were overthrown, the
raven banner of the Vikings was taken, and Tostig and most of his
captains were dead. Harold had triumphed. His foes came in three hundred
ships; they fled in twenty-four.

[Illustration: =THE DEATH OF HAROLD.=
 (_From the drawing by Daniel Maclise, R.A. By permission of the Art Union
   of London._)]




[Illustration]


                        THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS.

           “_Norman saw on English oak,_
           _On English neck a Norman yoke,_
           _Norman spoon in English dish,_
           _And England ruled as Normans wish;_
           _Blithe world in England never will be more,_
           _Till England’s rid of all the four._”

And now, in mimic strife, let that great battle which gave England for
the last time to foreign foes be fought again. The first act of the
drama which we are about to witness takes place on the Sussex shore near
Pevensey, on the spot where Roman and Saxon alike landed when they too
coveted the possession of our isle.

It is the twenty-ninth day of September, in the year of grace 1066. The
wind that is even now fluttering the victorious banners of Harold at
York is wafting to our coast an even more terrible foe. You see the vast
armada of the Norman approaching the beach. Amidst the crowd of vessels
which cover the sea you discern a ship with the prow fashioned like a
brazen child loosing an arrow from a bended bow. That ship bears Duke
William and his fortunes. Speedily the vessels run aground, planks are
thrust ashore, and the work of landing begins.

“Out archers!” is the cry, and the shaven and shorn cross-bowmen in
their short habits spring ashore and form up on the beach. They scour
the neighbourhood, but no armed foe is in sight. Now the knights, clad
in hauberk, helmet, and shining cuirass, with their shields slung round
their necks, step ashore, and their bustling squires, with many a tug
and strain and muttered curse, lead their high-mettled chargers down the
creaking gangways. In a trice the knights are mounted, their swords
girded on, and their lances in hand. You see their glittering ranks form
and wheel upon the shore.

Here come the carpenters, with their axes, planes, and adzes, seeking a
suitable spot for the erection of a castle, which was completely
fashioned in Normandy, and now only needs fitting together. Great frames
are carried ashore, and like magic a wooden fortress is deftly reared on
the strand. Ere set of sun the stores are landed and safely bestowed
within its walls. The guards are set, and the evening meal is served.

Last of all to tread the soil of the land that is soon to be his comes
Duke William. As he steps ashore he stumbles, and falls upon his face. A
cry of consternation runs through the superstitious host. “God preserve
us! this is a bad sign.”—“Nay,” he shouts lustily, and with that
readiness of retort which never fails him; “see, my lords, I have taken
possession of England with both my hands! It is now mine, and what is
mine is yours.”

At dawn he marches along the seashore to Hastings, where other wooden
castles are erected, and every precaution is taken against surprise. The
foragers are busy in every neighbouring village, and as they appear the
unarmed English flee, driving their cattle before them to secret places
of safety. Mounted scouts push far into the country, and fall back on
the main body as the English army draws near.

Now the scene changes, and you see Harold’s footmen hurrying forward in
the vain hope of smiting the Norman ere he has made good his landing.
But the surprise of Stamford Bridge is not to be repeated, and Harold
halts seven miles from Hastings and sends forward his spies. Speedily
they return with the astonishing news that there are more priests in
William’s camp than fighting-men. They are mistaken; they do not know
the Norman custom of shaving the beard and cropping the poll. Harold
smiles at their report. “Those whom you have seen in such numbers,” says
he, “are not priests but good soldiers, who will make us feel what they
are.” Now a council of war is held, and several of his captains, with
rare good sense, advise the English king to avoid a battle and retreat
towards London, leaving a desert behind him. “No,” says the chivalrous
Harold. “Ravage the country which has been committed to my care! Never!
I will try the chances of battle with the few men I have, and trust to
their courage and the goodness of my cause.”

But here comes a Norman monk, big with a message from his duke, bidding
Harold do one of three things—resign his kingdom in favour of William,
yield it to the Pope for his award, or determine the issue by single
combat. “Tell your master,” says Harold abruptly, “I will not resign my
title, I will not refer it to the Pope, nor will I accept the single
combat.” Again William tempts him by the promise of all the land north
of the Humber; but Harold is proof against the bribe, and his captains
swear a unanimous oath to make neither peace, truce, nor treaty with the
invader, but to drive away the Norman, or perish in the attempt.

Now the scene shifts once more. On a spur of the South Downs, where
Battle Abbey now stands, you see the embattled array of the English. The
hill of Senlac, on which they have posted themselves, slopes steeply in
front, less steeply on the right, and gently on the left. On the summit
of the hill the host of the English is thickly gathered behind a rough
trench and a stockade. There is marshy ground on the right, but the left
is the weakest part of the position, and here are mustered Harold’s
stout hus-carles, doughty warriors in full armour, wielding huge axes.
Here, too, are the banners of the king—the Golden Dragon of Wessex and
the Fighting Man. The rest of the ground is occupied by the half-armed
rustics who have flocked to Harold, and are bent on striking a good blow
against the invader.

Out from the Norman host spurs the minstrel Taillefer, singing the song
of Roland, and Oliver, and the peers who died at Roncesvalles. As he
sings he tosses his sword into the air and juggles with it famously.
Then he puts his horse to the gallop, and strikes his lance through an
English breast. He smites another with his sword, shouting challenges to
the foe. The English close round him, and the first Norman has fallen on
the fatal field.

A shower of arrows from the archers begins the fray, and then the
footmen and the Norman knights, to the loud braying of horns, charge up
the slopes, crying, “God be our help!” The charge breaks vainly on the
stockade and shield-wall, behind which the English ply axe and javelin
with fierce shouts of “Out! out!” Back go the footmen and back go the
knights, leaving dead and wounded before that fatal barrier. Again and
again the duke rallies them; the fury of fight surges in his veins, and
with headlong valour he spurs up the slopes to the fierce attack. No
breach can be made in that wall. His Bretons, entangled in the marshy
ground, break into disorder, and panic seizes his army as the cry goes
round that the duke is slain. William bars the way and checks the flight
of the fugitives with savage blows. He tears off his helmet. “I am
alive,” he shouts, “and by God’s will I will conquer yet.”

Maddened by another repulse, he spurs right into the thick of the fight.
His horse goes down beneath him, but his terrible mace circles in the
air, and his assailants are felled, never to rise again. Again he
mounts, again he is unhorsed, and a blow of his hand hurls to the ground
an unmannerly rider who will not lend him a steed. William’s terrible
onslaughts have dispelled the panic, but the issue of the battle still
hangs in the balance.

It is three in the afternoon, and the English shield-wall is yet
unbroken. Frontal attacks having failed, William will now try what the
cunning of strategy can accomplish. Hitherto his archers have done but
little mischief. With their great shields the English ward off the
arrows that beat upon them like hail. “Shoot upwards,” he commands,
“that your arrows may fall on their heads.” The archers obey, and with
shields raised aloft to protect their faces, the English are at a
manifest disadvantage in their encounters with the Norman knights.
Almost the first to suffer in that iron storm is Harold himself. An
arrow pierces his right eye. In agony he plucks it out, snaps it in two,
and flings it from him; but the pain is so great that he leans heavily
upon his shield.

Meanwhile another stratagem is equally successful. William orders a
thousand horse to advance, and then to turn and flee. At the sight, the
English behind their stockade leap forward and set off in wild pursuit,
their axes suspended from their necks. When they are well away from
their defences, the fleeing Normans wheel about, and the pursuers find
themselves assailed on all sides with spear and sword. They are cut to
pieces, and William speedily makes himself master of the position which
they have abandoned. On either flank his horsemen also make good their
ascent, and now a fierce hand-to-hand combat rages on the crest of the
hill. Loud is the clamour, great is the slaughter, and the _mêlée_ is
thickest round the standard where the hus-carles encircle the body of
their king with a wall of living valour. One by one they fall, the rest
betake themselves to flight, and the night falls on a stricken and
wailing England.

Now see the torches flit about the field as the conquerors rifle the
dead. Duke William’s tent is pitched on the spot where the fight has
raged fiercest. Amidst the grisly mounds of slain he gives thanks for
his victory, and eats and drinks and rests himself. The Sabbath morning
dawns, and mournful parties of noble ladies, clad in the black robes of
mourning, search the field for the bodies of their fathers, sons,
husbands, or brothers. Two monks from the Abbey of Waltham, which Harold
has founded, approach the conqueror and humbly offer him ten marks of
gold for leave to carry away the remains of their benefactor. William
grants them permission, and to and fro they go, anxiously and vainly
searching the field for the body of the dead king. At length they call
upon the “swan-necked Edith,” who loved him well, to assist in the
search. She is more successful than they, and the mangled and disfigured
corpse is given hurried burial beneath the high altar of Waltham Abbey.

While the conqueror plans a memorial fane on the blood-sodden ground,
and marshals his forces for the march on London, the English are sunk in
the depths of bitterness and despair. “England, what shall I say of
thee?” wails the monkish scribe. “Thou hast lost thy national king, and
sinkest under the foreigner, bathed in the blood of thy defenders!” The
conqueror marches in triumph to London without striking a blow, and on
Christmas Day an English archbishop places the crown upon his head in
the Abbey of Westminster. There is bloodshed even on that day. When,
according to the old English custom, Stigand, the archbishop, asks the
assembled thanes if they will have the Norman for their king, loud
shouts of assent are raised. The Norman guards surrounding the minster
mistake the shouting within the abbey for the noise of strife, and
immediately fire the neighbouring houses and slay the innocent
spectators.

Hard and heavy will be the hand of the conqueror; harsh and cruel, but
withal not unjust, will be his rule. Now that he has won the kingdom, he
will strive to reign as a lawful king. Heavy fines will be exacted from
the large landowners who have resisted him, but otherwise he will
endeavour to rule as the rightful successor to Alfred and Edward the
Confessor. But he will soon discover that England is yet unconquered.
Revolts will spring up in all parts of the land, and there will be hard
fighting, and harrying, and burning and slaying for many a year ere he
is acknowledged king from the Cheviots to the Channel. After every
revolt the lands of the insurgents will change hands, and Norman knights
will gradually secure the fairest estates in the country. Grim castles
of stone will spring up, and where they arise the Norman will rule as
lord. The discontented amongst William’s followers will goad the English
whose lands they covet into rebellion. They will treat the highspirited
English to every insult and outrage which they can conceive, and when
the maddened thanes lie stricken on the field they will be rewarded with
their possessions. Thus the Norman will enter into the land to possess
it.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =Coronation of William the Conqueror.=
 (_From the picture by John Cross._)]

    When William was being crowned in Westminster Abbey, the
    archbishop, according to the old custom, asked the Norman and
    English nobles if they would have William for their king. They
    replied with loud shouts. The Norman soldiers outside the abbey
    thought that William was being attacked. They therefore fell on
    the people and set fire to the neighbouring houses. The picture
    shows the scene of alarm within the abbey. After a time order
    was restored, and the archbishop placed the crown on William’s
    head.




[Illustration: HEREWARD THE WAKE]




         “_Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam,_
         _His first, best country ever is at home._”

This burly Englishman, with his long, flowing locks, his mighty thews
and sinews, his undaunted heart, his craft and skill in warfare, needs
no introduction. His name and fame are enshrined in every English heart,
thanks to the splendid romance which Charles Kingsley has woven about
his heroisms. Legend and tradition, song and story, have cast their
spell about him, and none can read his thrilling adventures without a
tribute of admiration and esteem. Wild and wayward he ever was, but
mingled with the ferocity and craftiness of his nature was a childlike
simplicity which endeared him to all. As a guerilla leader he was the
keenest thorn in William’s side. “Were there but three men in England
such as he,” said a chronicler, “William would never have won the land.”

The old stories describe him as a self-willed, boisterous lad, who
caused his mother many a heartache and his father many an embarrassment,
until at length he was outlawed and driven across the seas, where his
mighty deeds of daring won him great renown. He may have been present at
Hastings, though the chroniclers are silent on this point; but soon
after the battle he was in Flanders, and only returned home when he
learnt that his ancestral lands at Bourne in Lincolnshire had been
granted to one Taillebois, who was even then in possession of them.
Taillebois, by his insolence and cruelty, had made himself bitterly
hated, and the men of the Fens were only waiting for a leader to rise in
rebellion and thrust him out. Hereward suddenly arrived amongst them,
and, so the story goes, swept his home clean of Frenchmen with his
single sword. Eagerly the Fen men flocked to him, and acclaimed him as
their leader. Soon the terror of his name spread far and wide, and the
wild Fenland became a camp of refuge for those who would not bow the
neck to the Norman yoke.

No part of England was better adapted for the purpose. It was a vast,
low-lying wilderness of slow-moving rivers, spreading meres, and
treacherous swamps, whose secret paths were known only to the natives.
Here and there “islands” of firmer ground arose, and on these the towns
and abbeys of Fenland were built. One of these “islands” was Ely, a
matchless place of refuge, engirdled by waters and morasses. Here
Hereward made his camp, and defied the Normans. Daily his forces grew,
and daily he swooped down on his foes, appearing so suddenly and
disappearing so magically into his reedy recesses that none could stay
him or follow him. William soon perceived that he would never be master
of England while the bold and watchful Hereward was at large.

Hereward had allied himself with the Danes, who swarmed into Fenland,
and having burnt the “golden borough” of Peterborough, retired across
the North Sea laden with its wondrous treasures—the gold crucifixes,
the jewelled vessels, the costly vestments—which were the pride and
glory of the abbey. Now that Hereward had rid himself of his troublesome
allies, William determined to strike his blow.

Forthwith he marched an army to Cambridge, and invested the island of
Ely on every side. The besieged built a great fortress of turf,
collected food, and prepared to resist to the death. William determined
to storm the island from Aldreth, between which place and Ely lay half a
mile of reedy swamp. Collecting all the peasants of the countryside, he
busied them in making a floating bridge, over which his army might pass
to the capture of the beleaguered isle. Tradition tells us that
Hereward, with his golden locks shorn and his beard shaved, laboured at
the task, and that every night before he departed he set fire to the
day’s work. At length, however, the bridge was finished, and William’s
army began to march across it. The besieged watched the vast array crowd
upon the frail bridge. Suddenly they saw it give way, and thousands were
hurled into the thick slime, which speedily engulfed them. The first
attack had hopelessly failed, and William himself had barely escaped
destruction.

He was not daunted. With that wonderful perseverance and dogged
determination which bore down every obstacle in his path, he built his
bridge anew, profiting by his former experience. A huge floating sow
protected the Ely end of the bridge, and was pushed forward as the work
proceeded. Slowly but surely it grew until the sow was but fifty yards
from Hereward’s fortress. A high wooden tower was erected at the farther
end of the great work, and on this William planted a witch, who yelled
and gibbered foul curses at the English as the Normans advanced.

The bridge was speedily covered with armed men. The front of the sow was
let down, and gave footing to within a dozen yards of the wall of
Hereward’s fort. As the Normans swarmed out with their scaling-ladders,
the besieged hurled heavy stones upon them, and shot them down by
scores, until the ditch was full of dead bodies. The besiegers planted
their ladders on the corpses of the slain, and proceeded to mount them,
but only one knight ever entered the fort.

Afar off a puff of smoke and a thin wisp of yellow flame were seen.
Hereward had fired the reeds. “On came the flame, leaping and crackling,
laughing and shrieking like a live fiend. The archers and slingers in
the boats cowered before it, and fell, scorched corpses, as it swept on.
It reached the causeway, surged up, recoiled from the mass of human
beings, then sprang over their heads and passed onwards, girding them
with flame. The reeds were burning around them; the timbers of the
bridge caught fire; the peat and fagots smouldered beneath their feet.
They sprang from the burning footway, and plunged into the fathomless
bog, covering their faces and eyes with scorched hands, and then sank in
the black, gurgling slime.”

Taillebois dragged William back, regardless of curses and prayers from
his soldiery; and they reached the shore just in time to see between
them and the water a long black, smouldering, writhing line; the morass
to right and left, which had been a minute before deep reed, an open
smutty pool, dotted with boats full of shrieking and cursing men; and at
the causeway end, the tower with the flame climbing up its posts, and
the witch of Brandon throwing herself desperately from the top, and
falling dead upon the embers, a motionless heap of rags. “Fool that thou
art! Fool that I was!” cried the great king, as he rolled off his horse
at his tent door, cursing with rage and pain.

But he was not yet beaten. The lion in William having been defeated, the
fox had his day. What force could not accomplish, craft and cunning
might. No longer did he attempt to capture the island. He would starve
it into submission, and meanwhile test the temper of the timorous monks
who trembled in their cells. With lavish promises for their own safety
and the possession of their abbey and its lands, they were beguiled, and
at length they revealed the secret paths that led to the isle. One by
one his friends deserted him, until at length the day arrived when
Hereward too was forced to come in to the king—the last Englishman in
the land to submit to the Norman. William received him gladly, for his
heart ever warmed to a brave foe.

What the actual end of Hereward was we do not know, but we can readily
believe that he died fighting, overborne by the number of his
treacherous foes, and in his dying struggle doing miracles of valour. So
he fades out of our pageant, but his memory will ever be dear to all
Britons who love the gallant and brave, and deem the pure patriot the
glory of his land.




[Illustration: =HEREWARD YIELDING TO WILLIAM.=
 (_From the drawing by H. C. Selous. By permission of the Art Union of
   London._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter VI.
                       ENGLAND UNDER THE NORMANS.


                            WILLIAM THE RED.

      “_There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked._”

LOOK upon the scene which now unfolds itself. You are gazing into the
depths of that Hampshire forest which the Conqueror set apart for his
kingly sport. It is cursed to his line by reason of the cruelties which
he wreaked upon the forest dwellers when he burnt their roof-trees over
their heads, and scattered them afar, to make a solitude for his deer.
Two scions of his house have already perished in its glades.

The forest is silent. It is late afternoon, and the setting sun is even
now gilding the upper branches of the spreading trees. Suddenly the
silence is dispelled. You hear the sound of horns, the baying of dogs,
the shouts of hunters, and a lordly stag flies past you. Now a pair of
horsemen gallop up, and your eye is instantly arrested by the Red King.
You recognize him instantly as a son of the Conqueror, though he seems
but a caricature of his father.

Of middle stature, he is square and heavy of frame, with a restless eye,
and a stammering tongue that can, nevertheless, rap out ready witticisms
and biting sarcasms on occasion. Evil living and unbridled passion have
left their marks on his ruddy and bloated countenance. He fears neither
God nor man. His crafty ministers wring heavy fines from his barons, and
he does not even spare the Church. Archbishop Anselm, that
tender-hearted poet-dreamer, who showed the courage of a lion when fraud
and wrong were brewing, alone held him in check. Now that Anselm is in
exile, there is no wickedness that he will not do. Vicious, vain,
boastful, and puffed up with pride, he has not an honest friend in the
land.

Men hate him and mock him. With what gibes and sneers they tell that
story of the chamberlain and the boots! Once his chamberlain brought him
a pair of boots, saying that they had cost but three shillings. “Take
them away,” roared the vainglorious fool, “they are not worthy of a
king’s foot. Bring a pair that costs a mark of silver.” The cunning
chamberlain, thereupon, brings a worse pair, and these the Red King
pronounces worthy of his majesty. What a king! Ay, but far worse remains
behind. There is no baseness, no cruelty, no injustice which he has not
practised. Even now the revenues of bishops and abbots are flowing into
his pocket, while “the hungry flock look up, and are not fed.” When
disease attacks him he repents; when he recovers he is himself again.

But withal he is no craven. He fights like a man, and reveals much of
the Conqueror’s skill and cunning. Fear he knows not. Men tell with
wonder of the day when he set forth to subdue Normandy in the teeth of a
storm. His mariners trembled, but not he. “Kings never drown, ye
varlets!” he cried, and forthwith hove out on the tempestuous waters of
the Channel.

Watch him closely. Behind his reckless air of gaiety there is an anxious
foreboding. Last night he tossed on his couch and dreamed an ugly dream.
He thought he was in a gorgeous minster hung with velvet and purple. All
around were the shrines of the saints gleaming with gold and gems and
ivory. Such riches even he, the despoiler of churches, had never looked
upon, and his hands itched to clutch them. But when he tried to seize
them they vanished, and an altar rose before him, whereon was lying a
naked man. A lust to feed on the man’s flesh overcame him, and he ate of
the body that lay before him. At length the victim spoke in accents
stern beyond words, “Is it not enough that thou hast thus far grieved me
with so many wrongs? Henceforth thou shalt eat of me no more.”

The horror of the dream is still at the back of his mind, though he has
quaffed the wine-cup until the disquieting vision no longer terrifies
him. His counsellors have besought him not to venture into the forest
to-day; but no man save Anselm, and he is beyond the seas, ever turned
him from his purpose. Such is the man who now rides into the forest
glade.

While he jokes and jests with his companion, a startled stag springs out
of the brushwood. Rufus slips from his horse and fits an arrow to his
bow. He shoots, and the quarrel strikes the prey and wounds it slightly.
“Shoot, man; shoot!” he shouts to his companion, shading his eyes with
his hand to see the effect of another shot. The second bow twangs, and
down goes the king with an arrow in his heart. What has happened no man
can say. Some tell you that his companion’s shaft has glanced from a
tree and has found its billet in the Red King’s breast. Some speak of an
Englishman, cowering in the undergrowth, who has seized the moment to
let fly the arrow of retribution. Some even aver that the deadly missile
was sped by his own brother’s hand.

No one knows, and no one cares. It is enough for all that a king whose
life has been that of a wild beast perishes like a beast among the
beasts. His companion, horrified at the sight of the dying king, and
fearing that he will be accused of the crime, spurs his horse out of the
forest, and does not check his steed till he is on the seashore, with a
bark at hand to carry him to a foreign strand.

There lies the king, the red blood ebbing from his false heart. “That
arrow, by whomsoever shot, set England free from oppression such as she
never felt before or after at the hand of a single man.”

 “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.”




[Illustration]


                      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.

The castle is undergoing a siege, which has already lasted three months.
An iron girdle of armed men forbids entrance or exit. You see, however,
no great engines for hurling missiles into the fortress; you perceive no
battering-rams; no pent-houses for undermining its walls; no
scaling-ladders and towers for assault. Hunger and cold are the weapons
of the besiegers; within, starvation and disease are fighting their
battle. It is early morning of the vigil of St. Thomas, a cold, gray
day, with a sharp frost in the air. In the camp of the besiegers a white
flag is raised in token of truce, and presently you see a stalwart
knight clad in full armour bestride his charger. Behind him assembles a
train of abbots and priests bearing Church banners and crucifixes.
Slowly they wend their way over the powdery snow to the edge of the
castle moat, and presently the loud blast of a trumpet startles the ear.
Now you see on the battlements of the castle a warder appear and inquire
the meaning of the summons. “Say to thy mistress that I beseech a
parley,” cries the knight, and the warder disappears.

There is a pause, and presently on the battlements you see a woman, pale
and gaunt, but proud and haughty as angry Juno. You notice her flashing
eye, her hard, resolute look, and you know that she will never yield to
mortal man. “Why come ye?” she asks in imperious tones, and the Lord
Abbot of Reading answers her. He bids her yield the castle, and he
promises, in the name of the king, that no harm shall befall her or any
that are with her. She shall have honourable escort to the coast, lands
and money shall be hers, and no vengeance of any kind shall be wreaked
on her adherents. “Gracious lady,” he concludes, “I implore thee to
yield and end this cruel war, which is a reproach to Christendom and
ruin to the people of England. Thy famishing state is well known, and
all hope of escape is gone.”

“Who told thee, thou meddling monk, that I thought of escape?” she
answers. “Wherefore should I escape? My brother, Earl Robert, is at
hand, and ye wot well how the foul usurper was forced to yield to him at
Lincoln. The like will happen again here at Oxenford, so let the false
recreant begone. I will not throw open my gates nor quit these walls
until thy perjured master is in chains, pleading at my feet for the life
I have once too often granted him.”

“Madam, madam, I beseech thee,” begins the abbot in reproof, but the
wrathful figure on the wall waves him away. “Get thee gone!” she screams
in a fierce passion, “or I will remember to hang thee on the gate of thy
abbey when this rebellion is over.” So the knight and the churchman
depart, and anon you see the former riding from post to post urging his
men to keep closer watch on the besieged, and doubling the guards that
lie in wait near every exit from the castle.

The early dusk arrives, and the snow begins to fall, and you can scarce
see the dark mass of the fortress. The cold wind drives the falling snow
into the eyes of the sentinels; they grow numb and drowsy, and their
vigilance is relaxed. Now, strain your eyes, and watch the postern of
yonder tower. Slowly the door opens, and dimly you perceive five
white-clad figures flit out and descend into the moat. You see their
ghost-like forms reappear and make all speed for the river. Across its
ice-bound surface they hasten, and as they draw near you perceive that
one of them is a woman. Now they plunge into the snowdrifts on the other
side, and struggle on towards Abingdon. There they will find friends and
horses, and speedily they will make for the coast and hie them to the
shores of friendly France.

What is the meaning of the incidents which you have witnessed? The woman
who has just escaped is Matilda, sole surviving child of Beauclerc. When
Henry’s only son went down in the _White Ship_, she alone remained as
heir to the realm. Forthwith Henry called his barons together, and bade
them swear fealty to his daughter as “Lady” of England. They did his
bidding reluctantly, for they scorned to be ruled by a woman. Amongst
the knights who swore the oath was Henry’s nephew Stephen, he whom you
saw directing the siege of Oxford. He is handsome, tall, strong, and one
of the most renowned knights in all Christendom. Even while the barons
obeyed the king’s behest, many of them deemed Stephen far worthier to
rule them than the haughty, passionate Dame Matilda.

Ere Henry died, many of the barons had determined to forswear their oath
and throw in their lot with Stephen. They knew him as easy-going,
soft-hearted, “unstable as water,” and, as such, he was the very king
for them. With Stephen on the throne, every baron might be king in his
own domain, free to raid and harry and fight as he listed. So when the
old king was carried to his tomb, Stephen seized the crown, and, after
the fashion of usurpers, strove to win friends to his side. He scattered
Henry’s treasure in lavish bribes, he promised men all they asked, he
hired foreign soldiers, and was crowned king. Right well pleased were
the barons, and right soon they built them those strong castles which
they had not dared to rear while Henry was alive. Then they quarrelled
and fought, and robbed, and tortured, and hanged to their hearts’
content.

Sad indeed was the condition of England at that time. Turn to the old
Chronicle and read:—“They put the wretched country folk to sore toil
with their castle-building; and when the castles were made, they filled
them with devils and evil men. Then they took all those that they deemed
had any goods, both by night and by day, men and women alike, and put
them in prison to get their gold and silver, and tortured them with
tortures unspeakable, for never were martyrs so tortured as they
were. . . . All this lasted nineteen winters while Stephen was king, and
ever it was worse and worse. Thou mightest easily fare a whole day’s
journey, and shouldest never find a man living in a village nor land
tilled. Then was corn dear, and flesh and cheese, for there was none in
the land. Wretched men starved for hunger, and some were begging alms
that were once rich men, and some fled out of the land.”

And to add to all this horror, Matilda, aided by her noble half-brother,
Robert of Gloucester, and her kinsman, David of Scotland, waged war
against the usurper. The fortune of battle wavered, now to this side,
now to that. Sometimes Stephen was victor, sometimes Matilda. You
remember how she taunted Stephen from the battlements of Oxford Castle
about the affair at Lincoln. The story is worth telling. Stephen was
besieging Lincoln Castle when a superior force of his foes assailed him.
With only three faithful followers he fought like a lion at bay,
disdaining either to fly or yield. At length his sword-blade snapped;
but one of his companions handed him a two-handed Danish axe, with which
he did terrible execution. Then the axe-helve splintered in his hand;
but all feared to seize him until he was hurled to the ground by a stone
thrown by an unknown hand. A knight, greatly daring, ran up and laid
hands on the fallen king; but Stephen shook him off, and it was only to
Robert of Gloucester that he would deign to surrender. Stephen was put
in ward at Bristol, and a great Council elected Matilda queen in his
stead.

Ere long her haughty behaviour, her self-will, her revengeful spirit,
and the injustice with which she treated the Londoners, disgusted even
her best friends. One day, while she was sitting at dinner, the city
bells rang out a call to arms, and the Londoners, “like angry wasps from
their comb,” swarmed into her palace. She had barely time to escape on a
swift steed to Winchester. Then the Londoners arrayed themselves under
Stephen’s brave queen and laid siege to Matilda. She was forced to
retreat, and in the strife that followed the King of Scots and Robert of
Gloucester were captured. Matilda fled on horseback to Devizes; but
enemies thronged about her, and her friends only got her safely out of
the town by covering her with grave-clothes and carrying her forth on a
bier. Robert was now exchanged for Stephen, and once more the tide of
war turned in his favour. This brings us up to the incidents which we
have just witnessed in front of Oxford Castle.

Little remains to be said. Robert died, and Matilda found that she had
lost her best and most gallant champion. Her son Henry, however, was now
of an age to take his part in the strife. Strong, able, and rich, he
sailed from France with an army, but was too wise to fight a pitched
battle. He could afford to wait; and so he made peace with Stephen, who
was to reign in England until his death, when Henry was to succeed him.
A year later Stephen died, and all good men rejoiced. Peace was coming
to the distracted realm, and the old days of “war, wickedness, and
waste” were over, men fondly hoped, never to return.




[Illustration]


                         THE GREAT ARCHBISHOP.

            “_Fame’s loudest trump upon the ear of Time_
            _Leaves but a dying echo; they alone_
            _Are held in everlasting memory_
            _Whose deeds partake of heaven._”

Once more the scene changes. We are standing in the High Street of
Canterbury watching a notable procession pass by. Listen to the clanging
bells, and when they cease, hear the organ rolling forth its waves of
harmony from the cathedral. The old timbered houses are decked with
streamers and garlands; groups of priests with banners are threading the
street towards the ancient gate. It is very evident that some great
personage is about to visit the city. Is it the king? Not so; it is some
one even greater than the king—it is the archbishop, Thomas Becket. You
wonder that an archbishop should be more powerful than a king, but in
these early days the Church is the greatest power on earth. Even kings
must submit to its decrees.

Now the trumpets blow, and a long procession winds its way towards the
cathedral. As the archbishop comes in sight loud shouts of welcome rend
the air. Look at him as he sits his charger, prouder than the boldest
knight in the land. There was a time when he could joust and use sword
and lance with the most skilful warrior in the kingdom. Ah! he was a
boon companion of the king’s then. What merry jests, what jovial days
and nights they spent together! They were Jonathan and David in their
friendship. Becket was the king’s right-hand man in all affairs of
State. Clever and learned, he seconded the king in all his strenuous
endeavours to rid the land of lawlessness and misery. In return, Henry
heaped riches and honours upon his chancellor.

What state and ceremony he loved in those days! His palace was far
grander than the king’s; a hundred and forty knights followed in his
train. None wore such magnificent robes as he; none made so brave a
display. As for the king, he cared nothing for those things in which
Becket’s soul delighted. Often when the chancellor sat down to feast
with his followers, Henry would gallop up to the door of the palace,
toss his bridle to a groom, stride into the great hall, vault the table,
and in his rough riding-dress take his place by the side of his gorgeous
chancellor.

What stories they tell of the pranks these two used to play! One winter
day, when the pair were riding through the streets of London, the king
saw an old man shivering in his rags. “Look at that poor beggar,” said
he. “Would it not be a kind act to give him a good warm coat?”

“Certainly, sire,” replied Becket; “and you are a good Christian to
bethink yourself of such a generous deed.”

“Then give him yours,” laughed the king, and seized the rich robe which
the chancellor was wearing. Becket was loath to bestow his rich crimson
coat on a beggar man; but the king would have his way, and a pretty
tussle ensued between them. At last the chancellor’s cloak was pulled
from his shoulders, and Henry handed it to the astonished beggar. How
hugely he laughed all the way home at the wry face which Becket pulled!

But all this has suffered a “sea-change” long ago. When the king had
quelled the robber barons and had pulled down their strongholds about
their ears, he found that there was lawlessness in the Church needing
his grave attention. The Conqueror had given the bishops the right to
hold courts, in which they alone could try the clergy, no matter what
crimes they committed. In course of time the bishops claimed
jurisdiction, not only over priests, but over all clerks—that is,
persons who could read. But who cared for the bishop and his judgments?
He could not imprison or hang; he could simply drive a man out of the
Church. Many a bold rogue has saved his neck by pulling out a writing
from his pocket and gravely reading a certain verse from the Psalms,
mayhap while he held the scroll upside down.

Since Henry has sat on the throne more than a hundred murders have been
committed by clerks, and not one of the murderers has graced the
gallows. This is intolerable; Henry will brook this state of things no
longer. He will have justice and order in his land, come what may. Ah!
but to meddle with the rights of the Church is no light matter, as he is
ere long to discover to his cost. He cannot even make a beginning of
reform unless the head of the Church in England is in sympathy with his
plans. Good thought! he will make Becket archbishop, and then all will
be well.

But when the consecration is over, Henry finds to his dismay that Becket
is another man. He dismisses his gay followers; he throws off his costly
robes; he abandons his feasting, his gold plate, his tapestries, and his
jewels. He mortifies himself with the coarsest food, drinks bitter
water, wears sackcloth next his skin, and has himself flogged for his
sins. A little cell is his home, and every day, to emulate the meekness
of his Master, he washes the feet of thirteen beggars. All the world
wonders, and Henry grows angry. His anger increases when Becket resigns
the chancellorship, and lets it be known that he now lives for Mother
Church, and Mother Church alone.

Henry now tries to carry out his reforms, and make all men, priest and
layman alike, answerable for their crimes to the king’s court. For a
moment Becket wavers; the king shall have his wish. But a day’s
reflection convinces him that in yielding he is betraying the Church.
Then his resolution stiffens. He prays the Pope to release him from his
promise, and when he is absolved he boldly defies the king. Picture
Henry’s rage. You must know the man to imagine the fury of it. When
thwarted, he is wont to fling himself on the floor and bite the rushes
with which it is strewn.

Becket has made many enemies by his arrogance in the old days, and now
they take care to fan the king’s wrath. Some one accuses him of having
denied justice, and forthwith he is found guilty and heavily fined.
Other punishments are in store for him; but he sweeps into the Council
chamber in full robes, with his crosier in his hand, and dares them to
pass sentence upon him. He and the Church, he says, are in the keeping
of God, and the Pope, and none other, shall judge him. Angry indeed are
the king’s friends at these bold words. One of them shouts “Traitor!”
and others take up the rushes from the floor and fling them at him.
Turning to one of his assailants, he fiercely cries, “If I might bear
arms, I would quickly prove on you that you lied!” With this he leaves
the hall.

Full well he knows that there is no safety for him in England, so,
disguised as a simple monk, and calling himself “Brother Dearman,” he
hastens from the kingdom, and for seven long years he dwells abroad.
Discontented nobles in Henry’s wide French dominions—he is lord from
the Pyrenees to the Tweed—threaten to take up arms in Becket’s cause,
and at length a kind of peace is patched up between archbishop and king.

But ere Becket can return home, Henry does a deed which again angers the
proud archbishop and rouses all the old enmity between them. Following
the French fashion, Henry desires to have his son crowned king in his
lifetime. The Archbishop of York is persuaded to undertake the ceremony.
Now, the crowning of the king is the privilege of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, and of him alone. Becket’s anger flames up at the slight,
and he crosses to England in a bitter frame of mind.

And now you stand in the streets of Canterbury watching his return. The
people welcome him gladly, for they remember his old kindnesses to them.
The nobles, however, stand aloof; they dread his reappearance, and
rightly believe that it means trouble to the realm. Becket passes on to
his cathedral, and in solemn tones excommunicates the Archbishop of York
and the bishops who have crowned the young prince.

Henry is in Normandy, but the news speedily reaches him, and then his
passion knows no bounds. “Here,” he shouts to the knights about him,
“here is a man that has eaten my bread, a pitiful fellow that came to my
court on a sorry hackney, and owes all he has to me, lifting his hand
against me, and insulting my kingdom and my kindred, and not one of the
cowardly, sluggish knaves I feed and pay so well has the heart to avenge
me!”

Fatal words! Four of the knights who listen to the king’s bitter reproof
steal away from his court and hurry to Canterbury. While cool reflection
has brought wiser counsels to the king, they are bursting into the
archbishop’s chamber at Canterbury, and are commanding him to absolve
the bishops without delay. He argues with them, and they threaten him,
but he is obdurate. “Then we will do more than threaten,” they say, and
outside they go to don their coats of mail. Meanwhile the frightened
monks run to the archbishop and beg him to take shelter in the
cathedral. He laughs at their fears. “Methinks,” he says, “all you monks
are cowards.” Not a step will he stir till the bell summons him to
vespers. Then he walks serenely to the cathedral.

Soon the knights are thundering at the barred door. “Unbolt the door,”
cries Becket; “I will not have God’s house made a fortress for me.” The
timid monks dare not obey him, and he flings back the bolt himself. Then
the knights enter, and one of them attempts to drag him outside, so that
the murderer’s work may not be done within consecrated walls. Becket
clings to the great pillar, and Grim, the only brave monk in the
chapter, holds him fast. “Strike! strike!” shouts one of the knights,
and the sword descends. The devoted Grim catches the blade on his arm,
and falls back wounded. Then the blows fall thick and fast, and the
archbishop sinks to the ground, crying out that he dies for the cause of
God and the Church. And here we leave him in the gloom and silence of
his cathedral.

Becket is dead; but though he goes hence and is no more seen, he is
mightier in death than he was in life. He conquers as his heart’s blood
drips from him.

All Christendom stands aghast at the murder. Henry is horrified when he
learns the news, and his grief is real and profound. He instantly sends
explanations to the Pope, and, fearing that his enemies will unite
against him, embarks for Ireland. In due course he returns to Normandy,
and swears that he had no foreknowledge of the archbishop’s death. There
is no more talk of curbing the Church; it has proved far too strong for
him.

         “O’er the rough stones that pave the ancient way,
         Barefoot, a king in penitent array,
         Crawls humbly to the canonizèd bones.
         Doffing his state, he eagerly atones,
         Performs the penance haughty priests decide,
         And stills the throbbings of rebellious pride.
         Prostrate, he feels the stroke of chastening rod,
         And cleansed, he rises, reconciled with God.”




[Illustration: =Death of Becket.=
 (_After the painting by John Cross, in Canterbury Cathedral._)]




[Illustration]


                               STRONGBOW.

             “_The lovely and the lonely bride_
             _Whom we have wedded but have never won._”

Now, for the first time, let Ireland figure in our pageant. So far
England has never intruded upon this “green isle of the west.” Centuries
have come and gone since the Kelts first crossed into Erin and subdued
the primitive inhabitants by force of arms. Legends, many and wondrously
beautiful, still remain of those early times, and men read them to-day
with a new and kindling interest. A strange dreamland it is of gods and
wizards, heroes and beauteous ladies.

                      “The isle is full of noises,
      Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.”

We do not, however, tread the solid ground of history until the coming
of St. Patrick, who “preached, baptized, and prayed; from the praise of
God he ceased not.” In the days of his successors Ireland became the
_Isle of Saints_, and sent forth her missionaries to less favoured
lands. At length invaders arrived; the Vikings descended with fire and
sword, and after terrible conflicts settled in certain coastwise towns
of the eastern shore. Bold Brian Boru, however, clipped their wings at
Clontarf, and Ireland still remained unsubdued. When, however, King
Henry of England began to meditate on the conquest of the sister isle,
Ireland had long fallen from her high estate. All that St. Patrick and
his successors had done to civilize the island had disappeared during
the long and desperate struggle with the Danes. Ireland was a sad,
despairing land, where peace never reigned and men never ceased from
foray and slaughter.

Now, turn your eyes to the historic figures who pass us by. Foremost
among them you see a dark-visaged “king,” with his collar of gold and
his mantle of fur. He is Diarmid, King of Leinster, though his kingdom
is shadowy enough at present; for he has been driven out of Ireland by
the high-king and a chief whom he has grievously wronged. This Diarmid,
smitten by the charms of Devorgilla, wife of the one-eyed chief of
Breffni, has carried off the lady, and now he is suffering for his
gallantry. He has posted to King Henry, offering him homage in return
for assistance in recovering his throne. Henry has other business on
hand just now, and he cannot entertain the enterprise in person. He
gives the errant king, however, letters-patent permitting all liegemen
of the English crown to assist him in recovering his territory.

So Diarmid hies him to Bristol, the great western seaport, and there
meets with the second figure in the group now passing before us. Look
well at this tall, ruddy, gray-eyed Norman knight, for he is the first
to set up English rule in Ireland. He is Richard Strongbow of Clare,
Earl of Pembroke, a “landless resolute,” a man of no very good
character, but warlike, and with the courage and cunning of his race.
You would not think so to speak with him. His voice is soft and gentle,
his manner is courteous, but behind it all there is unmistakable
determination and daring. Strongbow agrees to throw in his lot with
Diarmid, and the price of his assistance is the fair maiden who walks by
her father’s side. Eva is nothing loath to accept the debonair Norman
knight as her husband, so all goes well.

The buds are bursting into leaf on the Irish trees when the
advance-guard of the invaders see the blue hills of Wicklow before them.
After some dubious fighting, they seize Wexford, and begin to harry the
surrounding country. Raymond the Fat, Strongbow’s nephew, a stout, rosy,
valiant knight, arrives in May with reinforcements, and several
hard-fought successes are gained. Then comes Strongbow with the main
force, and a combined attack is made on Waterford, which is, in sooth, a
hard nut to crack. It is Raymond who perceives the means of shelling the
kernel. In his reconnoitring he observes a small wooden house built on
props and clinging with its timbers to the stones of the walls. His men
hew down the posts which support it, and as the building falls it
reveals a gap in the wall, through which the besiegers enter. The town
is seized, a pitiless slaughter follows, and the dead lie in heaps in
the streets.

Strongbow and Eva are forthwith wedded. And now begins a period of
fierce strife amidst the woods and bogs, where the Irish can strike
shrewd blows at the invader and vanish into security by secret paths.
When, emboldened by success, they leave the broken ground and meet the
enemy on the plain, they are crushed and scattered by the whirlwind
charge of the mailed horsemen. Slowly but surely the newcomers gain
ground, and at length Dublin falls. Then Diarmid, “the traitor,” sinks
into his grave. His work is done, and no longer will his hoarse voice
urge on the enemies of his country. Strongbow is his heir, and he now
calls himself King of Leinster.

By this time Henry is alarmed, for Strongbow bids fair ere long to be
King of Ireland. He issues a proclamation forbidding Englishmen to
engage in warfare in the distracted isle, and Strongbow soon perceives
that Henry will brook no vassal of his building up a rival kingdom.
Raymond the Fat is at once dispatched with a humble letter of homage;
but Henry receives the messenger coldly, and disdains to reply.

Henry himself now prepares to invade Ireland. The month of October, in
the year 1171, sees his great fleet of four hundred ships laden with
soldiers set sail from Milford Haven. The fame of this fierce,
bullet-headed king with the bloodshot eyes and the dark red hair has
preceded him, and at his landing all Ireland hastens to do him homage.
In a wicker-work hall with walls of peeled osiers, Henry holds his court
in Dublin during one of the stormiest winters ever known. He feasts the
Irish chieftains on dainty Norman dishes; he grants charters bestowing
all the soil of Ireland on ten of his leading knights, and, leaving
Strongbow out in the cold, invests Hugh de Lacy with cap and sword as
the first governor of Dublin. When the April showers begin to fall, the
royal Plantagenet embarks his host and returns to England.

But what of Strongbow? Conscious of the royal displeasure, he joins
Henry in Normandy, and fights bravely against the king’s rebel sons.
Then once more the sun of royalty deigns to smile on him, and at length
he is rewarded with the long-coveted governorship of Dublin. In Ireland
he discovers that Raymond the Fat is most popular with the soldiery, and
is likely to prove a troublesome rival. A marriage is arranged between
Strongbow’s sister and the popular knight, and Strongbow feels that he
has staved off a disaster. The wedding festivities are rudely
interrupted by news of native risings, and away goes Raymond to the
congenial work of quelling the revolting chieftains. He gains success
after success. The soldiers will have no other leader but him; and all
the while Strongbow jealously intrigues against him. One day when
Raymond is in the south he receives this message from his wife: “Be it
known unto your sincere love that the great jaw-tooth which used to give
me such uneasiness has fallen out. If you have any care or regard for me
or yourself, return with all speed.”

The “great jaw-tooth” is none other than Strongbow, who has just died
from the effects of an ulcer in his foot. So passes the man who ushers
the English race into Ireland. He came to bring not peace but a sword,
and with his advent began five long centuries of battle and murder,
oppression, confiscation, rebellion, famine, crime, and misery
unspeakable.




[Illustration]


                       RICHARD OF THE LION HEART.

              “_The knight’s bones are dust,_
              _And his good sword rust;_
              _His soul is with the saints, I trust!_”

Almost the best-known character in all our pageant now makes his
appearance. Clad in coat of mail, his shield blazoned with the leopards
of England, his surcoat broidered with the Red Cross, he is the very
_beau-ideal_ of a knight. Tall, stalwart, handsome, fair-haired, and
blue-eyed, the gaze of all men lingers admiringly on him. A good
general, a skilful engineer, a wise judge of men, he might have been a
renowned king; but, alas, his lust for war, his thirst for adventure,
his fierce delight in conflict made him a mere soldier—the foremost of
his time, it is true, but nevertheless a killer of men, and not a
builder of states or a benefactor of his land. Still, he shines beyond
all other English kings as the hero of song and story, and as the mirror
of the knighthood which prevailed in his day.

Richard figures in history as the outstanding hero of the third Crusade.
Well-nigh a century before he was crowned king at Westminster, Peter the
Hermit had harrowed men’s hearts by a recital of the infamies done by
the Saracen to Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land. With frenzied words
he bade his hearers, “Go, deliver the sepulchre of the Lord;” and
everywhere arose the answering cry, “God wills it!” A tumultuary horde,
burning with enthusiasm, plundered its way to the East, but perished
without touching Asiatic shores. Behind it came an organized army, which
suffered terribly on the burning sands of Syria, but nevertheless
achieved its object, and set up a Latin kingdom in the Holy Land. Half a
century went by, and the Crescent was once more in the ascendant. Again
a Crusade was preached, and again an immense army set forth to deliver
the tomb of our Lord from the infidel. It had to fight against treachery
of the worst type, and its career was inglorious in the extreme.

Sixteen years ago a new conqueror arose in the East, the great Sultan
Saladin, a knight worthy to cross swords with Richard himself. Jerusalem
was now in his hands, and pious Christians felt a deep pang of shame
that it should be so. Once more a Crusade was preached, and once more
the good and the bad, the pious and the impious, the just and the unjust
of Christendom swore to drive the Saracen from the holy soil which his
foot polluted. Religious enthusiasm blazed up fiercely, and its
first-fruits in England was an awful massacre of Jews on the coronation
day of Richard. “Down with the foes of the Lord!” shouted the mob, and
thousands of innocent Israelites were murdered in cold blood. At Lincoln
the brave Jews defended themselves in the castle until all hope was
gone. Then they slew their women and children, lest a worse fate should
befall them, and perished by their own hands rather than surrender to
their Christian foes.

But all this was forgotten in the bustle and tumult of warlike
preparation. Never was Richard so busy, never was he in higher spirits.
He worked all day, snatching an hour or two in the evening to spend with
his loved troubadours. In the August of the year 1189 his galley
_Trenche-mer_ set sail from Marseilles, and spread its sails for
Messina, where Richard and Philip of France were to forgather. Winter
was to be spent peacefully under Sicilian skies; but trouble was not
long in brewing. The townsfolk having beaten and insulted his men,
Richard forthwith stormed their city. As a notable squire of dames, he
then took up the cause of his widowed sister Joan, who had been
despoiled of her dowry by her brother-in-law, the new king. Restitution
was made perforce, and Richard by his gallantry and lavish bounty soon
became the theme of all tongues. Philip of France, as proud and haughty
as Richard himself, looked on sullenly, and a passionate jealousy of the
English king began to take possession of him.

At last Richard sailed for Cyprus, where he proposed to land and await
the coming of his bride, the fair Berengaria of Navarre. But a storm
overtook his fleet, and two of his vessels were driven ashore. Isaac
Comnenus, the churlish ruler of the island, little guessing with whom he
had to deal, seized the cargoes and imprisoned the crews. This was
intolerable, and Richard’s hot blood boiled with rage. To avenge the
insult, he pounced upon the capital of the island and captured it. Then,
to crown his triumph, came Berengaria, and, amidst scenes of splendour,
his marriage was celebrated. He spent his honeymoon in conquering the
rest of the island, nor did he rest until Isaac, loaded with silver
chains, was sent into banishment.

Twice he had fought and conquered since leaving Marseilles, and yet a
third adventure awaited him before the real business of his enterprise
began. During the voyage to Acre a big merchant ship was sighted flying
false colours. Speedily she was discovered to be a Saracen vessel
striving to run the blockade of Acre, now besieged by the Crusaders.
Forthwith Richard mustered his crew. “I will hang every mother’s son of
you if you let yonder dromond go,” was the burden of his speech, and
having thus heartened his men, he bore down on the foe. The Saracens let
fly a shower of arrows and threw Greek fire aboard the _Trenche-mer_,
but, nothing daunted, Richard rammed the Saracen vessel with the sharp
prow of his galley. Through the gaping rent in the dromond’s side the
sea poured in, and down she went with all her rich cargo and most of her
crew.

There were no more adventures before Acre was reached. The ancient town
was closely beleaguered by the Crusaders, but little progress had been
made. A change came over the spirit of the attackers when Cœur de Lion
arrived. Up rose a great wooden castle to top the walls; here and there
huge catapults hurled missiles into the town; while beneath the
pent-houses was heard the sound of pick and spade as the sappers
undermined the walls. Now ague seized the king, but his ardent spirit
would not let him rest. Carried in a litter to the trenches, he himself
pulled a bow against the Saracens on the ramparts, and by example,
stirring words, and promises of reward encouraged his soldiers to press
the siege with all possible vigour.

Early in July the town was yielded, and in the first moment of success
bickerings began amongst the Christian leaders.

When the Crusaders entered the city, Richard perceived Leopold of
Austria’s flag planted side by side with his own on St. George’s Mount.
“Who has dared,” he said, laying his hand upon the Austrian standard,
and speaking in a voice like the sound which precedes an earthquake,
“who has dared to place this paltry rag beside the banner of England?”

“It was I, Leopold of Austria.”

“Then shall Leopold of Austria presently see the rate at which his
banner and his pretensions are held by Richard of England.”

So saying, he pulled up the standard-spear, splintered it to pieces,
threw the banner itself on the ground, and placed his foot upon it.

“Thus,” said he, “I trample on the banner of Austria.”

In these words does Sir Walter Scott recount the story. Peace was
ultimately made between the two, but Richard had made another foe, who
was soon to take ample revenge on the haughty island king.

The fame of Richard dwarfed that of every knight who wore the Cross in
Palestine, and the bruit of his valorous deeds made him a terror to
every Saracen in the land. For years after, an Arab would cry to the
steed that stumbled, “Fool, dost thou think thou sawest King Richard?”
But the odds were fearfully against him. Every day disease thinned his
ranks, and in the long march from Acre along the coast his men suffered
terribly, though they turned in wrath and smote, hip and thigh, the
Saracens who harried them. Barely, too, did Richard escape the daggers
of the assassins sent to do their murderous work by the Old Man of the
Mountain, who dwelt at Lebanon. One of them entered Richard’s tent, and
was about to strike when the English king caught up the stool on which
he had been sitting, and with it crashed in his assailant’s skull. No
wonder men believed that he bore a charmed life.

And now he turned his steps to Jerusalem itself, but the Frenchmen
forsook him, lest it should be said that an English king had recovered
the Holy Sepulchre. Never was he so cast down as at this defection.
Without their aid his little army could not hope to succeed. As he
wrestled with his grievous disappointment, a knight begged him to ascend
a mount from which he might gaze upon Jerusalem. But the king snapped
the switch which he held in his hand, and cast his surcoat over his
head, while the angry tears gushed forth. “O Lord God,” he prayed,
“suffer not mine eyes to behold Thy holy city, since Thou wilt not grant
that I deliver it from the hands of Thy foes!”

Back again over the weary sands of the desert he toiled, sick at heart
and sick of body, but not so sick that he could not again drive the
enemy before him. But he had failed, though he had done all that man
could do. Saladin agreed to a truce of three months, three days, and
three hours, and with this poor result Richard was forced to be content.
So he left the Holy Land, never to return.

Richard, however, was never long without the adventures which he so
ardently sought. On the homeward voyage he landed at Ragusa, on the
Adriatic shore, meaning to pass through Germany in disguise. But the
gloves in the belt of his page betrayed him as a great personage, and he
fell into the hands of his foe, Leopold of Austria, who at length found
himself able to pay off old scores. Ultimately Richard was sold to the
emperor, who put him in chains, and raked the past for offences
wherewith to accuse his royal captive. For a time Richard disappeared
entirely from view, but the place of his captivity leaked out at last.
An old story tells us that his whereabouts were discovered by the
minstrel Blondel, who loved the king, and set out on a weary quest to
seek him. From castle to castle he passed, singing under the walls a
song which Richard had composed. One day, to his great delight, he heard
a voice which he knew full well troll out the second verse of the song
from a dungeon cell. Forthwith he hastened to England and told the news.
Historians, however, frown upon this pleasing story.

Richard was tried at a Great Council, where he defended himself boldly,
and cleared himself of all the charges urged against him. Nevertheless,
his captor would not let him go without ransom, which was valued at
twenty-seven times the king’s weight, and amounted to the colossal sum
for those days of £100,000. Richard wrote home to his ministers and
begged them to collect the money as speedily as possible, as he was
weary of captivity. While they were raising the ransom, which was a
grievous burden even to rich England, Richard whiled away the weary
hours by writing ballads, one of which ran thus:——

    “Never can captive make a song so fair
     As he can make that has no cause for care,
     Yet may he strive by song his grief to cheer.
     I lack not friends, but sadly lack their gold!
 Shamed are they, if unransomed I lie here a second Yule in hold.”

But his people were not “shamed.” The Pope and other Christian powers
were indignant at the ill-usage to which the champion of the Cross had
been subjected, and the Emperor thought it wise to yield to that public
opinion which almost unanimously condemned him. So when three-fourths of
the ransom had been paid, Richard was set free, and sailed with all
speed for England.

Not even now was peace to be his lot, for his false brother John was in
arms against him. John, however, was soon pleading that forgiveness
which Richard of the generous heart was always ready to grant. Then he
was crowned afresh, to rid him of the stain of his captivity; and now
that his kingdom was regained and all was peaceful, he looked about for
new battles to fight.

He had not far to look. Philip of France was an old enemy, and he had
treacherously supported John in his endeavours to gain the English crown
while Richard was “in hold.” An uneasy peace followed a French defeat,
but a few years later war broke out again, and once more a truce was
proclaimed. Soon after, Richard’s subjects in Poitou were in rebellion,
and Richard went south to quell the rising. By chance he learned that
one of his vassals had unearthed a rich treasure-trove in the shape of a
golden chess-table and men. Richard claimed the prize, but his vassal
was unwilling to surrender it, whereupon the king laid siege to his
castle of Chaluz.

During the siege an archer in the beleaguered keep shot at the king and
hit him in the breast. The wound was not serious, but the doctor who
attended him soon made it mortal. Ere long the king knew that he must
die. As he lay on his deathbed the keep was taken, and the archer who
had shot the fatal arrow was brought before him.

“What have I done to thee, that thou shouldest slay me?” demanded the
dying king.

“Thou hast slain my father and my brothers with thine own hand,” replied
the man undauntedly. “Torture me as thou wilt, I shall die gladly, since
I have slain him who did me so much ill.”

“Well, I forgive thee,” said Richard, always generous to a bold foe.
Then he bade his servants give the man money and dismiss him unhurt. Let
us ever remember that, with all his faults, all his pride, his love of
pleasure, his vainglory, his animal passion for warfare, Richard’s dying
request was for mercy to the man who had robbed him of life. When the
breath was out of the king’s body his soldiers flayed the bowman alive,
but that foul deed may not be laid to Richard’s charge.

So they buried the Lion’s heart at Rouen, and laid his body at
Fontevraud, beside that of the father whose gray hairs he had brought
down long years ago with sorrow to the grave.

[Illustration: =“GOD WILLS IT!”=
 (_From the picture by James Archer, R.S.A. By permission of the Autotype
   Co._)]

[Illustration: =Crusaders on the March.=
 (_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the South Kensington
   Museum._)]

[Illustration: =King Richard and the Young Archer.=
 (_From the fresco by John Cross in the Houses of Parliament._)]




[Illustration]


                      KING JOHN AND MAGNA CHARTA.

 “_Magna Charta is such a fellow that he will have no sovereign._”

Runnymede spreads before you, the famous field on which the English
people wrested from a tyrannous monarch their great table of laws. You
see a green meadow stretching along the marge of “silver-footed Thames,”
a pasturage in no degree distinguished from scores of others in that
fair valley. Fronting it is a little island, set like an emerald in the
shining waters. Meadow and island should enchain your attention, for
here a deed is to be done of deep and solemn import, immeasurable in its
effects upon the lives and fortunes of generations yet unborn.

Here you shall see the seed sown which is to shoot up into a goodly
tree, bearing as its fruits that liberty, civilization, and knowledge in
which we rejoice to-day. Long centuries of toil and struggle will elapse
before it is deep-rooted in the soil; the weeds of error and wrong will
threaten to choke it; the fierce sun of tyranny will scorch it; the
piercing winds of privilege will numb it: but the hardy plant will not
succumb. It will be tended by devoted hands, and watered with blood and
tears, until it spreads its branches far and wide, and is reckoned the
glory of the land. New-graffed with every generation, and branching into
offshoots which bear little semblance to the parent stock, it still
remains, worthy of all our reverence and regard as the sturdy root of
the Constitution under which Britons dwell as the freest nation of the
world.

Look at the meadow on this side of the Thames. Busy hands are setting up
a pavilion of white and gold, for the sojourn of a king. Other pavilions
are rising on Runnymede itself, and on the island too, where a canopied
throne is set up. Now the actors in the scene begin to arrive. Mail-clad
barons armed as for the fray, grim and determined, solemn of port and
sober of converse, draw near. An archbishop with his train of priests
joins the armed throng. All the magnates of England, spiritual and
secular, are here—and they are here to coerce a king.

All is ready, and now the king leaves his bannered pavilion, and
crossing the narrow waters to the isle proceeds towards the throne.
Watch him closely, for his like has never before worn the English crown,
and—please God—never will again. Look at his fierce, dark countenance,
over which waves of passion continually spread, like the ripples on
yonder waters. He is the scourge of his land, the worst monarch with
which England has been cursed—worse even than Rufus. Bad son, bad
husband, bad father, bad king, there is scarce a crime in the whole
black calendar of which he may not be justly accused. He is cruel,
false, greedy, untruthful, and vile; yet out of his wickedness wondrous
good shall come.

He has fought his father, he has wronged his brother, and he has
murdered the little nephew who stood in his way. The poor child Arthur,
heir to the English throne and to England’s wide realms in France, fell
into his hands twelve years ago. John offered him terms, but the lad,
brimful of the spirit of his race, would strike no bargain with the
“shameless king.” He was close pent in a Norman castle, and thither John
dispatched his unwilling minister, Hubert de Burgh, to put out the lad’s
eyes. But the frenzied appeals of the little prince so moved Hubert’s
heart that he forswore his foul commission, preferring to brave the
wrath of his ruthless master than to suffer the sting of conscience. But
there were others with no bowels of compassion, and by their aid the lad
was slain. How he actually died we do not know. Perhaps John inveigled
the boy into a boat and there stabbed him and flung his body overboard,
or perhaps he compassed his death by subtler means. Shakespeare tells us
that, goaded to madness, the little prince leaped from the walls of his
prison, crying,—

            “O me! my uncle’s spirit is in these stones—
            Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones.”

At any rate, the king you now see approaching has murder on his soul.
But this is only the beginning of his villainy. Seven years ago the
Archbishop of Canterbury went to his rest, and the monks of the
cathedral elected another and sent him to Rome for his pall. John chose
for the high office a minion of his own, “a servant of Mammon, and an
evil shepherd that devoured his own sheep.” Pope Innocent, the proudest
and most powerful man who ever wore the triple crown, set both
candidates aside and appointed Stephen Langton, a wise and pious
Englishman, against whom no word of scandal could be breathed. But John
would have none other but his own nominee. He defied the Pope, and then
the thunders of Rome were heard in the land. For the king’s sins a
religious boycott was imposed upon the people.

The most dreaded terror in the Papal armoury—an interdict—was placed
on the land. The churches were closed, no bell rang for prayers, all
rites were withheld from the people, and even the dead lay in
unconsecrated ground. But John was not yet brought to his knees; he
seized the goods and lands of the Church, and then Innocent in wrath
cast him out of its pale. Still John was unsubdued; he plundered the
Church even more remorselessly.

He treated the Jews as a money-sucking sponge, squeezing them by every
conceivable cruelty until they gave up their wealth. One rich Jew, so
the story goes, was forced to disgorge by the simple process of having a
tooth drawn every day until he had to choose between his remaining
molars and his money bags. Others were starved in cages fastened to
castle walls until their spirit of resistance was broken.

Military success did not fail the wicked king at this crisis. He
compelled William the Lion of Scotland to do homage and pay heavy
tribute, and he did the only really good work of his life in Ireland.
From that country, which had been destined as his principality, John had
been driven in the lifetime of his father by an onslaught of the Irish
chiefs, whom he had abominably insulted and goaded into rebellion. Now
he returned, and made short work of them and of the quarrelsome
Anglo-Normans. He pacified the distracted land, made good laws,
appointed capable officers, and sailed home in triumph. Then he turned
his victorious arms against his son-in-law, Llewellyn, and forced the
Welsh prince to do homage in the midst of his mountain fastnesses. And
all the time John snapped his fingers at the Pope.

Innocent’s patience being now well-nigh exhausted, he sent to England
his legate Pandulf, who solemnly declared John’s subjects free of their
oath of fealty. But most of the nobles and many of the more worldly
clergy still stuck to John, and his hired troops feared neither Pope nor
devil. So John still held out, and even began to win the goodwill of his
subjects by regulating the seaport trade, and by pardoning offenders
against the barbarous forest laws of the time. Now came the Pope’s final
sentence—John was to be hurled from the throne, and another and a
worthier king should reign in his stead.

Philip of France was chosen to carry out the decree, and speedily he
mustered an army for the venture. On all hands foes arose, and though
the English barons and people were quite ready to fight for their king,
John was for the first time thoroughly frightened. He feared to die
outside the Church, and he was terrified by a monkish prophecy that he
should lose his crown ere next Ascension Day. So he begged forgiveness
of Innocent, knelt before Pandulf, and gave up his kingdom, which he
received back on promise of amendment and a yearly tribute as vassal of
the Pope. The anger of the English people at this base act knew no
bounds. “He has become the Pope’s man,” they sneered; “he is no longer a
king, but a slave.” Still more angry did they become when John sent an
expedition to France, which, after capturing Philip’s fleet and burning
his stores, was hopelessly beaten and driven back to England.

Many of the barons had refused to join this ill-fated expedition, and
now John began to punish them. This was the last straw. They met in
wrath, and Stephen Langton showed them the charter which Henry the First
had granted to his people one hundred years before. The barons, utterly
disgusted with John and all his works, now knelt before the high altar
of St. Edmund’s minster and swore that they would make the king put his
seal to a similar charter, even if they had to plunge the land in civil
war. They girded on their armour, and under Robert Fitzwalter, “marshal
of the army of God and of holy Church,” marched on London, where the
citizens threw open the gates to receive them. “These articles,” cried
the king, when they were presented to him, “are pure foolishness. Why do
they not ask me for the kingdom at once? I will never give them such
freedom as would make me their slave.” Brave words these, but when John
perceived that all his knights but seven had deserted him he saw that he
had no alternative but to yield.

And now let us turn again to the scene on the little island in the
Thames. John has ascended his throne, and, holding the sword of state in
his hand, battles hard with the fierce rage that is gnawing in his
heart. Now he must repress his feelings, but to-night he will give them
full fling. He will throw himself on the ground, gnash his teeth, and in
a torrent of rage utter curses loud and deep. But here he must dissemble
his wrath. Around him are the barons in full armour, their hearts as
hard and their wills as unyielding as the mail which clothes them. A
monk reads the charter, but the king is not listening. He is plotting
and planning how to make these barons eat dirt for the insult they are
putting upon him. By his side is Pandulf, urging him to defy them; but
the king knows the resistless might of angry Englishmen better than any
foreign churchman. He is in a trap; he must yield, but woe betide those
who have made him do so!

The reading of the charter is finished, and John cries reluctantly, “Let
it be sealed.” Then the charter is placed on the table in front of him,
the wax is melted and placed on the parchment, the seal is screwed down,
and the great charter becomes, for all time, the law of the land.

Now, what is this charter which has just been sealed? It is really a
treaty of peace between king and people. “We will retain you as king,”
they say, “only on condition that you swear to keep the law thus written
down.” It is no new thing this law, but the old rights and the old
liberties of the people collected together, and for the first time put
into black and white. All the freemen of the land have united to extort
this charter from the king, and the rights of all classes are laid down
in it. Naturally, much of the charter deals with the rights of the
barons and the clergy, for they have had the chief hand in securing it,
but one-third of it contains promises and guarantees for the people in
general. All praise to the barons! Unlike those of some foreign lands,
they are not selfish now that they have got the upper hand of the king.
Of course they take very good care of themselves, but to their credit be
it said that they do not neglect the welfare of the nation at large.

In days to come men will regard this charter as the cure for every kind
of royal lawlessness and tyranny. Well-nigh forty times will our kings
be forced to sign it, and every time the national faith in the
principles laid down in it will grow stronger and stronger. It will be
greatly changed in form as the years run by, for new conditions will
bring the need for new applications of its provisions. Nevertheless, the
three main principles of the charter which you have witnessed in the
making have been carried into every land where the British flag waves,
and to every shore where the spirit of British freedom has penetrated.
Let them be set down here before the scene closes and the pageant moves
on:—_The people can only be taxed with the consent of their
representatives. There shall be justice for all, and it must not be
sold, delayed, or refused. No freeman shall be taken, imprisoned, or in
any way hurt, unless he be tried by his peers or equals according to the
law._

In our days of widespread freedom these priceless principles seem to us
the merest commonplaces, yet we must never forget that stout hearts,
strong wills, and eternal vigilance were needed before they became the
unchallenged possession of all who glory in the name of Briton.




[Illustration: =Hubert and Arthur.=
 (_From the picture by William F. Yeames, R.A. By permission of the
   Corporation of Manchester._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter VII.
                           THE THREE EDWARDS.


                       THE FIRST PRINCE OF WALES.

                 “_God bless the Prince of Wales._”

AND now “gallant little Wales” shall supply a scene to our pageant.
History may not sanction the subject of it, but it may not be omitted.
You are spectators within the gray walls of Carnarvon Castle, that grim
old fortress which overlooks the fair waters of Menai Strait. From its
soaring towers your eye takes in the wild mountain region of Snowdonia,
a land of hoary summits and green valleys, in the recesses of which the
old Celtic inhabitants of Britain stubbornly maintained their
independence for more than five long centuries. You are now to see the
nation subdued and an English king assert his sway. But you will not see
it lose those essential things which mark its nationality—its language,
its literature, its genius. To-day they are still dear to the Welsh
nation, and are more jealously guarded and fostered than ever. Go to an
Eisteddfod and hear twice a thousand Welsh voices unite in the stirring
strains of _Hen Wlad fy Nhadau_ (“Land of my fathers.”) You will then
understand how ardently the flame of patriotism burns in the breast of
the men and women who have been reared in this ancient land of beauty
and song.

As the scene opens, you perceive that the death-knell of the nation’s
independence has tolled. You gaze upon an assembly of
chieftains—handsome, active men with long hair and moustaches and
shaven chins. Their arms, their coats of mail, their helms and shields
are laid aside, and they are clad simply in tunic and cloak, bare-kneed,
and shod with brogues of hide. All are depressed, all are sorrowful, for
they are here to acknowledge the surrender of their land.

As they wait the coming of the English king their minds fly back over
the long story of resistance which they and their sires before them have
made against their persistent and greedy foes. As they cast their
thoughts back they recall the awful slaughter of Roman times, when the
Druids of Mona were sacrificed on their own altars; they dimly remember
how the deep snow of their hills baffled the haughty Conqueror, who, not
to be beaten, planted his barons on their borders, and bade them win the
land by never-ceasing strife. It was Griffith ap Rees—was it not?—who
made the Norman bite the dust, and taught him to respect the might of
the Cymric arm and the fury of the Cymric onset. Then they remember what
their bards have told them of the brave days of Owen Gwynedd and the
Lord Rees—how these twain drove back the Norman who called himself
“Fine Scholar,” and baffled him too. For all his scholarship, he could
not add the laurel of Wales to the wreath that encircled his brow.

Then they would think of Llywelyn the Great, and of that golden age
which their fathers were never tired of recalling—how that wise and
powerful prince strove to unite all Wales, and live on good terms with
the Saxon on his borders. ’Twas Llywelyn, they remind one another, who
married King John’s daughter, and aided the Saxon barons to make that
false sovereign swear to observe the rights of the Cymry and keep their
laws inviolate. ’Twas in his day, too, that the monk and the friar came
into their land with a blessed ministry to the poor and the outcast.
Strange that the great Llywelyn should have begotten so feeble a son as
David, he who weakly threw in his lot with the Saxon and sent his
patriot brother Griffith in chains to the Tower of London. Ah! it was a
sad day when the rope broke by which that gallant prince was trying to
escape, and he was killed by the fall!

But his son Llywelyn, their late king, was worthy of his sire, look you!
He and the great Simon de Montfort had fought shoulder to shoulder, and
the Saxon king had been obliged to recognize Llywelyn as Prince of
Wales. And now he has gone too—slain by a foe who knew him not, in a
mere skirmish down by Builth. Yes, and the old prophecy has come
true—that Llywelyn should ride crowned through London. Crowned he was,
in very sooth, but, alas, the crowned head was carried on a spear. Woe
worth the day! David, his brother, had been caught too, and had suffered
the awful death penalty of a traitor. Even now his head was rotting over
Shrewsbury gate. Had Llywelyn but lived, even Edward’s great army might
have been driven back, especially as winter was coming on, and the
storms and the snows would fight on their side. But with Llywelyn’s
death all hope has vanished, and what can they do but submit?

And now Edward, the Saxon king before whom they are to bow, comes on the
scene. The chieftains scan him closely. Some of them have never seen him
eye to eye before; but his warlike fame has long been familiar to them.
As he strides into the courtyard, towering above his attendants, they
can readily believe those wonderful stories which they have heard of his
mighty prowess and physical strength—how, for example, he slew the
assassin in the Holy Land, and how he bore himself at Châlons when the
Burgundian knight strove to drag him from his saddle. What a fool the
fellow must have looked when Edward clapped spurs to his horse and shook
the man to the ground as though he had been a bag of straw! He is
pitiful, too, and boasts—does he not?—that no man ever begged his life
of him in vain. And what is that device which he bears so proudly on his
shield? “Keep faith.” Ah, but will he keep faith with stricken Wales?
Has he not slaughtered the very bards, lest their songs should keep the
memory of the old free days fresh and green in their hearts?

And now the handsome, stern king with the drooping eyelid begins to
speak in deep, vibrant tones, and the interpreter turns his words into
the tongue of old Britain. He will give them a prince of their own.
“Nay,” they cry out, “we will have no prince but one born in our own
land and speaking our own tongue.” Edward turns to the nurse who stands
by, takes from her his newly-born son, and holds him aloft to the
astonished gaze of the chieftains. “Here is your prince,” he cries; “he
was born in Wales, and he knows not a word of the English tongue.”

The humour of it appeals to the assembled throng. Yes, yes, they will
swear fealty to him, but he must have a Welsh nurse, and he must learn
to speak their language. Edward gladly agrees, and swears on the hilt of
his sword to “keep faith.” So the Welsh have once more a prince of their
own, and thus it comes about that the eldest son of an English king
bears the proud title Prince of Wales.

Now Edward betakes himself to the more serious work of settling the
government of the land. Wales is to keep her old customs and laws, and
Welshmen are to retain the freedom and the estates which they enjoyed
under their own princes. All is done that can be done to make the
foreign yoke easy and the burden light; but many a wicked deed will be
perpetrated and many an injustice will be wrought before Welshmen are
reconciled to the loss of their independence. But the day will come
when, secure in their freedom and reinforced by their union with the
mightier land on their borders, there will be no more loyal and
stauncher hearts in the whole Empire than those which beat in “gallant
little Wales.”

[Illustration: =THE FIRST PRINCE OF WALES.=
 (_From the picture by P. R. Morris, A.R.A._)]




[Illustration]


                            WILLIAM WALLACE.

              “_At Wallace’ name what Scottish blood_
              _But boils up in a spring-time flood._”

Now let the scene shift to Scotland, where the masterful Edward, having
subdued Wales, is seeking to lay his hands upon yet another kingdom.
Truly the condition of the land invites him to conquest. The Scottish
king, on a night ride along the cliffs of the Fifeshire coast, has
fallen over the black rocks, and he is no more. The sceptre passes to a
frail little grandchild in far-off Norway; but ere she can tread the
soil of her kingdom, she too has gone the way of all flesh. The royal
line is extinct, and the throne of Scotland is without an heir.

Forthwith a round dozen of eager aspirants set up their claims to the
vacant throne. All save two are men of straw, with hardly the colour of
a right to the kingship. But Robert Bruce, Lord of Annandale, and John
Baliol, Lord of Galloway, both come of the royal stock, and both have
their clamorous supporters. Who shall judge betwixt them? Edward seizes
the opportunity. He—so he declares—is overlord of Scotland, and he and
none other will decide. So chronicles and title-deeds and charters are
collected from many a muniment chest, and he and his councillors are
soon busy examining them. When all is ready, he arrays an army and
marches north to the Border castle of Norham, on the Tweed. To this
place come the magnates of Scotland to hear his award. But before it is
pronounced he claims that they shall recognize him as lord paramount.
Some of the Scottish chiefs demur, but the English king cries, “By St.
Edward, whose crown I wear, I will maintain my just right or die in the
cause.” Might is right in his case, and the Scottish nobles, in the
distracted state of the kingdom, are forced to admit his claim.

And now, having secured the first point in the game, Edward gives
judgment in favour of John Baliol, a lamb-like person, the least
stalwart and the least Scottish of all the claimants. He is a weak
creature, and Edward knows that he will be a pliant tool. So Baliol bows
to Edward, and receives the crown of Scotland.

Ere long Baliol begins to feel Edward’s bit gall his mouth. He is
continually being pulled up and jerked hither and thither by the strong
hand of his rider. Baliol submits time after time, but at length even
his sluggish spirit is roused, and one day he throws off his allegiance
and declares war. Edward has long been waiting for this turn of
fortune’s wheel; he has long been working for this fatal outburst.
Speedily he marches north with a great army and sweeps through the
country, a ruthless conqueror. None can stand against him, and the
“puppet king” least of all.

See Baliol now, about to do public penance for his so-called misdeeds.
The English barons are assembled in a churchyard, and thither they lead
the king of the Scots mounted on a sorry nag. A herald proclaims his
treason. His crown is snatched from his head, the sceptre from his hand,
the royal robes from his person. A humble penitent, clad only in his
body garments and holding a white rod in his hand, he meekly confesses
his fault and acknowledges the justice of his punishment. A few days
later he gives up his crown to Edward, and is dispatched a prisoner to
the Tower of London. So Edward returns to his kingdom, leaving Scotland
beaten to the ground, sore and humiliated, but passionately longing for
revenge. With him he carries every token and memorial of Scottish
independence—the crown and the sceptre, and the Stone of Destiny, on
which Scottish kings have been crowned from time immemorial.

Now let the great patriot hero whom Scotland delights to honour, even
after the lapse of six centuries, tread the scene. He is William Wallace
of Elderslie, a young knight of some twenty-seven years, massive of
build and mighty of thew and sinew, fit foe for Edward himself. His face
is long and fair, his hair light-brown, his eye clear and piercing, his
expression solemn and sad. A foul outrage has driven him to the hills,
where he is nursing his wrath and biding his time. An English officer
has encountered him and his nine followers in the streets of Lanark and
has taunted him with insulting words. His long sword has leaped from its
scabbard and the insulter has been laid low. The alarm has been sounded,
and armed men have rushed to the spot; but Wallace has fought his way
through them, and has found a refuge in the woods, where the news of a
dastardly crime speedily reaches him. His young and dearly-loved wife
has been seized and slain by his cruel foes. Terrible indeed is his
agony of grief, but tears avail nothing. “Cease,” he cries to his
followers, “cease this bootless pain. We cannot bring her back to life,
but no man shall ever see me rest till I have avenged the wanton
slaughter of her so blithe and bright.”

That very night he slays the slayer of his love, and day after day he
swoops down on his foes like a hawk on its quarry. The fame of his
daring deeds spreads abroad, and patriots seek him in his retreat and
array themselves under his banner. Now it is an English convoy that is
despoiled, now an English foraging party that is cut up. Every day
brings its exploit, and throughout the south-western counties the
English are everywhere harassed and harried by a foe who comes and goes
mysteriously, and leaves no token but slaughtered men and burning
roof-trees.

Now see him, no longer the lurking outlaw, but the leader of an army,
marching proudly at the head of his men, and fearlessly displaying the
broad banner of Scotland. The best and bravest of the land are with him.
Not a fortress north of the Tay save Dundee is in English hands. Only a
year has sped since Edward left Scotland, in the vain belief that the
northern kingdom is a cowed and tamed land. Now he perceives that the
work must be done all over again. He gathers an army of fifty thousand
men, and speeds northward for Stirling, where high on its rock sits the
ancient fortress, the key to the centre of Scotland. Wallace hears of
the English advance, and marches to Stirling with all speed. On and
about the Abbey Craig, where his noble memorial tower now stands, he
encamps, and awaits the coming of his foes.

Ere long their banners are seen approaching. The Earl of Surrey, an old
man broken in health, is in command, but the real leader is “fat and
foolish” Sir Hugh Cressingham, Edward’s Lord-Treasurer in Scotland, a
haughty and insolent priest, who wears his corselet with a better grace
than his cassock. The English halt on the south side of the river, and
are eager for an immediate attack, but wiser counsels prevail. So the
watch-fires are lighted, and the two armies lie in sight of each other
through the silent night, with the deep and sluggish Forth flowing
between.

Now the trumpets sound, and Sir Marmaduke Twenge leads his squadron of
mail-clad knights to the bridge across the Forth, while Cressingham
follows hard behind. The spearmen of Wallace, posted on the high ground,
are in no hurry to attack. They make no sign as the knights cross the
bridge and form up on the opposite shore, ready to charge the Scots on
the hillside. Half the English army has crossed ere you perceive the
trap into which it has fallen. Look yonder at that strong force of
Scottish spearmen fetching a wide circuit and keeping near to the river.
Now they begin to run towards the bridge. They cut through the line of
the advancing English and block the bridge-head with a hedge of
bristling steel. They drive back in a tumultuous heap the advancing
horsemen on the crowded bridge, and now the moment for which Wallace has
so long waited arrives. He charges furiously down the hillside, and
hurls back the English squadrons in dire confusion. Horse and foot are
inextricably mingled; hundreds go down before the Scottish spears, and
vast numbers are driven into the river, which is lashed into foam by the
drowning struggles of thousands of men and horses.

Surrey, horror-stricken at the sight, now advances the royal standard of
England, and his strong reserve of knights charge the bridge with the
cry “For God and St. George.” The bridge is carried, but on the opposite
shore there is no room to form, and they only increase the confusion and
swell the slaughter. Of all that have crossed that fatal bridge only
three return. All is over, and Surrey on the farther shore sets spurs to
his horse. Keen and fierce is the pursuit, and terrible is the
slaughter. Edward’s proud host is scattered like chaff before the wind,
and Scotland is free again.

The victorious Wallace is hailed by his countrymen as Governor of
Scotland. But he has not done with the implacable Edward yet. The
English king has appeased his revolting nobles, he has made a truce with
the French, and has marshalled the might of his realm for another
invasion of Scotland. A vast English army rolls northward. Eighty
thousand men, including a large array of archers armed with the terrible
long-bow which the men of South Wales have taught them to use, follow
his banners. They enter the Lowlands, but Wallace has made it a desert.
The houses are bare and empty; no cattle are in the fields; the crops
have been reaped, the hay and corn stacks have been carried off.
Edward’s army “marches on its stomach,” but Wallace has taken good care
that there shall be nothing to fill it. By the time Edward draws near to
Edinburgh symptoms of mutiny begin to appear amongst his soldiers, and
he begins to meditate retreat.

Then come traitors from the Scottish camp telling him that Wallace lies
in the forest of Falkirk, and is about to attack his foes that very
night. Edward is filled with joy at the tidings. “Thanks be to God!” he
cries. “They need not wait for me, for I shall go instantly and meet
them.” There is no delay. In an hour’s time his army is in motion.
Linlithgow is reached, and he bivouacs for the night on the moor. Every
man sleeps in his armour, his horse ready harnessed by his side. The
king himself lies down on the bare ground and shares discomfort with his
men. In the night his frightened charger kicks out, and its hoofs break
two of the king’s ribs. But with the dawn Edward mounts bravely, and
leads his army to rising ground beyond Linlithgow. Here the fighting
Bishop of Durham says mass, and as the sun rises Edward’s keen eye sees
its rays reflected from the spears of the Scots, now taking ground on
the slope of a small hill not far from Falkirk.

Wallace has drawn up his spearmen in four _schiltrons_ or circles.
Between these schiltrons are his tall, handsome archers from the forests
of Selkirk and Ettrick. His small and doubtful force of cavalry is
marshalled in the rear. It includes the Scottish knights, many of whom
are jealous of Wallace, and only half-hearted in Scotland’s cause. “I
have brought you to the ring,” says the Scottish leader, “now dance as
you may.”

The trumpets sound, and the English cavalry charge. At the first onset
the Scottish horsemen, led by traitor lords, turn bridle and ride from
the field. Then the English knights swoop down upon the Scottish
archers, and after a terrible struggle slay them to a man. But again and
again they recoil from the “dark, impenetrable wood” of the spearmen.
The bristling hedge of spears cannot be broken by the shock of horse and
man, but there are other and deadlier means available. The English
archers are to win the first of those signal victories which will make
them the terror of the age. Drawn up in security scarce a hundred paces
away, they shoot their cloth-yard shafts with unerring aim. Thick and
fast they fall amidst the spearmen, and soon the living walls are
breached. The English cavalry charge into the gaps where the dead and
dying lie, and an awful slaughter rages. The battle is over; the Scots
betake themselves to flight, and Wallace barely escapes into Torwood
Forest.

But even this victory has not laid Scotland at Edward’s feet. Everywhere
he finds the country devastated, and he must either retreat or starve.
Less than a month after the battle of Falkirk he sullenly leads his
army, stricken by famine and disease, southward to England. But he
withdraws like the panther, only to spring again. Five successive times
he leads his army northward, and Scotland, exhausted by her long and
heartrending struggles, at length lies at the conqueror’s feet.

Once more Wallace is an outlaw on the hills. Edward has marked him down
for death, and there is a price on his head. He lurks in the greenwood,
hunted from cover to cover, with scarce a comrade to trust, and none to
aid him. His former friend, Sir John Menteith, at length wins the
blood-money. Wallace is seized in his sleep, bound with cords, and
hurried south. As he enters London the streets swarm with spectators,
all eager to see this renowned warrior of the North. His trial is a
mockery. Vainly he protests that he is no traitor, for he has never
sworn fealty to the English king. But he is doomed already, and all
argument is vain. He is condemned of murder, sacrilege, and treason, and
suffers the ghastly and revolting death which was meted out to David of
Wales twenty-two years before. His head is set up on London Bridge, his
right arm at Newcastle, his left at Berwick, one leg at Perth, and the
other at Aberdeen.

So perishes the national hero of Scotland, his body dispersed to “every
airt” that the wind blows, but his name and fame cherished for ever in
the hearts of his countrymen. He rises like a star in the darkness; he
sets in gloom, but not before his radiance has rekindled the torch of
Scottish patriotism, the flame of which is nevermore to be extinguished.
Wallace cannot die; he lives again in every free and unselfish
aspiration of unconquered Scotland.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =The Trial of Wallace.=
 (_From the picture by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Guildhall Art Gallery.
   By Permission of the Corporation of London._)]




[Illustration]


                           ROBERT THE BRUCE.

                “_They thought to die in the mêlée,_
                _Or else to set their country free._”

Not yet may “our stern alarums change for peaceful meetings, our
dreadful marches to delightful measures.” Grim-visaged war must still be
our portion, if our pageant is to depict the outstanding landmarks in
our nation’s story. The victories of peace are for the future; now we
must hear again the clash of arms, and share once more the joy of
victory and the anguish of defeat.

We are still in Scotland, where a successor to Wallace has arisen even
before his scattered limbs have rotted away. The new champion is the
grandson of that Bruce whom Edward set aside in favour of Baliol. His
father, in the old days, was a friend of “Longshanks,” and young Robert
Bruce has been trained in all the arts of war and the exercises of
chivalry under the eye of the man whose mortal enemy he is destined to
be. He comes upon the scene in the dark days succeeding the judicial
murder of Wallace, in those bitter months when England’s iron grip is on
Scotland. He sees with deep indignation the wretched condition of his
countrymen, and cautiously and secretly lays his plans for throwing off
the English yoke. He makes a compact with his friend Comyn, who too has
royal blood in his veins; but Comyn is a traitor, and reveals the plot
to the English king. Bruce receives warning, and ere long he settles
accounts with Comyn. In the church of the Gray Friars at Dumfries the
two meet face to face. Angry words pass, and Bruce strikes down his
treacherous friend on the very steps of the altar. He rushes outside to
his comrades. “I doubt I have slain Comyn!” he cries. “You doubt!” says
one of them, “I mak’ siccar;” and entering the church he dispatches the
unhappy man with many fierce blows.

And now the Bruce has taken the plunge. There is no turning back; he
must go forward to a crown, or suffer the fate of Wallace wight. A few
faithful friends stand by him, and he hastens to Scone, the coronation
place of Scottish kings. A friendly bishop lends him robes, the abbot
provides a chair, and the statue of some saint is temporarily despoiled
of its circlet to provide a crown.

The news of the outbreak speedily reaches Edward, and throws him into
ungovernable rage. He swears that he will never rest until he has
hanged, drawn, and quartered the presumptuous knave who has forsworn his
oaths and seized the crown. Edward’s nut-brown hair is snow-white now,
and his once mighty arm is weak with age, but his determined spirit
burns as fiercely as of yore. An advance-guard is pushed on with all
speed, and near Perth it comes into touch with the Bruce, who barely
escapes from it.

The Bruce must now follow in the footsteps of Wallace, and wander, a
hunted fugitive, over many a league of forest and hill. How true now
seem the words of his wife at their hasty and impromptu coronation:
“Alas! we are but king and queen of the May, such as boys crown with
flowers and rushes in their summer sports.” Deserted and distressed, he
lives the life of an outlaw, shooting his own venison and catching his
own fish. But he is not sad and gloomy, as Wallace was wont to be. He
cheers his little company by many a good-humoured sally and the recital
of heroic deeds. Summer passes, and the pageantry of autumn descends
upon the woods; but still he is a king without a throne, a wanderer
without a home. The wild life of a hunted fugitive may not be borne
during the dread winter by the ladies of his company, so he sends them
with many a dark foreboding of evil to the care of his brother, and then
takes ship for the remote island of Rathlin, off the north Irish coast,
where he winters safe from his foes.

Here, in his island retreat, bitter news reaches him. His wife and
daughters have been seized and imprisoned in England. His brother and
his relatives have been captured and hanged, his estates have been
forfeited and given to others, and the Pope has driven him out of the
Church for his sacrilege at Dumfries. No wonder the Bruce sits under his
juniper tree “steeped to the lips in misery.”

But with the kindly spring he makes another bid for fortune. He sails to
the Isle of Arran, and has hardly landed before he well-nigh walks into
a trap laid for him. Then begins a fresh period of difficulty and
danger, of hairbreadth escapes and desperate deeds. Slowly but surely
the tide turns in his favour. The preachers are with him; a prophecy has
been discovered which assures him of victory; stout hearts begin to
flock to his side; his cause gains ground every day. By the middle of
May he is no longer a hunted fugitive but a leader of forces. He has
defeated two English earls in the field, and they are shut up in the
castle of Ayr, which he is closely besieging.

Now old Edward begins to move. He is too weak and ill to throw his long
limbs across a horse, so they carry him on a litter in front of his
army. At Carlisle the prospect of the strife he loves so well gives him
a slight renewal of strength. He mounts his horse for the last time, and
leads the march in the old way. But it is the final flicker of life’s
flame, and at Burgh-on-Sands, within sight of the tossing Solway, he
yields him to the power that conquers even kings. To his bedside he
calls his vain, pleasure-loving son, and bids him swear a solemn oath
never to cease from strife until the Scots are thoroughly subdued. “Boil
the flesh off my bones,” he is said to have cried, “and keep them safe,
and as oft as the Scots assemble their forces, let my bones lead the
van.” So he dies, fierce and implacable to the last, and the breath is
hardly out of his body ere his degenerate son sighs for his jugglers and
minstrels and the careless pleasures of the court he has left behind.

He advances half-heartedly to Ayr; but the Bruce has retreated before
him, knowing well the temper of his foe. At the first decent opportunity
Edward hies him southward, and Bruce resumes his work of ridding the
land of the English. One by one the castles are captured by storm or
stratagem; day by day the English power grows weaker and weaker, and the
Bruce grows stronger and stronger. At last the flag of England, once to
be seen everywhere, flies only over the castle of Stirling. Its
stout-hearted defender is almost starved into submission. He will
surrender on midsummer day, unless he is relieved before it dawns by an
English army.

The new Edward must leave his elegant trifling and bestir himself,
unless Scotland is to be hopelessly lost. Hitherto his reign has been
singularly inglorious, and his barons have made him, as he says, no
longer master in his own house. But he will show them that the spirit of
his sire still lives in him. He will invade Scotland, and the Bruce
shall feel the weight of his heavy hand. Stirling shall be relieved; he
will take up the wager of battle that Scotland has thrown down.

Forthwith he assembles the most powerful army that has ever yet menaced
Scotland. Mindful of the archers’ victory at Falkirk, he scours the
country for bowmen, and every man of them boasts that he “carries the
lives of four-and-twenty Scotsmen at his belt.” Forty thousand mounted
men are with him, and a prouder and more confident array never took the
field.

Bruce has chosen his ground well. His front and right are defended by
the Bannock burn, which winds through two morasses, and at one place has
steep, wooded banks. On the left, where the ground is open, he has
honeycombed the field with pits that look firm and level to the eye, but
are terrible snares for cavalry. Only one way of approach is open, and
that is strewn with caltrops to lame the horses.

It is the Sabbath morning of June 23rd, in the year 1314. On comes the
English host, with its countless banners, standards, and pennons waving
in the breeze. The sun glints from burnished helmet and spear as the
dense battalions draw near. To an observer on the castle walls it would
seem that they were about to make an immediate attack. The Bruce is
arraying his men, clad in full armour, and carrying a battle-axe in his
hand, but riding a light palfrey in place of the heavy charger that is
to carry him to-morrow. That panoply of armour which he wears hides the
real man from you. Were you to see him out of harness, you would mark
his strong and powerful frame, his close, curly hair, his full, broad
forehead, his high cheek-bones, and the square and massive jaw that
tells of determination and dogged courage.

Now the English army halts, and a vainglorious knight, one Sir Henry
Bohun, seeing the Bruce so poorly horsed, thinks to do a deed of
valorous renown. So he spurs his charger, and levelling his spear bears
down upon the Scottish king. As he comes rushing on at full speed, the
Bruce twitches his palfrey’s bridle, and the little creature obediently
starts aside. Then, as the knight goes rushing by, Bruce rises in his
stirrups and smites him fiercely on the helmet with his battle-axe. It
crashes through helmet and skull, and the riderless steed gallops wildly
away. The first stroke of the great fight has been struck, and the Bruce
has won. As he rides back to his lines his knights take him to task for
his adventure, reminding him that an accident would have robbed them of
their leader. Bruce listens to their chidings, and only replies, “I have
broken my good battle-axe.”

Another misfortune befalls the English. Three hundred young horsemen,
eager for the fray, see a clear way lying before them to the castle. On
they spur towards it, but find their road blocked by a party of Scottish
spearmen, who form a deadly circle of bristling steel. In vain the
knights spur their horses to the attack; the schiltron remains unbroken,
though hidden from sight by the cloud of dust and heat which rises from
the plain. Now the spearmen advance and drive back the weary and
disheartened horsemen. Grim foreboding this of the great fight
to-morrow.

The short summer night falls on the battlefield, and loud sounds of
revelry come from the English camp. The Scots sleep in the open, and
when the sun has risen Edward sees them massed in schiltrons beneath
their banners. “Will yon Scotsmen fight?” he asks of a veteran by his
side. “Yea, siccarly, sire,” he replies, and at the moment the Scots
bend the knee as the crucifix is borne along their line. “Yon folk kneel
for mercy,” says the king; and again the veteran replies, “Yea, sire,
but not of you. Yon men will win or die.” “So be it,” cries Edward, and
gives the signal for his trumpeters to sound the charge.

On dash the English horsemen with levelled spears, and now you hear the
loud crash as lance clangs on shield. Down go men and horses, only to be
trodden under foot by the ranks behind. Nothing can break the Scottish
ranks.

But where are the archers who wrought such havoc at Falkirk? Now is
their time. Alas, they have been badly posted, and are unsupported by
men-at-arms. A few hundred Scots horsemen are sufficient to send them
flying hither and thither without the hope of ever rallying again.

Meanwhile a great hand-to-hand contest is raging. You hear the shouts
and cries of the warriors, the groans of the wounded and dying, the loud
clash of meeting weapons, as the vast, dense mass of the English rises
and falls like waves of the sea. It is a mob that fights on the narrow
field, and not an army. The ground is cumbered with fallen men and
horses. Many a good knight has no room to swing his weapon. He cannot
advance, and the pressure behind will not let him retreat. But slowly
and surely the throng is pushed back by the Scottish spears, and the day
looks black for England.

All discipline is now lost, and the battle is a series of individual
struggles. Lifting their eyes, the hard-pressed English see a fresh host
marching down a neighbouring hill, and hear their slogans peal out above
the din and tumult of battle. They are camp followers who have cut down
saplings for banner-poles and spread their blankets for standards; but,
in sooth, they look a warlike and formidable band in the distance. The
hearts of the English fail them at the sight; they waver, and the Scots
press on with redoubled vigour. The retreat has begun; it will soon be
an utter rout.

The English king gallops to Dunbar without drawing rein. His followers
scatter hither and thither. All is over. The great battle is lost and
won. The Bannock burn is choked with the dead bodies of the slain;
thirty thousand English lie dead on that fatal field. The great task
which Wallace had set himself is accomplished. Scotland has won her
independence, thanks to the skill of Bruce, the courage of his men, and
the incompetence of King Edward. “From the dust and reek of that burning
day Scotland emerges a people, firm in a glorious memory.”

[Illustration: =THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.=
 (_From the picture by Allan Stewart specially painted for this book._)]




[Illustration: The Burghurs of Calais]


                          THE MERCIFUL QUEEN.

             “_The quality of mercy is not strain’d,—_
             _It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven_
             _Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;_
             _It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:_
             _’Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes_
             _The thronèd monarch better than his crown._”

Now let a tableau lend variety to our pageant. On the dais of a royal
pavilion outside the walls of Calais you see a warrior king, his noble
countenance transfigured with wrath. Around him are his nobles, and
before him kneel six notable citizens of the town, gaunt with long
fasting and worn with strife and anxiety. Their heads and feet are bare,
and the rope of shame is round their necks. The foremost citizen
proffers the keys of the fortress. You are witnessing the surrender of
Calais, “the open doorway to France.”

The actual scene which is being re-enacted before you took place more
than five and a half centuries ago, and thirty-three years after the
battle of Bannockburn. In the interval the English king who fled from
that fatal field had been deposed in favour of his young son, who grew
up to be one of the most remarkable men of his time. The spirit of the
first Edward lived again in Edward the Third, and like a new Alexander
he was ever seeking fresh worlds to conquer.

He positively thirsted for martial glory, and above all things he
coveted the fair land of France. Through his mother he put forth a claim
to the French throne; and though it was scouted by the French lawyers,
he meant to see what English bills and bows could do to enforce it. In
the year 1345 he shot his bolt, and at Crécy his archers won for him one
of the most brilliant victories that ever graced English arms. Then he
moved on Calais, and laid close siege to it. Outside the walls he reared
a temporary village, which he called Newtown the Bold. It had houses and
lodgings roofed with reed and broom, streets, and a market-place where
flesh and fish, mercery, cloth, bread, and wine were sold.

Eleven long months the siege endured, and many a time and oft the
gallant defenders beheld the approach of French armies coming, as they
thought, to their succour. But never did the Frenchmen dare to attack
King Edward. They came, they saw, they retreated. Lamentable indeed was
the state of the besieged; food failed them, starvation gnawed them, and
pestilence swept them away. Then came the hour when all hope departed,
and they hauled down the standard which had so long floated above their
highest tower.

Shortly afterwards news was brought to the king that the governor was on
the battlements, and desired a parley with him. Sir Walter de Mauny and
Ralph Lord Bisset were sent to confer with the governor. “Sirs,” said
he, “ye be right valiant knights in deeds of arms, and ye know well how
the king, my master, hath sent me to keep this town in his behoof. We
have done all that lieth in our power. Now our succours have failed us,
and we be sore strained; we must all die, or else go mad with famine. I
therefore entreat that you will beg your king to have compassion on us,
and to have the goodness to let us depart in the state we are in; and
that he will be satisfied with having possession of the town and castle,
with all that is within them.”

Thereupon the two knights returned to the king and told him all that had
passed. But the king heeded them not: the men of Calais should
surrender, and he would do with them as he listed. Then Sir Walter
braved the royal wrath and told his sovereign that he was setting a very
bad example by his severity. All the other nobles who were present
pleaded with the king, and at length he yielded in some degree. “Sir
Walter,” said he, “you will inform the governor that the only grace he
must expect from me is, that six of the principal citizens of Calais
march out of the town with bare heads and feet, with ropes round their
necks, and the keys of the town and castle in their hands. These six
must yield themselves to my will, and to the rest I will show mercy.”

Sir Walter returned to the battlements and told the governor what grace
he had been able to obtain from the king. “I beg of you,” said he, “to
remain here a little, while I go into the town and tell the townsmen
your king’s conditions.” So he went to the market-place, the bell was
sounded, and immediately a multitude of men and women gathered in the
town hall to hear what he had to say. When they learnt the sad news they
began to weep and to show such distress that the hardest heart would
have had compassion on them. Even the governor himself was moved to
tears.

At last the richest burgess in the town, by name Eustace de St. Pierre,
rose up and said, “Sirs, high and low, it would be grievous for so many
people to die of famine when there is a means to save them. I think they
who should save them from such a pass would have great merit in the eyes
of our Lord God. For my part I have so great a trust in Him that I will
be the first to offer myself for the rest.” When he had said this, the
people rose up and almost worshipped him, many casting themselves at his
feet with tears and groans. Then another rich citizen arose and said, “I
will keep company with my comrade Eustace.” His name was John Daire.
After him, James Wisant, who was also very rich in merchandise, said he
would hold company with his two cousins; as also did Peter Wisant, his
brother. Then two others offered themselves, and the six citizens,
having apparelled themselves as the King of England desired, marched
towards the gate.

When Sir Walter Mauny had presented the citizens to the king they fell
on their knees and with uplifted hands cried, “Most gallant king, we
bring you the keys of the castle and of the town. We surrender ourselves
to your absolute will and pleasure, in order to save the remainder of
the people of Calais, who have suffered such great pain. Sir, we beseech
your grace to have mercy and pity upon us.”

All the barons, knights, and squires that were assembled around wept at
the sight. But the king, remembering their piracies, eyed them with
angry looks, for he greatly hated the men of Calais. Then he commanded
that their heads should be struck off. All present entreated the king
that he would be merciful to them, but he would not listen. At last the
good Sir Walter made yet another appeal for grace. “Noble king,” he
cried, “let me beseech you to restrain your anger. You are rightly famed
for greatness of soul; do not tarnish it by such an act as this.
Henceforth every man will speak of your great cruelty, if you put to
death these burgesses, who have of their own free will offered their
lives for their fellow-citizens.”

At this the king scowled and bade them send for the headsman. “These
knaves,” said he, “have slain many of my men, and they shall die for
it.”

At this moment the good Queen Philippa, who had been weeping bitterly,
cast herself upon her knees before her pitiless lord. “Ah! gentle sir,”
she cried, “since I have crossed the sea in great peril I have never
asked you one favour; now I humbly beg you, in the name of the Son of
the Virgin Mary, and for your love of me, that you be merciful to these
six men.”

The king looked upon her in silence for a moment, and then replied,
“Lady, I would that you had not been here. You have begged of me so
earnestly that I cannot refuse you, though it grieves me sore to yield.
I give them to you; do with them as you will.”

Joyous and glad was the queen that she had moved the king to pity. She
rose from her knees, and bidding the citizens rise too, ordered the
ropes to be taken from their necks, and caused them to be new clothed.
Then she took them to her own apartments and gave them a plentiful
dinner, after which she presented each of them with six nobles and set
them at liberty. The town was surrendered, and the English king fed the
starving multitudes liberally.

Merciful queen, your generous pity for the stricken foe shall ever be
the brightest jewel in your crown. In ages to come men will cherish the
fame of your womanly tenderness, and will tell their children in many a
tale and song the glorious story of your gracious clemency.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =Edward the Third at the Siege of Calais.=
 (_From the painting by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. By permission of the
   Corporation of London._)]




[Illustration]


                           THE BLACK PRINCE.

       “_Witness our too much memorable shame,_
       _When Cressy battle fatally was struck,_
       _And all our princes captived, by the hand_
       _Of that black name, Edward, black prince of Wales._”

Now you are transported to the streets of fourteenth-century London. You
stand at the upper window of a lofty timbered house, and from your coign
of vantage see the ancient city donning its festive array. There is an
air of rejoicing and there is a buzz of expectation everywhere. The
houses of the wealthier citizens are hung with gay carpets, rich silks,
and fine tapestry. Streamers are flying, garlanded poles are reared, and
here and there you see trophies of arms—shields, helmets, breastplates,
lances, swords, sheaves of arrows, maces, and battle-axes. Anon you hear
the rattle of drum and the blare of trumpet as the City companies, clad
in their liveries, take up the places assigned to them. Now a procession
of clergy, habited in their richest vestments, winds by. Gay gallants in
their blue or green tunics and hoods, their hose of diverse hues, and
their _Cracow_ shoes with long, curving toes laced to the knee with
silver chains, come and go, and lend colour and vivacity to the scene.
Many a fair maiden in a gay kirtle gazes out of her casement with
sparkling eyes, and hard by you see no less interested matrons, in all
the bravery of their best attire.

Now, afar off, you hear the huzzas of the crowd, and as you watch and
wait nearer and nearer come the salvoes of applause. The cannon of the
Tower roar out their welcome, trumpets sound, and bells clash from the
steeples. Right royally does London greet those whom she delights to
honour to-day.

Ah! here come the archers, the pride of England, a goodly array of
stalwart yeomen, bronzed and hardened by long campaigning on French
fields. Look at them as they swagger along, conscious of their prowess,
the rings of conquered knights on their horny hands, and the jewelled
baldrics of French nobles across their shoulders. See how they bandy
many a merry jest with the maidens on the causeway, and shout their
jovial greetings to the citizens, who wave their caps and cheer wildly
in response. There is not a lad in London who does not yearn to be an
archer. With his six-foot bow in his hand and a sheaf of arrows at his
belt, your archer envies neither knight nor king. He has won great fame,
and his pouch is filled with rose nobles; and when these are gone, there
are plenty more to be won in Poitou and Gascony. And if the Prince—God
bless him!—has no more wars on hand, why, there are always the Free
Companies ready and willing to welcome a stalwart bowman who can “clap
in the clout” at fourscore yards, and use a bill right yeomanly when it
comes to handstrokes.

Behind the rollicking archers come the mail-clad knights, a noble and
more sedate company, flashing back the May-day sun from their shining
armour and their gleaming lance-points. Yonder is Chandos, the wise and
watchful general whose keen eye perceived the critical moment in the
great fight—he who cried to the Prince, “Now, sir, ride forward, and
the day is yours.” And there is Audley, pale and weak from his wounds,
but gallant as ever. Was it not he whom the Prince greeted by the
glorious name of _Preux_, and dubbed the best knight on the field? Right
proud must he feel to-day. And who be these? In sooth, they are the
premier nobles of France, rich prizes of war, though they bear, neither
by sign nor by look, the semblance of defeat.

And now the air is rent with still louder shouts as a noble figure on a
superb white charger rides by. It is the King of France, bearing himself
as a conqueror, yet knowing full well that he is a captive gracing a
victor’s triumph. But not for him are the shouts. Look at that simple
knight in black armour, quietly riding by his side on a palfrey. He is
the hero of the day, the cynosure of all eyes, the praise of all
tongues. He would seem to be no more than the French king’s squire; yet
he is the victor of Poitiers, a name of terror in France, the idol of
his knights, the boast of his archers, the pride of his land.

The stately procession moves on to the great hall at Westminster, where
Edward the king waits the coming of his noble captive and his gallant
son. With knightly courtesy he rises from his throne and embraces his
unfortunate brother of France, and gives him gracious welcome to his
court. He bids him be of good cheer; and the French king, who has borne
the ordeal with manly fortitude, is right glad that the public parade is
over. With gracious tact the English king conceals his triumphant joy;
he does everything in his power to play the gracious host to the
honoured guest; but nothing that he can do will remove the shame and
grief that rack the proud heart of the “Fortune of France.”

Now let us turn to the Black Prince and learn why the Londoners so
enthusiastically greet him. He is but twenty-seven years of age, yet he
has many a hard-fought campaign to his credit. At thirteen years of age
he was made Prince of Wales, and invested with the symbols of his
office—the coronet of gold, the ring, and the silver wand. In his
honour the king, his royal father, then held a Feast of the Round Table,
and from every country of Europe came the most renowned knights to
commemorate the fame of King Arthur, and to pledge themselves to emulate
his chivalry, his courtesy, and his feats of arms. Never before had
there been so splendid a pageant seen as that which King Edward arrayed
beneath the ancient walls of Windsor Castle. The Black Prince that day
yearned for the hour when he, too, might take spear and shield and break
a lance in the tourney as a preparation for winning renown on the
battlefield. Long before he was out of his teens he made acquaintance
with the dangers and rigours of war in real earnest. In his sixteenth
year the longed-for moment arrived. He accompanied his father to France,
and as he landed at La Hogue he received the honour of knighthood,
though he had yet his “spurs to win.” But forthwith, as the chronicler
tells us, he “made a right good beginning” by burning and ravaging the
neighbouring country, and by fighting valiantly when Godemar du Fay
endeavoured to prevent the English army from crossing the Somme. Then
came the never-to-be-forgotten battle of Crécy, in which he won his
spurs.

When he rode into London after the battle of Crécy, every man, woman,
and child in the great city loved him, and prophesied a wondrous future
for him. And they were true prophets, for his fame grew with the years;
and now they see him among them once more, victor in his own right, and
bringing in his train the “Fortune of France.” What stories of his
prowess and gallantry and modesty they tell! Listen to yon burly archer
now released from duty. “I mind,” says he, “that after yonder king had
yielded himself, the prince led him to his own tent, took off his helmet
with his own hands, brought him drink, and gave him comfortable words,
and served him at table as he had been a base serving-man and not the
heir of Merry England. What think ye of that?”

And now, while all England is singing his praises and he is at the very
summit of his fame, let us peep into the future and see what fate has in
store for him. Again and again he will harry the fair land of France;
and, greedy of warfare, will ally himself with Pedro the Cruel, and win
a victory for that bloodthirsty tyrant in distant Spain. And when the
victory is won he will beseech Pedro to spare the lives of the
conquered. Before long, however, the Spanish king will refuse to pay him
the price agreed upon, and will send him on wild-goose errands, until he
sees his men fall around him stricken by pestilence, and scarce one in
five of them will return with him across the Pyrenees. He, too, will be
seized with a painful sickness from which he will never recover.

But still he will go on fighting, and every year his heart will harden
within him, until one day he will stain his fair fame by a deed of
pitiless cruelty. In his rage at the long defence of Limoges he will
order no quarter to be given to the gallant defenders. Piteous appeals
will be made to him for mercy; but he will not hearken, and three
thousand defenceless men, women, and children will be massacred in the
streets. “Pity ’tis, ’tis true.”

His sickness will increase, and he will return home to die, but not
before he does something for the people of England in a peaceful and
more useful sphere. He will drive from his father’s court the greedy,
unscrupulous men who are oppressing the land, and he will strive to
better the condition of the people in many ways. Knowing his end is
nigh, he will give himself to prayer and good works; his sickness will
rack him sore, but he will bear his sufferings patiently and will make
“a very noble end, remembering God his Creator in his heart,” and
bidding his people pray for him. He will die in his forty-sixth year, to
the unbounded grief of the nation. And so he passes, a man of war from
his youth up, not untainted by cruelty, not unsullied by martial pride,
but, in spite of all, the very mirror of the knighthood of his day.




[Illustration: =The Black Prince being made a Knight of the Garter.=
 (_From the picture by C. W. Cope, R.A., in Westminster Palace._)]




[Illustration]




                             Chapter VIII.
                            ON FRENCH FIELDS.


                         KING HARRY THE FIFTH.

            “_Now all the youth of England are on fire,_
            _And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies;_
            _Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thought_
            _Reigns solely in the breast of every man._”

YOU are gazing upon the death-chamber of a king. He lies upon his bed in
the silent, darkened room, and sleep comes and goes from his troubled
pillow. Conscience smites him and disease racks his bones. He has been a
man of blood all his days, and many crimes are laid to his charge. He
has murdered the king whose crown he wears; the blood of an archbishop
is upon his head. As fitful slumber seizes him, you perceive a noble
youth enter the room. Comely is he in face and figure, though he bears
the marks of recent grief. He stands by his father’s couch, and watches
the sufferer. As he does so, his eye falls on the king’s crown, and he
muses on the weight and cares of majesty. Then he glances again at the
prostrate form on the bed, and a great grief surges into his heart, for,
to all seeming, the king, his father, is dead. He bursts into tears, and
taking up the crown places it on his own head.

     “My due from thee is this Imperial crown,
     Which, as immediate from thy place and blood,
     Derives itself to me. Lo! here it sits,
     Which God shall guard: and put the world’s whole strength
     Into one giant arm, it shall not force
     This lineal honour from me: this from thee
     Will I to mine leave, as ’tis left to me.”

But while he speaks, the king awakes, and his roving eye sees the crown
which his son is even now wearing. “Sire,” cries the young prince, “I
never thought to hear thee speak again.” Then the dying king reproves
him:——

           “Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought:
           I stay too long by thee, I weary thee.
           Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair
           That thou wilt needs invest thee with my honours
           Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth!
           Thou seek’st the greatness that will overwhelm thee.
           Stay but a little; for my cloud of dignity
           Is held from falling with so weak a wind
           That it will quickly drop: my day is dim.
           Thou hast stolen that which, after some few hours,
           Were thine without offence.”

The prince, stricken to the heart by his father’s reproaches, flings
himself upon his knees to ask pardon for his presumption, and to assure
the king of the innocence of his deed. He swears that no rebel or vain
spirit has prompted him to seize the crown.

            “Coming to look on you, thinking you dead,——
            And dead almost, my liege, to think you were,——
            I spake unto this crown as having sense....
            Accusing it, I put it on my head,
            To try with it, as with an enemy
            That had before my face murdered my father,
            The quarrel of a true inheritor.”

The dying king gladly accepts his son’s explanation, and blessing him
passes away; while the new king, in an agony of grief, swears to throw
off the waywardness and wildness of his ways. And so, amidst the loud
acclaim of his subjects, the crown is placed for the second time on his
head, and he begins to reign. Never king will be better loved; he will
give his people their fill of martial glory, and loudly they will
boast:——

                     “Oh, when shall Englishmen
                     With such acts fill a pen,
                     Or England breed again
                       Such a King Harry!”

And now two years have flown, and you see him again following the will
o’ the wisp of that French dominion which the third Edward vainly
sought. It is easy to pick a quarrel with France; her king has lost his
wits, and his selfish kinsmen are tearing the realm in twain with their
enmities and quarrels. So with the might of England at his back Harry
crosses the Channel, and his great guns begin to thunder before the
walls of Harfleur. Before the town falls his army is fearfully wasted by
hunger and disease; nevertheless, he does not mean to return without
doing a deed that “will dazzle all the eyes of France.” From Harfleur he
writes to the Dauphin and offers to fight him man to man for the
kingdom, pleading that the quarrel may thus be settled without the
shedding of innocent blood. But the sluggish, mean-spirited Dauphin
makes no answer, so Harry cries:——

                                      “The game’s afoot;
            Follow your spirit, and, upon this charge,
            Cry, ‘God for Harry, England, and Saint George.’”

It is the evening of October 24th, in the year of grace 1415. Five
thousand English bowmen and five thousand men-at-arms, weary,
half-starved, wasted, ragged, and footsore, are stumbling on through
French fields for Calais, dreaming of the homes they are never likely to
see again. Suddenly the news comes in that a huge French army bars the
way. Out go the scouts, and one of them, a Welshman, speedily returns
with the brave report: “There are enough to be killed, enough to be
taken, and enough to run away.” In sooth, there are 60,000 of them,
fresh, well-equipped, and in the most confident of spirits; the odds are
six to one. “Oh that we now had here but one ten thousand of those men
in England who do no work to-day!” cries a noble, but King Harry
reproves him,——

                          “No, my fair cousin:
            If we are marked to die, we are enow
            To do our country loss; and if to live,
            The fewer men, the greater share of honour.”

So the night rolls down, and the English few betake themselves to
prayers; while in the French camp the knights are revelling and feasting
and dicing for the ransoms of the captives they hope to take on the
morrow. The morning sun sees the English army drawn up in a field of
freshly-sown corn, face to face with the French host, that stretches
across the plain by the hamlet of Agincourt. Every archer carries a
five-foot stake as a protection against cavalry; every man of them is
stripped to the waist, and has one shoe off, the better to keep firm
footing on the slippery ground.

And now the gallant king, in full armour, with a jewelled crown
glittering on his helmet, rides along the ranks. He prays aloud for
victory, and turning to his men bids them fight boldly, for God is on
their side. England, he declares, shall never pay ransom for him; he
will conquer, or leave his bones on the field. Then he reminds his
archers that their foes have sworn to put out the right eye and cut off
the left hand of every bowman whom they capture, so that he shall never
loose arrow again. A momentary hush falls on the English as they kneel
to commend their souls to high heaven. Then their lips tighten, their
thews and sinews become steel, and their hearts bound in expectation of
the fray.

“What time is it?” asks the king. “The bells are ringing prime, my
lord,” is the reply. “Now is good time,” says he; “England prayeth for
us, so let us be of good cheer. Banners advance!”

With a loud shout the English bowmen advance twenty paces, and firmly
plant their stakes to form a formidable palisade. On come the
heavy-armed cavalry of the enemy in dense masses, thirty deep. The
archers step forward a few yards, and slowly and steadily begin to
shoot. Not an arrow is wasted; every shaft flies home. To stand still on
the French side is to be shot down like a dog; to turn back is
impossible with the huge press of soldiery behind. So, as the death-hail
falls, the French men-at-arms spur their heavy chargers through the mire
of the freshly-ploughed field. The deadly arrows never cease to fall,
and down go horse and man until they lie in ghastly heaps two spears
high. The French army is a helpless, heaving mass.

“Now’s the day and now’s the hour” for the English archers. They sling
their bows on their backs, they leap forward, and throwing themselves on
the struggling heaps ply sword and mace, axe and bill, with almost
superhuman strength. The living fall on the dead, the dead on the
living, and the English climb the horrible, writhing mounds and hew and
hack at the high-born French knights. King Harry is in the thickest
press. Certain French knights swear to take or slay the English king.
They hew their way to him; a shrewd blow slices the crown from his
helmet, but it is the last blow ever struck by that arm.

The first line is swept to earth, the second line has fallen like wheat
before the reaper’s sickle, and now the third line advances. Taken in
flank by the archers, it turns and flees. In three hours the battle is
over. Eleven thousand Frenchmen lie dead upon the field, prince and
peasant “in one red burial blent.” Agincourt is won, and the English
archer has gained a renown that shall not dim its lustre while the name
of Britain endures.

Once more King Harry is in France, and again none may stand against him.
Rouen, after horrible sufferings, has surrendered; the French princes
are busy murdering one another; the young King of Burgundy throws in his
lot with the English, and the kingdom is at Henry’s feet. So a treaty is
made: Henry is to marry the fair Katherine, daughter of the poor,
witless King of France; he is to rule in his father-in-law’s name, and
succeed him at his death. So Henry begins his wooing, and right merrily
it goes despite his bad French and Katherine’s broken English. On
Trinity Sunday in the year 1420 he leads the princess to the high altar
of the church at Troyes, and they are married. Then the hero of
Agincourt and his bride enter Paris amidst the approving shouts of the
populace, many of whom wear the red cross, the badge of England. But a
third campaign is necessary before the French and their Scottish allies
are beaten and all north France up to the Loire owns Henry’s sway.

And now, in the midst of his splendour, his health fails, and the
doctors are mystified at his malady. As he sinks day by day, he learns
that a son has been born to him at Windsor. At once an old prophecy
flashes into his mind——

        “I, Henry, born at Monmouth,
        Shall small time reign and much get;
        But Henry of Windsor shall long reign and lose all.
        But as God wills, so be it.”

His last hour has come. He busies himself with prayer, and the priests
sing psalms over him. When they reach the second verse of the 147th
Psalm he cries, “Good Lord, Thou knowest that my mind was to build up
the walls of Jerusalem.” He speaks no more. His life is done; his
comet-like career is over. So he dies, leaving his infant son to reap
the bitter harvest that he has sown.

[Illustration: =THE MORNING OF AGINCOURT.=
 (_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, P.R.A._)]




[Illustration]


                            JOAN, THE MAID.

                              “_King of France!”_
          _She cried, “at Chinon, when my gifted eye_
          _Knew thee disguised, what inwardly the spirit_
          _Prompted, I promised, with the sword of God,_
          _To drive from Orleans far the English wolves_
          _And crown thee in the rescued walls of Rheims._
          _All is accomplished. I have here this day_
          _Fulfilled my mission, and anointed thee_
          _King over this great nation._”

Seven years have sped by, and the scene shifts to the ancient cathedral
of Rheims. A great concourse of nobles in glittering armour with pennons
and banners fills the nave. Trumpets are sounding, and outside the crowd
raises cheer upon cheer. The sun streams in through the painted windows,
casting rainbow hues on the exultant throng. Ten thousand candles are
burning, and the smoke of incense is ascending. At the high altar, clad
in the ermine robe of state, kneels the Dauphin of France. An
archbishop, wearing his mitre and the splendid robes of his high office,
places the crown upon the prince’s head, and anoints him with the sacred
oil out of the ancient flask which the priests say came straight from
heaven. The Dauphin is king in very deed, and a great shout of joy
echoes and re-echoes from the vaulted roof. And now all eyes turn to the
striking figure by the side of the newly-made king. You see a noble
maiden, clad in knightly armour, and holding a drawn sword in one hand
and a white banner in the other. She kneels at her prince’s feet, and
tears of joy fall from her eyes as she greets him “King” for the first
time. “Now,” she says, “is the will of God fulfilled.”

Who is this maiden, and why holds she such an honoured place amidst this
noble throng? Let the old chroniclers relate her story. It is one of the
most wondrous ever told. What Wallace did for Scotland this maid has
done for France.

In the year 1429 there was a young girl living in Domremy, a village in
the east of France. She was named Joan, and was the daughter of James
Darc and Isobel, his wife. Joan was but a country maid that was wont to
herd the cattle by day and sew and spin in the evening. She was a
strong, handsome girl, nobly formed, with dark hair and lustrous eyes.
About her thirteenth year she grew silent and dreamy, and loved to steal
away from her companions to the village church, where she knelt for
hours together in silent prayer. One day she was standing in her
father’s garden when she heard a Voice, and saw a great light. The Voice
bade her be diligent in work and prayer, for God had chosen her to save
France. She replied that she was but a poor girl who could not ride, or
lead soldiers in the wars; but the Voice spoke to her again and again,
telling her that she must go. The saints appeared to her, too, and they
gave her the same message, and added words of counsel and warning. The
Visions and the Voices were with her night and day, and at length she
felt that she _must_ do their bidding.

Truly her land was in a piteous condition at the time. King Harry of
England was dead, and so was the old French king, his father-in-law, and
the English baby born at Windsor had been crowned King of France. His
uncle, the Duke of Bedford, the famous Talbot, and many another knight
of renown, were leading English armies to and fro, besieging towns,
burning villages, and filling the land with slaughter. Woeful tales of
death, plunder, and famine found their way to the quiet little village
of Domremy, and Joan’s heart was filled with grief at the miseries of
her beloved France. The Scots had come to the help of their old friends,
the French, and though they managed to win a great victory, they were
badly beaten at Verneuil, where the field was dyed with Scottish blood.

As for the Dauphin, the rightful King of France, he only held the
country south of the Loire, and did not hold even that securely. His
strongest fortress was the city of Orleans, which was even now closely
besieged by the English. To make matters worse, the Dauphin was a man of
no spirit and enterprise. He was half-hearted in his own cause, and,
indeed, was not fully assured that he was the son of the late king, and
therefore lawfully entitled to the crown. It is said that he had prayed
secretly that a sign might be given to him to prove that he was the
rightful heir, and that hitherto no sign had been vouchsafed. He had
very little hope of beating the English, for, like the rest of his
countrymen, he had lost heart and deemed his foes unconquerable. A
handful of English archers by their very presence could send five
hundred Frenchmen flying in terror to the woods.

By this time the Voices and the Visions had so wrought upon the Maid
that she left home without taking leave of her father and mother (not
that she did not hold them in honour and respect, but lest they should
hinder her intent), and went to Vaucouleurs hoping for an audience with
Robert de Baudricourt, the commander of the town. Now, her uncle lived
in the town, and to him she betook herself, and told him how the saints
and angels had urged her on her mission, and how the Voices had said,
“Daughter of God, go on! We will be with you.” The uncle listened and
believed, and led her to the captain, who laughed at her, and bade her
uncle chastise her for a foolish maiden.

But again she came to him and told him how a terrible misfortune had
happened that very day to the Dauphin’s army near Orleans. As
Vaucouleurs was many leagues from Orleans, and even the swiftest runner
could not have brought the news so quickly, the captain gave ear to her;
and when he knew that she had spoken the truth, he saw that she was no
mere hysterical country girl, but one endowed with supernatural gifts.
“My lord captain,” she said, “know that for some years back, at divers
times, God hath made known to me and commanded me to go to the gentle
Dauphin, who should be and is the true King of France, that he may give
me men-at-arms, whereby I may raise the siege of Orleans, take him to be
anointed at Rheims, win back Paris, and drive the English from the
realm.” Robert hearkened to her words, and furnished her with man’s
attire. A young knight gave her a horse, which to the surprise of all
she rode well; and, dressed in a gray doublet and black hose, she rode
away to seek the Dauphin, who was then at Chinon. To test her, the
Dauphin dressed one of his knights in his princely attire, and himself,
in a plain and sober dress, mingled with his courtiers. But Joan went
straight to him, and kneeling on one knee, cried, “Fair sir, you are the
Dauphin, to whom I am come.”

“Nay,” said he, “yonder is the Dauphin,” pointing to a richly-dressed
knight in the company.

“No, fair sir,” repeated the maid, “it is to you that I am sent.”

The Dauphin was surprised, but he did not yet believe in her. One day
she took him aside where nobody could hear and whispered to him the
purport of his secret prayer, and assured him that he was the rightful
king. Then the Dauphin had faith in her, and when his council and the
clergy had examined her straitly, and at last had reported that “to
doubt the maid would be to resist the Holy Spirit,” he agreed to send
her with a train of provisions which he hoped to be able to get secretly
into Orleans. While armour was being made for her, she bade the
Dauphin’s servants dig behind the altar of the Chapel of St. Catherine
at Fierbois, and there they would find a sword with five crosses on the
blade. The sword was found, and she girt herself with it, and taking her
banner of white with the image of the Lord and two angels on it, thus
she led her small company towards Orleans.

As she lay at Blois she sent a letter to the English captain who was
besieging Orleans, bidding him depart in peace, or else she would fall
upon him with blows, and “we shall see who hath the better right, God or
you.” The English laughed at her words, and threatened to burn her as a
witch if they caught her. Nevertheless she advanced, and entered the
town, whereat the spirits of the citizens rose and their confidence
returned. And now, being strengthened by fresh troops and fresh stores,
they no longer acted merely on the defensive, but began to assault the
English forts, and with Joan as leader captured two of them. Then Joan
led them against the Bulwark and the Round Towers. All morning they
fought without success, and at one o’clock in the afternoon a bolt from
an English cross-bow wounded her in the shoulder. The arrow was
extracted, and still the fight went on.

After sunset the captain wished to withdraw for the night, but Joan
begged him to fall to again. She mounted her horse and rode to a quiet
place and prayed, and then returned to the fight. She alighted from her
horse, and taking her standard in her hand, waved it to and fro so that
all men saw it. “Take heed,” she said, “when the float of my banner
shall touch the Bulwark.” “It touches! it touches!” they cried. Then
said she to her men, “All is yours; enter in.”

With a great rush the French climbed the scaling-ladders, captured the
Round Towers, stormed the Bulwark, and put to the sword most of the
defenders. That night the English, terrified by the reappearance of the
Maid, raised the siege and departed, leaving their big guns and much
victual behind them. So the town of Orleans was delivered, and Frenchmen
everywhere began to believe that the Maid was really an angel of God
sent to deliver France.

Without delay Joan rode to the Dauphin and besought him to make ready to
be crowned at Rheims, the old coronation place of the French kings. But
he would not set forth until the way was cleared of English. So with six
hundred lances and some infantry Joan led an attack on them, and drove
them before her. And now in June the Dauphin at her entreaty gat him on
the road for Rheims, Joan warning him that “she would only last for a
year, or not much longer, and that he must make haste.” At Troyes the
garrison yielded, and ere long the Dauphin was in Rheims, and the scene
in which you saw the Maid for the first time took place.

Hardly was the coronation over ere Joan urged the king to march on
Paris. As he advanced, town after town opened its gates to him, and
Bedford dared not give him battle. But when the first attack on Paris
failed, he withdrew, like the coward that he was, and would not
persevere, in spite of all Joan’s prayers and tears. Almost
broken-hearted, she hung up her arms in the church of St. Denis, and
begged leave to go home to her father and mother and herd the cattle as
of yore. The king, however, would not let her go, but gave her a pension
and a title of nobility.

Now in Easter week of this fateful year the Voices spoke again to her
and said that she should be taken prisoner before Midsummer Day. They
encouraged her to be resigned to her fate, for God would help her. The
Maid knew full well that to be captured meant being burned as a witch;
nevertheless she halted not in her purpose, deeming her end glorious if
only she could give her body to be burned for her country.

The town of Compiègne was closely besieged by the English and the
Burgundians, and was likely to yield. So the Maid rode thither with her
brothers and two or three hundred men to raise the siege. She charged
the Burgundians, but was surrounded and taken prisoner and held to
ransom. The French would not pay a franc for her, and so her captors
sold her to the English, who “feared not any captain, not any chief in
war, as they had feared the Maid.” She was brought before the Bishop of
Beauvais and tried for witchcraft. After a long and tedious trial, and
after suffering every kind of insult and hardship, she was found guilty,
and was tricked into signing a paper confessing her guilt. And all the
time the miserable French king made no sign, and lifted not his little
finger to save her.

On May 30, 1431, they led her into the market-place of Rouen and burnt
her alive. With her dying words she testified to the truth of her
Visions, and underwent her awful doom with the courage of a martyr. So
she died, pressing to her lips a rude cross which a pitiful soldier held
out to her. The old legends tell that as the flames leaped round her,
and her spirit departed, a pure white dove, the harbinger of peace, rose
from out the smouldering pile and winged its way towards heaven. In very
truth peace did spring from her ashes. Her heroic example gave new life
to the crushed spirit of her countrymen, who rose and drove the invader
from their shores. Four years later, nothing was left of all the English
conquests in France but the town of Calais.




[Illustration: =THE CORONATION OF CHARLES VII. AT RHEIMS.=
 (_From the painting by J. E. Lenepveu in the Pantheon, Paris._)]

[Illustration: =JOAN OF ARC STORMING THE “BULWARK” (ORLEANS).=
 (_From the painting by J. E. Lenepveu._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter IX.
                         THE WARS OF THE ROSES.


                            THE KING-MAKER.

         “_Heard ye the din of battle bray,_
         _Lance to lance, and horse to horse?_
         _Long years of havoc urge their destined course,_
         _And through the kindred, squadrons mow their way._”

A  GREAT noble now rides by on a magnificent coal-black steed. At once
your eye is attracted by him, and you feel that here is a Paladin worthy
of the pen of poet and romancer. Mark his great stature; his vast width
and depth of chest; his high forehead; his black, curling hair fretted
from the temples by the friction of his helmet; his handsome oval face;
his bold features; and his massive jaw, which speaks only too plainly of
his masterful nature and inflexible determination. You can readily
believe that he is the idol of thousands of his countrymen, and “a
setter up and plucker down” of kings.

Who is this remarkable man? He is none other than Richard Neville, Earl
of Warwick, the richest and most powerful noble in England. Thirty
thousand men eat his bread daily at the tables of his various great
castles; his retainers alone constitute an army, all clad in scarlet
coats with the “ragged staff” worked on back and front. His boundless
wealth, his profuse hospitality, his great family connections raise him
head and shoulders above his peers. He is the premier noble of England,
the arbiter of her destinies, and the “last of the barons.”

He lives in an age of battle, murder, and sudden death. His land is torn
by the long and fierce quarrels of two great families which are
selfishly and ruthlessly fighting for the crown. Henry the Sixth, a
mild, merciful, long-suffering, pious man, weak of health and weak of
purpose, a hater of strife and bloodshed and a lover of religion and
learning, sits insecurely on the throne, bolstered thereon by his
strong-willed, indomitable queen, Margaret of Anjou. He is the grandson
of that Lancastrian king who thrust from the throne the grandson of
Edward the Third. His hereditary right to the crown is inferior to that
of Richard, Duke of York; but his family has now been in possession of
the throne for more than half a century, and the brilliant victories of
his father have made men proud of the Lancastrian lineage. But feeble
son has succeeded valiant sire. France has been lost; there is no child
to succeed him; and he is surrounded by ambitious, quarrelsome nobles,
who make him a pawn in their selfish game. Already the great houses of
the realm have taken sides, and are sporting either the red or the white
rose. The citizens of London, the wealthy traders and craftsmen now
rising into a powerful caste, throw in their lot with York, and the
yeomen of the South and Midlands are for him too. And now, in the year
1453, the poor king goes mad, and York is made Protector of the realm.
He quite expects to be king when Henry passes away.

But a new arrival comes on the scene to dash all his hopes and force him
to the arbitrament of the sword. Queen Margaret bears a son, Henry
recovers, and York is dismissed from his post. He appeals to his friend
the great Warwick, and soon a large force rallies to his standard. The
rival armies meet at the old town of St. Albans, but ere the fight
begins York seeks the king and endeavours to make terms. But Henry, who
is as clay in the hands of his implacable wife—“the foreign woman” as
the English folk call her—is for the moment moulded into something
resembling courage. “I will live and die this day in the quarrel,” he
exclaims, and York is cavalierly dismissed. The royalists barricade the
streets, and bid the foe come on. The great earl by skilful generalship
breaks into the gardens behind the houses, and his archers gain the
streets with trumpets blowing and the war-cry “A Warwick! a Warwick!” A
tough street fight follows, but it is soon over. The king’s chief
supporter is dead, and he himself is in the hands of York. The wars of
the Roses have begun, and for more than thirty years the realm will be
plunged in a civil war so ghastly and unrelenting that even now it marks
the blackest page in our national history.

Not that the people generally will join in the strife. The family feuds
of great nobles concern them but little; they merely desire peace and
good government, that they may till their lands, labour in their
workshops, buy and sell, and fill their exhausted purses without
distraction. Right willingly would they let the sword rust in its
scabbard and the unstrung bow hang idly on the wall. But the land is
full of men who have made war their trade in France, and they are eager
to be hired for any adventure that is going. These roving mercenaries,
the gentry, and their hosts of retainers constitute the armies which
will maintain the long and bitter contest. But despite the bloody duels
of factious nobles, the business of the country is not interrupted. The
judges go on circuit as of old, taking their commissions from whichever
king is in the ascendant; and the peasant pauses in his hillside furrow
and leans on the handles of his plough to view the nobles of the land
dashing themselves to pieces in battle on the plain below. The war is a
war of nobles, and not of the commonalty.

The wild northern levies triumph, and the king is recovered. Then
Margaret arrays her prisoners, and sets up the little prince, her son,
to judge them. “Fair son,” she cries, “what deaths shall they die?” and
the lad forthwith orders their heads to be struck off. The wild, lawless
host tarries eight days at St. Albans, and this delay enables Warwick to
unite with the new Duke of York and reach London. The king and queen
gain nothing from their victory. They are forced to march north, and the
Londoners, glad to be saved from Margaret and her Border freebooters,
welcome York’s heir, and sing:—

    “He that could London forsake, we will no more to us take.”

They crown the young man at Westminster, and as Edward the Fourth he
takes up the sceptre. It is Warwick who has made him king.

Now comes the story of a great quarrel and its dramatic sequel. Edward
has fallen in love with beautiful Elizabeth Woodville, the daughter of a
Red Rose father, and the widow of a Red Rose husband. He marries her
secretly, and all the while Warwick is negotiating a foreign marriage
for him with the French king’s sister. When Edward’s marriage to
Elizabeth Woodville is announced, Warwick’s annoyance and disgust know
no bounds. He dissembles, however, though day by day he grows angrier
and angrier as he sees power slipping from him and passing to the
“upstart” relatives of the new queen.

Edward, instigated by his new domestic circle, is bent on throwing off
the Neville yoke. So he heaps honours, high offices, lands, and wealth
on the Greys and the Woodvilles, and Warwick is furious. Such treatment
he will not brook. He who has set up the king can pull him down again.
So he seeks “false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,” who is now jealous of
his brother, the king, and eager for a throne. Clarence marries
Warwick’s daughter, and the strings of insurrection are vigorously
pulled by the wily earl. Edward rouses himself at last and hastens
northward, where his cannon soon put the rebels to flight, and their
captured leader reveals Warwick’s plot to make Clarence king. At once
the pair of conspirators flee to France.

Warwick and that crafty intriguer, Louis the Eleventh, now concoct a
plan for driving their common enemy, King Edward, off the throne, and
restoring Henry the Sixth. Queen Margaret at first indignantly refuses
to accept the support of the man who has driven her into exile, and cast
foul aspersions on her character; but Warwick goes on bended knee to
her, and withdraws every charge. The queen keeps him in this humiliating
position for a quarter of an hour, and then relents. She agrees that her
son shall marry Warwick’s daughter, but only when he has restored Henry
to his throne. Then the king-maker, who has broken so many solemn oaths,
swears on a piece of the true cross to remain faithful to the
Lancastrian cause. A fleet is fitted out, Warwick lands at Dartmouth,
proclaims King Henry, and summons the national levies to his banner. As
Edward lies in bed at Doncaster, two friends burst into his chamber and
bid him rise and flee, for his foes are within an hour’s march. He
flings on his clothes, and without armour or money rides at breakneck
speed to Lynn, where he sets sail for Holland. Once more the king-maker
has made and unmade a king.

The old king is clad in a robe of blue velvet, brought out of the Tower,
set on horseback, and led to St. Paul’s amidst crowds of Londoners who
shout “God save King Henry.” The poor old king knows full well that the
proud noble who bears his train in the state procession is his and
England’s master, and that he must do his bidding or return whence he
came. Warwick has again triumphed, but his hold on power is far from
secure. The Lancastrians have no desire for a puppet king whose strings
are worked by their old enemy, and the Yorkists are busy preparing for
the return of Edward. Next spring he appears in the Humber, and pushes
on to London, where the gates are opened to him, and he secures the
person of King Henry. Warwick is in battle-array to the north of Barnet,
his forces “under a hedge-side.” Clarence, who has made peace with his
brother, offers mediation; but Warwick, angry at his double
faithlessness, contemptuously rejects his advances.

“Last scene of all, to end this strange, eventful history.” Raw, cold,
and dismal dawns the morning on Easter Sunday in the year 1471. A heavy
mist, which many a soldier ascribes to magical arts, rolls over the
field and hides the opposing armies from each other. The battle begins,
and men fight as in a dream, striking wildly at each other, and scarce
distinguishing friend from foe. Now Warwick thinks the day is his; now
Edward believes victory to be in his grasp. Then comes a lift of the
cloud, and both generals perceive that their hopes are vain. For three
hours the desperate fight rages; the bombards roar, and sword and arrow
do their deadly work. Now deluded by the mist, the two wings of
Warwick’s army are busy fighting each other, and the fatal cry “Treason!
treason!” is heard on the field. Warwick’s men give way, his brother is
slain, and there is only safety for the great earl in flight. He leaps
on horseback and gallops to a neighbouring wood, from which there is no
egress. He is followed and surrounded, and though he plies his great
battle-axe fiercely he is overborne by superior numbers and slain. The
king-maker will never make or unmake kings again.

                                 “Now lies he there,
               And none so poor to do him reverence.”




[Illustration: =DEATH OF WARWICK.=
 (_From the picture by T. A. Houston, R.S.A._)]




[Illustration]


                    THE LITTLE PRINCES IN THE TOWER.

           “_Let us sit upon the ground_
           _And tell sad stories of the death of kings._”

Now hand in hand two pathetic figures appear. They are victims marked
for the slaughter; their tender age and innocence will not save them,
for they stand between a bold, unscrupulous man and the throne. You have
already made acquaintance with their father, the fourth Edward, he who
owed all to the king-maker, whom he left dead on Barnet Field. But
Edward has gone to his account, leaving his two young sons and their
mother to the tender mercies of selfish, intriguing nobles, brutalized
by a long course of civil war. As Protector of the realm, their father’s
brother, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, aims at the throne, and his first
step is to secure the custody of the two royal lads, who are now in the
guardianship of their maternal uncle, Earl Rivers, and of Lord Richard
Grey. The elder—a boy of thirteen—is seized and brought to London by
his Uncle Richard, while the lad’s guardians are flung into prison. The
false uncle treats his young charge with every show of loyal and
submissive regard, and brings him in great state to London for his
coronation. The wretched mother knows instinctively the fate in store
for her offspring, and takes sanctuary at Westminster with her second
son, the little Duke of York, a boy of eleven years of age. With fair
and specious words a prince of the Church persuades the widow to
surrender the lad, and forthwith he joins his brother in the Tower.

And now Gloucester ruthlessly hurries to the block those who by the ties
of kindred and friendship are likely to befriend the boys, and ere long
no man dares raise his voice against any of his bloodthirsty acts. He is
a dictator—and dictators easily develop into kings. His minions offer
him the crown, which, after a slight show of refusal, he accepts. Then
with consummate skill he proceeds to bolster up the throne which his
successful villainy has won. He is crowned with great pomp and ceremony,
and soon after the little princes disappear. What becomes of them is not
clearly known, but gradually a rumour spreads that the unnatural uncle
has done them to death. His crime profits him little; a great wave of
pity for the untimely fate of the unhappy boys swells up in the land,
and men recoil in horror from a murderer king. Two years later avenging
justice smites him; he lies dead on the battlefield, and another fills
his throne.

Sir Thomas More, writing twenty-eight years after Richard’s death, tells
the story of the crime, and there is no good reason to dispute its
substantial accuracy. He tells us that the king plotted the death of the
young princes while making a holiday progress through the country. From
Gloucester he dispatched one of his pages to Sir Robert Brackenbury, the
governor of the Tower, commanding him to make away with the lads quietly
and speedily. Brackenbury indignantly refused the office of assassin,
but a more facile tool was found in Sir James Tyrell, who had already
stained his hands in secret crime. The princes were confined in the
Portcullis Tower, under the constant supervision of four keepers, their
personal attendant being a fellow known as Black Will or Will Slaughter.

Richard roused Tyrell from his bed at midnight, and sent him to the
Tower with an order commanding Brackenbury to give up the keys of the
fortress. “Then,” says Sir Thomas More, “Sir James Tyrell desired that
the princes should be murdered in bed, to the execution whereof he
appropriated Miles Forest, one of their keepers, a fellow flesh-bred in
murder, and to him joined John Dighton, his own horse-keeper, a big,
broad, square knave. The young king had certainly a clear apprehension
of his fate, for he was heard sighingly to say, ‘I would mine uncle
would let me have my life, though he taketh my crown.’ After which time
the prince never tied his points nor anything attended to himself, but
that young babe, his brother, lingered in thought and heaviness till the
traitorous deed delivered them from their wretchedness.

“All their other attendants being removed from them, and the harmless
children in bed, these men came into their chamber, and suddenly lapping
them in the clothes smothered and stifled them till thoroughly dead.
Then laying out their bodies on the bed, they fetched Sir James to see
them, who caused the murderers to bury them at the stairfoot, deep in
the ground, under a heap of stones. Then rode Sir James in great haste
to King Richard, and showed him the manner of the murder, who gave him
great thanks.”

More than two centuries later the skeletons of two young lads were found
under a staircase leading to the chapel in the White Tower. In all
probability they were the mortal remains of the unhappy princes.

On the eve of the battle which resulted in the overthrow and death of
the murderer king, Shakespeare depicts him as visited by the ghosts of
the many whom he has foully slain. The spirits of the murdered boys
appear hand in hand:—

           “Dream on thy cousins smothered in the Tower:
           Let us be lead within thy breast, Richard,
           And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death.
           Thy nephews’ souls bid thee despair and die!”

And thus do they hearten the avenger, whose forces are even now
marshalled on Bosworth Field:—

         “Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy;
         Good angels guard thee from the boar’s annoy!
         Live, and beget a happy race of kings.”

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =The Little Princes in the Tower.=
 (_From the picture by Paul Delaroche._)]

[Illustration: =RICHARD III. AT THE BATTLE OF BOSWORTH.=
 (_From the picture by A. Cooper. By permission of Messrs. Henry Graves
   and Co._)]




[Illustration]




                               Chapter X.
                              TUDOR TIMES.


                       JOHN AND SEBASTIAN CABOT.

          “_The white man landed;—need the rest be told?_
          _The New World stretched its dusk hand to the Old;_
          _Each was to each a marvel, and the tie_
          _Of wonder warmed to better sympathy._”

NOW the procession halts, while a momentous scene is enacted before our
eyes. We are in the old seaport of Bristol, on a May morning in the year
1497, treading the rough cobbles of the quay whereat the good ship
_Matthew_ and her consort lie. Stout, staunch vessels they are, fitted
out and provisioned for the most adventurous voyage ever undertaken by
Bristol ships. The royal blazon glistens on their mainsails, the flag of
England flies from their mastheads. Some of the boldest and most skilful
mariners in the land are on board, busy making everything ship-shape,
“Bristol fashion,” for the voyage which is to begin to-day. Now you see
a procession approaching. The Lord Mayor in his robes of state, with his
chain of office about his neck, leads the way, and behind him troop the
city fathers; then comes the bishop, with his attendant train of
priests; and behind them, the observed of all observers, you see a
father and his three sons. They are John, Lewis, Sebastian, and Santius
Cabot—the father a citizen of Venice, the sons men of Bristol. The old
city is saying farewell to them to-day, and the lusty cheers that greet
them as they traverse the narrow streets show how deeply every Bristol
man is interested in their enterprise. What is this enterprise? Whither
are they bound?

Any urchin in the streets will tell you. “Why, master, have you not
heard of the Genoese seaman, Christopher Columbus?—he who five years
ago set sail from Palos in three ships, and sailed to the west’ard
across the ocean, seeking a new sea-road to far-off India and Cathay. Do
you not know that he lighted on marvellous new lands, which he seized in
the name of Spain, and then returned home to tell the wondrous news?
There’s gold by the bucketful across the Western Ocean, and we Bristol
folks mean to have our share of it. So we have fitted out the _Matthew_
and the other ship which you see yonder, and this very day John Cabot
and his sons are to set sail. Would that I could sail with them too!”
Many an English lad, in many a seaport, echoes his wish.

                   “Westward! westward! westward!
                     The sea sang in his head,
                   At morn in the busy harbour,
                     At nightfall on his bed.

                   “Westward! westward! westward!
                   Over the line of breakers,
                     Out of the distance dim,
                   For ever the foam-white fingers,
                     Beckoning, beckoning him.”

And now the procession halts on the quay, and the mariners kneel while
the bishop with uplifted hand blesses them and their enterprise. John
Cabot, he with the brown face and the close-cropped white hair, proudly
unfolds the scroll which he carries, and begins to read his royal
commission:——

    “Henry, by the grace of God, King of England and France, and
    Lord of Ireland, to all to whom these presents shall come,
    Greeting:

    “Be it knowen that we haue giuen and granted, and by these
    presents do giue and grant, for VS and our heires, to our well
    beloued Iohn Cabot, citizen of Venice, to Lewis, Sebastian, and
    Santius, sonnes of the sayd Iohn, and to the heires of them and
    euery of them, and their deputies, full and free authority,
    leaue and power, to saile to all parts, countreys, and seas of
    the East, of the West, and of the North, under our banners and
    ensignes, with fiue ships of what quantity or burden soever they
    may be, and as many manners or men as they will haue with them
    in the sayd ships, upon their owne proper costs and charges to
    seeke out, discouer and finde, whatsoeuer isles, countreys,
    regions or prouinces, of the heathens and infidels, whatsoeuer
    they be, and in what part of the world soeuer they be, which
    before this time haue been unknowen to all Christians.”

So the letters-patent of his gracious Majesty King Henry the Seventh
run. The reading is finished. The last farewells are taken. The wives
and children of the adventurous mariners weep aloud. The Lord Mayor
clasps John Cabot warmly by the hand, and the captain goes on board.
Deafening cheers are raised as the hawsers are cast off and the good
ships are warped out. Now you see them threading the deep gorge of the
Avon. Anon they will be out on the heaving waters of the Bristol
Channel; then sail will be made, and in the golden sunset glow they will
fade away into the unknown.

For months there will be sad hearts in many a humble Bristol home, and
white-faced women will haunt the quay, eagerly questioning incoming
sailors for news of their husbands and sons who have sailed with the
Cabots. Then one glad day the blazoned sails, torn and worn with
tempestuous winds and the rough usage of the sea, appear again in the
Avon, and all England rings with the story of the marvellous voyage. The
Bristol bells ring out merry peals; the city fathers feast the returning
adventurers in the Council chamber; and every lad in the good old city
holds his head high because of the new fame that Bristowe men have won.
What visits are paid to the _Matthew_ and her consort! The Church of St.
Mary Redcliffe is thronged with eager citizens gaping at the whale’s rib
which Sebastian Cabot has deposited there in memory of his voyage.

Here is one of the heroes of the expedition. Let us buttonhole him and
bid him spin his yarn. Like the true sailor that he is, he readily
consents. “Marry, sirs, ’twas a long and dull voyage outward; but the
winds were fair, and in two moons we reached a sea with monstrous great
lumps of ice floating about like fairy castles. And mark ye, the sun set
not, and there was daylight all the clock round. On the twenty-fourth
day of June we sighted land. _Prima Vista_ the captain called it, that
being the Latin lingo, so I’m told, for ‘first seen.’ ’Twas an island,
thick covered with woods, lying out from the mainland. We went ashore
right speedily, and now there’s a bit of England seven hundred leagues
to the west’ard across the great ocean.

“The men of that land are savages dressed in skins of beasts. They carry
bows and arrows, wooden clubs and slings; and fine hunters they be,
every man of them. Their land is barren, and no fruits grow, but there
are big white bears in plenty and stags that would make two of ours. Off
the island the sea swarms with fish, some as much as an ell long, and
sea-wolves, such as ye may see now and then in Bristol Channel.

“The birds are black-hawks and partridges and eagles. When we left the
isle we coasted a dreary shore for three hundred leagues, and ’tis my
belief, comrades, that we have discovered a rich, new continent, with
mines of copper and wonders untold. We sail again next year, and when we
come back—if God wills—I’ll tell ye more about it. And now come along
with me and see the three savages that the captain has brought home with
him to show the king.”

There will be no lack of adventurers now to dare the Western Ocean. Ship
after ship will push across the “black waters,” and every year will
bring the New World into closer touch with the Old. Pass on, ye great
pilots of Bristowe! Your flag is struck, your sails are furled, your
ship is beached, but your work is done. In centuries to come the vast
continent which ye have revealed shall be peopled by a great race,
largely sprung from British loins, and speaking the brave English
tongue. “Westward the star of Empire takes its way,” and ye are the
first of our seamen to follow the star!




[Illustration: =The Departure of John and Sebastian Cabot on the First
  Voyage of Discovery, 1497.=
 (_From the picture by Ernest Board. By permission of the Bristol
   Corporation and the Artist._)]




[Illustration]


                           KING AND CARDINAL.

               “_I charge thee, fling away ambition;_
               _By that sin fell the angels._”

A stately procession now files by, headed by shaven and tonsured priests
carrying silver crosses. Behind them a bareheaded noble carries the
Great Seal of England, and another a cardinal’s hat on a cushion. Now
you hear gentlemen ushers shout, “Make way for my lord’s grace!” and a
splendid figure stalks past you with the air of a king. He wears the
scarlet robe of a cardinal, with a tippet of fine sable and a gold chain
about his neck, while on his feet are shoes of gold studded with jewels.
In his hand he carries an orange-skin with a scented sponge in the
midst. This he sniffs from time to time, lest he should catch some
infection from the crowd that throngs his path. Behind him two great
pillars of silver and a gilt mace are borne, and so he proceeds through
Westminster Hall to the seat of justice. At his coming, suitors kneel to
present their petitions and beg his favour. Anon he will devote himself
diligently to the business of his high office, and will spare neither
high nor low, but will judge all who come before him according to their
merits and deserts.

No man in the kingdom, not even the king, lives in such splendour and
magnificence. His palace is always filled with noblemen, gentlemen, and
ambassadors from foreign countries, and his banquets and entertainments
are the wonder of the age. Bluff King Hal and he are boon companions,
and ofttimes you may see the monarch lean lovingly on the shoulder of
his splendid chancellor. Sometimes he will visit his palace, and the
cardinal will spare neither money nor ingenuity to divert the king.

A writer of the time tells us that “the banquets were set forth, with
masks and mummeries, in so gorgeous a sort and costly manner that it was
a heaven to behold. I have seen the king suddenly come in thither in a
mask, with a dozen of other maskers, all in garments like shepherds,
having sixteen torch-bearers, besides their drums. Ye shall understand
what joy and delight the cardinal had to see his prince and sovereign
lord in his house so nobly entertained and pleased.”

Who is this favoured mortal? He is Thomas Wolsey, the son of a wealthy
wool-merchant of Ipswich. By his great ability and his zeal in the
king’s service, he has raised himself from a comparatively humble
position to be the envy of the greatest nobles in the land. “He is the
person,” writes the Venetian ambassador, “who rules both the king and
the kingdom. He is very handsome, learned, extremely eloquent, of vast
ability, and indefatigable. He alone transacts all the business that
occupies all the magistrates, offices, and councils of Venice. He has
the reputation of being extremely just. He favours the people
exceedingly, and especially the poor, hearing their suits and making the
lawyers plead gratis for them.” But if he has friends among the poor,
his pomp and pride have made him hosts of enemies among the proud and
rich. The old nobles hate him, and would fain bring his haughty head to
the dust. Nevertheless, even his enemies are forced to admit that he is
the ablest statesman of his time, and the chief prop of the kingdom.

Truly, he treads all the ways of glory, and sounds all the depths and
shoals of honour; but the knell of his greatness is soon to toll. The
sun will no longer usher forth his honours, or gild again the noble
troops that wait upon his smiles. Even now a woman’s bright eyes are
weaning Henry from him, and soon he will be fain to say—

            “The king has gone beyond me; all my glories
            In that one woman I have lost for ever.”

Listen to the story of his fall.

Never king came to his throne more blessed by nature, fortune, and
circumstance than the eighth Henry. Nature had fashioned him as the
handsomest and ablest monarch in Christendom. “He was tall and well
proportioned . . . his complexion very fair and bright, with auburn hair
combed straight and short in the French fashion, and a round face that
would become a pretty woman.” But there was no effeminacy about him. He
was devoted to tennis and extremely fond of jousting and hunting—“never
taking his diversion without tiring eight or ten horses.” Nor was there
a more accomplished king living. He spoke good French, Latin, and
Spanish; he was a musician and an author, and even as a boy his ability
and address most favourably impressed the great scholar Erasmus. With
all these gifts and graces, Henry began his reign with the highest
promise; but as the years went by he steadily changed for the worse. His
unbridled self-will grew upon him until he became a cold-hearted despot,
who made his whim the law of the land, and ruthlessly sent to the
scaffold all on whom his displeasure fell. From the first he was
absolute master of the realm, and could say, _L’état, c’est moi!_
Nevertheless, he was always careful to make his acts legal by getting
Parliament to endorse them. He greatly valued his popularity with the
people, and his ministers had to bear the blame of all his unpopular
acts.

During the later years of Henry the Seventh’s reign, Arthur, the heir to
the throne, had been married to Catherine, the daughter of Ferdinand and
Isabella of Spain. Arthur died young, and the miserly old king,
unwilling to part with Catherine’s rich dowry, proposed to marry her to
her brother-in-law, Henry, who was six years her junior. Such an
alliance was against the law of the Church, but a dispensation was
readily obtained, and shortly after his accession Henry married her. For
many years they lived happily together. “The king adores her, and her
Highness him,” wrote her confessor, and never had any man a more
faithful helpmeet. She was a fair-haired, gentle, pious woman, of a
lively and gracious disposition, but not beautiful. As she grew older
her health failed, and she became prematurely old and lost much of her
attraction. All her children died except one—the Princess Mary. After
eighteen years of married life Henry fell violently in love with Anne
Boleyn, one of the queen’s maids of honour.

“Madame Anne,” wrote an eye-witness, “is not one of the handsomest women
in the world. She is of middling stature and swarthy complexion, and has
nothing but the king’s great love, and her eyes, which are black and
beautiful.” She was, however, bright and lively, and had “wonderful long
hair.” Soon Henry pretended to have scruples about the lawfulness of his
marriage with his brother’s widow, and he persuaded himself that the
death of his children was a visitation of God for his sin. Further, he
argued that a son was necessary in the interests of his kingdom, for
hitherto the rule of women had always provoked civil war. The real fact
of the matter was that the selfish, self-willed king wanted to cast off
Catherine in favour of a new, young wife. Before long Henry asked Pope
Clement to declare that his marriage was null and void from the
beginning.

Wolsey, as the Pope’s legate in England, was the natural channel of
communication between the king and the Pope. Wolsey could not believe
that Henry desired a dissolution of his marriage tie in order to
contract an alliance with a giddy, insignificant lady of the court.
Rather, he assumed, Henry was contemplating a union with some lady of
the royal house of France, and this fell in with his pet scheme for
securing the friendship of that powerful state. Believing this, he used
his influence with the Pope. But the wearer of the triple crown was then
in a parlous state. He was in the power of Charles the Fifth, nephew of
Queen Catherine, and that monarch was determined that his aunt should
not be divorced. At the same time, Clement was an ally of Henry’s, and
was naturally anxious to assist him. In his dilemma the Pope sought to
gain time, and therefore appointed Wolsey and the Italian Cardinal
Campeggio to inquire into the case. In June 1529 the two cardinals
opened their court in the great hall of the Black Friars’ Monastery in
London. Catherine refused to plead, but knelt at the feet of her husband
and made a touching appeal to him to spare her the indignity and
injustice of divorce.

                                “Heaven witness,
          I have been to you a true and humble wife,
          At all times to your will conformable;
          Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,
          Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry
          As I saw it inclined.”

She appealed to the Pope himself; then rising, bowed to the king, and
refused to face the court again. The trial dragged on, and Henry became
impatient and demanded speedy judgment.

Meanwhile Clement had made a treaty with the Emperor, and was no longer
solicitous to retain the goodwill of the English king. He therefore
revoked the commission, and ordered the cause to be transferred to Rome
for a new trial. Henry, baffled and beaten, was furious, and Anne Boleyn
skilfully fanned the flame of his wrath. She suggested that Wolsey had
bungled the matter, and forthwith his doom was sealed. He was dismissed
from his office as chancellor, and brought to trial for breaking an old
law which forbade appeals to Rome. Wolsey said truthfully that he had
only appealed to the Pope at the king’s request. Henry, however, denied
that he had sanctioned the proceeding, and Wolsey, to the joy of his
enemies, was found guilty. All his property was seized, and after he had
made an abject submission, he was ordered to withdraw to his diocese of
York.

Here he flung himself with all his old energy into his work as
archbishop, and soon won the affection of the north-country folk. But he
hungered and thirsted for his former greatness, and made the serious
error of communicating with the ambassadors of the French king and the
Emperor. When Henry heard of it his anger blazed forth once more. This
was treason and nothing less, and Wolsey’s arrest was immediately
ordered. Early in November he began his journey southward under an armed
guard. Sick and heart-broken, with his health undermined, he travelled
as far as Leicester, where at his coming the abbot of the place met him
with the light of many torches and received him with great reverence.
“Father abbot,” said he, “I am come to lay my bones among you.” Truer
words were never spoken. A few days later he died, lamenting with his
failing breath—

            “Had I but served my God with half the zeal
            I served my king, He would not in my age
            Have left me naked to mine enemies.”

So died the victim of a headstrong, selfish sovereign, who remorselessly
flung away even the most devoted of his servants as soon as they had
ceased to be useful to him.




[Illustration: =Cardinal Wolsey on his Way to Westminster Hall.=
 (_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A. in the Guildhall Art
   Gallery, London._)]

[Illustration: =TRIAL OF QUEEN CATHERINE.=
 (_From the picture by Henry O’Neill, A.R.A. By permission of the Art
   Gallery Committee of the Corporation of Birmingham._)]

[Illustration: =PORTRAIT OF HENRY VIII.=
 (_By Hans Holbein the Younger. From the Royal Gallery at Windsor._)]




[Illustration]


                            THE NEW WORSHIP.

         “_The old order changeth, yielding place to new,_
         _And God fulfils Himself in many ways._”

There is a pause in our pageantry. While the next scene is preparing,
let the story of the intervening period be briefly told. Twenty-eight
years, long and fateful, have come and gone since Wolsey died of a
broken heart, and in the interval a new England with a new destiny and a
new faith has arisen. The years that have sped have been marked by
religious upheaval, and by an extraordinary outburst of persecuting
zeal. The fires of Smithfield have blazed, and the thumb-screw and the
rack have done their fiendish work “for the glory of the Lord.” Henry in
his rage against the Pope has swept away the monasteries, sent the monks
adrift, and plundered them of their lands and riches. Year by year the
doctrines of Church reformers have gained ground, and ere Henry’s long
reign of terror and crime draws to a close, Protestantism is a powerful
force in England. His son, Edward the Sixth, a precocious, consumptive
lad of ten, succeeds, and then the reformers gain the upper hand. A new
Prayer Book “in the vulgar tongue, understanded of the people at large,”
is issued, and the Reformation is hurried on with undue speed. There is
a ruthless and irreverent destruction of images, pictures, and stained
glass in the churches, and many pious persons, otherwise favourable to
the “new worship,” are shocked into opposition. To secure the triumph of
Protestantism, Edward is persuaded on his deathbed to make a will
excluding his Catholic sister Mary from the throne, and naming Lady Jane
Grey as his successor.

The young king dies in his sixteenth year, and three days later Queen
Jane is proclaimed. Not a hat is tossed in the air, not a cheer is
raised. London declares for Mary; the nobles and gentry flock to her.
The poor “eleven days’ queen”—young, innocent, and beautiful—is
utterly deserted. She vanishes into the Tower, and her head pays the
penalty of her father-in-law’s ambition.

Mary is now queen, and she sets herself immediately to undo the work of
the Reformation and to restore England to the power of the Pope. She
makes the fatal mistake of marrying Philip of Spain, whose horrible
outrages on the Dutch have made him an object of terror and loathing in
England. Soon he deserts her, and the miserable queen, racked by painful
disease, throws her whole heart into a frenzied attempt to stamp out
Protestantism in her realm. Martyrs perish at the stake, and the nation
is horrified at the queen’s cruelty. And yet one cannot but be sorry for
the wretched woman. In feeble health, miserable, and soured by the
desertion of her husband, filled with anxious fears for the future of
her kingdom, and conscious of the hatred of her people, she honestly
believes that she is doing the will of Heaven in burning and torturing
those of her subjects who do not see eye to eye with her in matters of
religion. Every week her people grow more and more discontented; every
week her health and spirits grow worse.

At length the climax is reached. Her husband drags her into war with
France, and in the struggle “the chief jewel of the realm”—Calais—is
lost. For two hundred years it has been in English hands, and its
possession has meant the command of the “narrow seas.” Now England is
without a foot of soil on French ground, and Englishmen grow bitterly
angry at the thought. Mary has enough national spirit to understand the
magnitude of the disaster. “When I am dead,” she cries, “you will find
‘Calais’ written on my heart!”

Ten months later, on the eve of a great national revolt, the miserable
Mary dies, conscious that she has been a hopeless, helpless failure. She
has striven to re-establish Romanism in the land, but has only succeeded
in ringing its death-knell. Protestantism is again in the ascendant.
While Mary’s obsequies are preparing, a great burst of joy sweeps over
the country, for Elizabeth, her Protestant sister, is now queen.




[Illustration]




                              Chapter XI.
                             A TRAGIC STORY.


                          MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

                “_And from the top of all my trust_
                _Mishap hath thrown me in the dust._”

A DARK and murderous scene now awaits your eyes. It is about seven
o’clock on a Saturday evening in March 1566. A beautiful queen is
supping with her friends in the inner boudoir of the ancient Palace of
Holyrood. Some eightscore armed men stealthily enter the courtyard and
close the gates behind them. Within the supper-chamber only one person
is cognizant of the foul deed which is even now preparing—and he is the
queen’s husband! The queen herself is blithe and gay, according to her
wont. She strives to rally her husband, who sits by her side; but he is
full of drink and jealousy. But a swarthy Italian present responds to
every sally with nimble wit and easy grace. Mary smiles upon him, for he
alone in that gloomy palace reminds her of the light-hearted merriment
and the brilliant frivolity of her dearly-loved France. And as she
smiles the queen’s husband scowls darkly, and ever and anon glances
furtively towards a door behind the arras.

Suddenly the arras is pushed aside, and a man in armour, his face
corpse-like in its pallor, steps into the room, and behind him you see
three others. The queen, cool and fearless, rises and demands the
meaning of this intrusion. The Italian knows its meaning full well; he
has long been bitterly hated by the nobles, and now he fears that his
hour has come. He cowers for protection behind the queen, who confronts
the armed men without a tremor. “What do ye here, my Lord Ruthven?” she
cries, and the intruder roughly replies that he comes to drag the
Italian from the queen’s chamber, where he has been overlong.

In a flash the queen perceives a plot, and turning to her wretched
husband demands if he knows anything of this enterprise. The ready lie
comes to his lips, and he says that he knows nothing of it. “Go,” cries
the queen to Ruthven, and points to the door. But he moves not, and bids
the accomplice who has disowned him, “Take the queen, your wife and
sovereign, to you.” But the royal dastard stands dazed, and wists not
what to do; while the Italian, with his drawn dagger in his trembling
hand, clings to the queen’s gown, crying, “Save me! save me!” Now one of
the guests strives to seize Ruthven, who draws his sword and cries
fiercely, “Lay no hands on me, for I will not be handled!”

Then the chamber is filled with armed men, the table and chairs are
overthrown, the lights are extinguished save one, and a wild rush is
made for the victim. Ruthven flings the queen into the arms of her
husband, and the shrieking Italian is dragged from the room with curses
and threats and blows. You hear his screams grow fainter and fainter, as
his foes plunge their daggers into him. Now all is silent, and the
queen’s favourite lies dead with fifty-six wounds in his body. Her
husband’s dagger is sticking in the breast of the corpse in testimony of
his consent to the deed!

The ghastly scene which you have just witnessed serves to introduce the
moving tragedy of Mary Queen of Scots. She was born in the hour of
calamity, and conflict, contention, sorrow, and disaster dogged her
footsteps from the cradle to the grave. Her heart-broken father, James
the Fifth, had turned his face to the wall when her birth was announced.
Ere she was christened he was dead, and Scotland was torn with the
strife of contending factions. Scotland’s weakness was England’s
opportunity, and Henry the Eighth lost no time in proposing his delicate
little son, afterwards Edward the Fifth, for the hand of the
five-year-old queen. The Scots refused the match, and an English army
marched north and sacked Leith and Edinburgh. The invasion was “too much
for a wooing and too little for a conquest.”

Four years later an English army again made an attempt to compel the
Scots to marry their queen to young Edward. At Pinkie there was a great
slaughter, but it was all in vain. The little queen was hurried to
France, where she grew up with her four Maries at the gay court of King
Henry the Second, and became far more French than Scottish. As she
advanced in years, her grace and beauty, her _esprit_ and her
accomplishments, were the talk of France, and at sixteen she wedded the
Dauphin, a sickly weakling, who only survived his marriage a little more
than a year. At the age of nineteen Mary was a widow, about to set sail
for her northern kingdom.

She was now the most charming princess of her time, fond of music,
dancing, laughter, and gaiety, yet eager for risk and adventure, and
always rejoicing in the clash of arms. Often she wished she were a man
“to know what life it was to lie all night in the fields, or to walk on
the causeway with a jack and knapsack, a Glasgow buckler, and a
broadsword.” In statecraft she was the equal of Queen Elizabeth, and in
person and charm she far exceeded her royal kinswoman. Her beauty,
grace, and easy cordiality won the hearts of all with whom she came in
contact.

She left France most reluctantly, and as long as the shores of that gay,
joyous land remained in sight she riveted her gaze on them. As they
gradually faded from her sight she sighed, and said again and again,
“Adieu, France! I shall never see thee more!” She arrived at Leith
unexpectedly on a dismal day of thick fog and incessant rain. Never was
a more unpropitious home-coming. She had returned to a stern, poor,
unruly kingdom, which had adopted Reformation doctrines with remarkable
zeal and austerity. The guiding spirit of the time was John Knox, the
most implacable and fearless Reformer who ever lived. Well indeed did he
deserve the eulogy spoken at his graveside, “Here lyeth a man who in his
life never feared the face of man.” The Covenant had been signed, the
authority of the Pope had been thrown off, and Protestantism had taken
deep root in the land. Mary was a strong Romanist, and she meant to
restore her kingdom to the old faith. In this she failed utterly, for
almost the whole of her people were bitterly opposed to Romanism in any
shape or form.

While in France, Mary and her husband had assumed the style and title of
King and Queen of England, and Elizabeth was naturally aggrieved. Now
Mary offered to give up her claim if Elizabeth would recognize her as
heir to the English throne. The Scottish queen said that she asked for
nothing more than her due. Should Elizabeth—the Virgin Queen—die
without children, Mary would be heir to her throne by right of birth,
though her claim had been barred by Henry the Eighth. Elizabeth,
however, flatly refused to make any such agreement.

For a time Mary was popular with her subjects, but soon the heather was
on fire. All sorts of suitors aspired to her hand, and the rival
factions were eager to marry her to a Catholic or a Protestant,
according to the character of their respective beliefs. At length,
however, she decided to marry Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, “a long lad
. . . beardless and lady-faced,” and only nineteen years of age. He was
a Roman Catholic like herself.

The inevitable rising took place, but it was ineffective, and for a
while the Protestant cause was undone and Mary triumphed. Meanwhile the
queen had discovered that her youthful husband was vain, spiteful,
foolish, untrustworthy, and drunken. He was eager for the “crown
matrimonial,” and yearned to rule in her name; but Mary consistently
refused his request, and Darnley believed that her Italian secretary,
David Riccio, was at the back of her refusal. Some of the nobles were
bitterly jealous of the foreigner, who was supposed to sway the queen’s
counsels, and with these malcontents Darnley came to an understanding.
The result you have witnessed in the savage scene with which this
chapter opened.

Riccio was dead, and Mary, maddened with rage at the night’s work,
determined to have her revenge. Within a year Darnley was murdered in
the lonely house of “Kirk of Field,” which stood on the site of the
present University of Edinburgh. No one knew exactly how Darnley had
perished, though thousands heard the roar of the explosion which blew up
the house in which he was lying. His murderer was unknown, though
anonymous placards on the walls of the Tolbooth accused the Earl of
Bothwell of the foul deed. This earl was a masterful, bold, and vicious
man, with whom Mary had fallen over head and ears in love. He was the
very antithesis of Darnley with his “heart of wax,” and Mary needed a
strong arm to lean upon. So flinging every prudential consideration to
the winds, she gave her whole heart to the dangerous and showy man who
was accused of murdering her husband. Bothwell was tried for the crime,
but the trial was a mere mockery, and the accused rode to the court of
justice on Darnley’s favourite steed. No witnesses were called, and the
jury, composed of Bothwell’s partisans, triumphantly acquitted him.

Bothwell had already been divorced, and now he was free to marry the
queen. The ceremony took place in the presence-chamber at Holyrood, and
when the news leaked out men’s hearts were hot with shame and
indignation. For a brief time Mary and her new husband seemed happy, but
Bothwell’s fierce and brutal nature soon revealed itself. There were
angry quarrels between the pair, and on one occasion Mary called for a
knife with which to kill herself.

Ere long a rebellion broke out, and the insurgents marched to battle
beneath a banner painted with the figure of a murdered king with an
infant prince kneeling beside the body, crying, “Judge and avenge my
cause, O God.” At Carberry Hill, on the longest day of the year 1567,
Bothwell offered to decide the contest by single combat, but this the
queen would not allow. Her forces melted away. Bothwell fled, and she
was a captive in the hands of an exasperated people. A month later she
was rowed across Loch Leven to the castle which still stands upon its
little island. Here she was imprisoned, and here she was forced to
abdicate the throne in favour of her infant son James. The Earl of
Moray, her half-brother, was named regent, and the Protestant party was
once more supreme.

Within a year Mary was free again. She found a knight-errant in the
person of “pretty George Douglas,” younger brother of the Laird of Loch
Leven. He fell deeply in love with the deposed queen, and ere long he
had planned her escape. The story goes that when all was ready Douglas
sent Mary a signal in the shape of a pearl fashioned like a pear. The
key of the castle was obtained by the ruse of Willie Douglas, a page
boy. It was the custom of the governor of the castle to have the key of
the great gate placed on the table beside him when at supper. The page,
who served at table, placed a plate before the governor, and at the same
time dropped a napkin on the key, and then lifted key and handkerchief
together. He slipped out to the queen, who was waiting for him. They
gained the gate unperceived, locked it behind them, and threw the key
into the water. The lad put Mary and her companion, a little maid of
ten, into a boat, cast off, and plied his oars manfully. The queen waved
a white veil to and fro, and at the signal George Douglas rose up from
the reeds by the side of the lake and hurried to the village, from which
he soon afterwards returned with a troop of armed men and some led
horses. By the time the boat touched the shore the horsemen were waiting
for the queen, and in a few minutes she was galloping southwards towards
the ferry across the Forth. On the way she was joined by another troop
of horse. That night she slept in Niddrie Castle, and next day reached
Hamilton in safety.

The news of her escape spread like wildfire through the land, and
speedily many of the barons and nobility flocked to her with offers of
support and service. Before long she had five or six thousand men about
her, while the regent, who was at Glasgow, mustered some four thousand.
With this force, inferior as it was, he decided on an immediate battle.
As the queen advanced from Hamilton towards Dumbarton, where she
proposed to take ship for France, she had to pass through a narrow lane
leading up to the hill on which the village of Langside stands. Moray
posted his main battle on Langside Hill, and stationed his hagbutters or
matchlock men along the hedges on both sides of the lane and amongst the
cottages of the village. The queen took her station on an eminence half
a mile distant and watched the battle which now began. She saw her
troops charge up the hill and endeavour to force the passage of the
lane. She saw them roll back under the heavy fire of the hagbutters, and
then make a second attempt to storm the village. This, too, was
unsuccessful, and soon she saw Moray’s pikemen and his Highlanders
sweeping down on her friends with the utmost fury. With a cry of anguish
she saw them break before the flashing claymores of the yelling
Macfarlanes, and betake themselves to headlong flight. All was over, and
the miserable queen put spurs to her horse and galloped away. She tried
to reach Dumbarton, but she was too late. So hot was the pursuit that
she was obliged to gallop for the wilds of the south-west. On and on she
rode, and never halted until she reached Sanquhar, where she drank a
bowl of milk at a cottage door. Then her wearied horse was urged on
again until she reached the remote and lonely Abbey of Dundrennan, on
the Solway, sixty miles from the field of battle.

On Sunday afternoon, May 16, 1568, she made the fatal mistake of her
life. She determined to throw herself upon the generosity of Elizabeth,
and no argument of her attendants could make her change her purpose.
That reckless decision practically signed her death-warrant. She crossed
the Solway and arrived at Workington. The next day she was brought by
Richard Lowther to Cockermouth, and thence to Carlisle Castle, where she
arrived in great distress and mean attire, and by the instructions of
Elizabeth’s council was detained as a prisoner.

Elizabeth was by no means pleased at the turn which events had taken.
Mary was a most embarrassing guest. Many of Elizabeth’s Catholic
subjects regarded the Queen of Scots as the rightful sovereign of
England, and now this dangerous rival was within her kingdom. Obviously,
Mary could not be permitted to go to and fro unrestrained, gathering her
adherents about her, the centre of a movement which might hurl Elizabeth
from the throne. Equally obviously, Elizabeth could not send the refugee
back to Scotland, where the scaffold or a life-long imprisonment awaited
her. It would similarly be the height of folly to permit her to return
to France and there raise an army to subdue the Protestants of the
kingdom which had rejected her. Elizabeth was in a dilemma, and for the
moment she saw no way out of it. Meanwhile, she wrote to Mary that she
would be careful of “her life and honour,” and regretted that she could
not receive her as a royal guest until she had been acquitted of the
hideous crime charged against her. She would be the gladdest in the
world to see her Grace well purged of this crime, that thereby she might
aid her fully and amply to regain her throne.

At length, after much discussion and negotiation, a trial was agreed
upon, and three sets of commissioners—one set for Elizabeth, one for
Mary, and one for the confederate Scottish lords—were appointed to
inquire into the complaints which the Scottish queen brought against
those who had risen in arms against her, seized her, and imprisoned her,
forced her to abdicate, and crowned her infant son. The conference began
at York and ended at London. The Regent Moray appeared before the
commissioners, and, as a last resort, produced a silver casket
containing letters which were alleged to be written by Mary to Bothwell.
These letters, if their genuineness could be proved, clearly showed her
to be the accomplice of Bothwell in the murder of her husband. Mary
constantly declared that the casket letters were forgeries, and to this
day no man can positively say that she did not speak the truth. Mary
demanded that the letters should be shown to her, but most unfairly her
demand was refused. Then she indignantly broke off the conference, and
the commissioners reported that nothing dishonourable had been proved
against Moray and his friends, and nothing against Mary that could lead
Elizabeth to take any evil opinion of her good sister. Nevertheless,
Mary remained a prisoner in England, while Moray returned to Scotland
and resumed his regency.

And now began Mary’s long captivity of nineteen years. She was moved
about from castle to castle, and at first was permitted as much liberty
as was consistent with the safe custody of her person. We read that she
had a stud of sixteen horses, and frequently went hunting. She amused
herself with needlework, in which she was very skilful, and kept dogs,
turtle doves, and Barbary fowls. She practised her religion with great
devotion, and she did not fail to charm all who came in contact with her
by her gracious condescension.

But all the while she was ceaselessly plotting and intriguing, not only
with Elizabeth’s disaffected subjects, but with her French friends, the
King of Spain, and the Pope. Elizabeth’s life was in hourly danger, and
her councillors constantly warned her that Mary was a terrible menace to
her safety. In 1569 news arrived that the Pope was about to depose
Elizabeth, and declare Mary Queen of England. Almost immediately there
was a great rising of the Catholics of the north. The Earls of
Northumberland and Westmorland marched into Durham, and mass was once
more said in the cathedral. The insurgents, however, received but little
support, and some of the leaders perished on the scaffold. Next year the
long expected Bull of Deposition arrived. While most of the Catholics
remained loyal, some of the more violent schemed to depose and even
murder Elizabeth.

One of the plots, known as the “Ridolfi Plot” from the name of an
Italian banker who played an important part in it, was headed by the
Duke of Norfolk, an ambitious noble of thirty-two, who undertook to
seize Elizabeth and marry Mary, who had now obtained a divorce from
Bothwell. Norfolk was the leader of the English Catholics, and had the
support of many noblemen in the northern counties. Some of his papers,
however, fell into the hands of Burleigh, and the whole plot was
exposed. Norfolk, who said truly that nothing done for Mary ever
prospered, paid the penalty with his head on Tower Hill. Both Houses of
Parliament now petitioned that the Queen of Scots should share his fate,
but Elizabeth replied that “she could not put to death the bird that had
fled to her for succour from the hawk.” Henceforth Mary was more
strictly confined.

At length in 1583 another great plot was unmasked. France and Spain were
to unite in an invasion of England, the English Catholics were to rise,
Elizabeth was to be murdered, and Mary was to ascend the throne. Six
desperate fanatics undertook to dispatch the English queen by steel or
poison as a service pleasing to Heaven. Mary was in the plot up to the
eyes. She had corresponded with Anthony Babington, a vain fool who was
the chief agent in the plot, and had accepted his offer to assassinate
Elizabeth. In extenuation it must be said that she was now desperate.
She felt no compunction in lending her support to the murderous project,
for she had the wrongs of a lifetime to revenge, and she knew that she
would ultimately come to the scaffold if Elizabeth were permitted to
live. Walsingham knew every move of the plot, and encouraged it to
develop until he had sufficient evidence to bring Mary to trial on the
capital charge.

She was arrested at a neighbouring seat, whither she had been allowed to
go on the pretext of a stag-hunt, and was there detained until her
papers had been secured. Then she was removed to Fotheringhay Castle and
brought to trial. Mary faced the court with great tact and dignity, and
defended herself with the utmost skill. She totally denied all knowledge
of the Babington plot; but her case was hopeless, both because the court
had what it considered sufficient evidence of her complicity, and
because it was considered necessary for political purposes that she
should be found guilty.

On October 25, 1586, the commissioners reported that she had contrived
“divers matters tending to the hurt, death, and destruction of the Queen
of England.” Therefore both Houses of Parliament again petitioned for
Mary’s speedy execution. Elizabeth replied that she was unwilling to
shed the blood of that wicked woman, the Queen of Scots, though she had
so often sought her life. She wished that she and Mary were two
milkmaids with pails upon their arms, and then she would forgive her all
her wrongs. As for her own life, she had no desire on her own account to
preserve it. She had nothing left worth living for; but for her people
she could endure much. She was most reluctant to sign the death-warrant,
and endeavoured to evade the painful task by all sorts of shifts and
devices, even going so far as to make the cowardly suggestion that
Mary’s guardians should act upon their own responsibility. At length she
put her name to the document, and her councillors hurried on the
execution lest their mistress should change her mind.

The Earl of Shrewsbury, who had been Mary’s guardian for nineteen years,
broke the news to her. She heard her fate with the utmost calmness,
saying that she was content and even happy that she was so soon to be
freed from so many miseries and afflictions, and rejoicing that God had
given her grace to die for the honour of His name and for His Church.
Finally she asked when she was to suffer. “To-morrow morning at eight
o’clock,” was the reply.

Let us not linger over the painful scene of her execution. She laid her
head upon the block with calm fortitude, the axe descended, and the long
tragedy of her life was over. She sinned grievously, but she suffered
greatly, and she will never lack champions who will stoutly maintain
even to the crack of doom that she was more sinned against than sinning.




[Illustration: =The Murder of Rizzio.=
 (_From the picture by John Opie, R.A., in the Art Gallery of the
   Corporation of London._)]

[Illustration: =AT SEA. “FAREWELL, FRANCE!”=
 (_From the picture by Robert Herdman, R.S.A._)]

[Illustration: =ESCAPE OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS FROM LOCH LEVEN CASTLE.=
 (_From the picture by Thomas Danby, R.A., in Bethnal Green Museum._)]




[Illustration: The Spanish Armada]




                              Chapter XII.
                          IN THE SPACIOUS DAYS.


                          THE SPANISH ARMADA.

   “_Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England’s praise;_
   _I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,_
   _When the great fleet invincible against her bore in vain_
   _The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain._”

IT is the afternoon of July 19, in the year of grace 1588. You are
gazing at the terraced bowling-green of the Pelican Inn that looks down
upon the blue waters of Plymouth Sound. A group of admirals and captains
is gathered on the closely-shaven lawn, men of mark every one of them,
and sea-dogs all. They are waiting, “as lions in their lair wait for the
passing of a herd of deer.”

“See those five talking earnestly in the centre of a ring which longs to
overhear and yet is too respectful to approach close. Those soft, long
eyes and pointed chin you recognize already; they are Walter Raleigh’s.
The fair young man in the flame-coloured doublet, whose arm is round
Raleigh’s neck, is Lord Sheffield. Opposite them stands, by the side of
Sir Richard Grenville, a man as stately as he, Lord Sheffield’s uncle,
the Lord Charles Howard of Effingham, Lord High Admiral of England; next
to them is his son-in-law, Sir Robert Southwell, captain of the
_Elizabeth Jonas_. But who is that short, sturdy, plainly-dressed man
who stands with legs a little apart and hands behind his back, looking
up with keen gray eyes into the face of each speaker? His cap is in his
hands, so you can see the bullet head of crisp brown hair and the
wrinkled forehead, as well as the high cheek-bones, the short square
face, the broad temples, the thick lips, which are yet as firm as
granite—a coarse, plebeian stamp of man. Yet the whole figure and
attitude are that of boundless determination, self-possession, energy;
and when at last he speaks a few blunt words, all eyes are turned
respectfully upon him—for his name is Francis Drake.

“A burly, grizzled elder, in greasy, sea-stained garments contrasting
oddly with the huge gold chain about his neck, waddles up, as if he had
been born, and had lived ever since, in a gale of wind at sea. The upper
half of his sharp, dogged visage seems of brick-red leather, the lower
of badger’s fur; and as he claps Drake on the back, and, with a broad
Devon twang, shouts, ‘Be you a-coming to drink your wine, Francis Drake,
or be you not?—saving your presence, my lord!’ the Lord High Admiral
only laughs, and bids Drake go and drink his wine with John Hawkins,
admiral of the port.”

As they lift their long-necked Dutch glasses a rough-bearded old sea-dog
bursts in upon them and cries to the Lord Admiral,—

“My lord! My lord! They are coming! I saw them off the Lizard last
night.”

“Who, my good sir?”

“The Armada, your worship—the Spaniard! You’ll find them here before
nightfall, my lord.”

“Then we must haste,” observes the Lord High Admiral; and turning to
Drake, he says, “I must command the help of your counsel, vice-admiral.”

“And it’s this, my good lord,” replies Drake, who has taken up a bowl
and is now aiming it at the jack: “they’ll come soon enough for us to
show them sport, and yet slow enough for us to be ready; so let no man
hurry himself. And as example is better than precept, here goes.” So
saying he aims his bowl. Hawkins follows suit, and the game is played to
a finish.

“There, vice-admiral,” cries the veteran, “you’re beaten, and that’s the
rubber. Pay up three dollars, old high-flyer, and go and earn more, like
an honest adventurer.”

“Well,” says Drake, pulling out his purse, “we’ll walk down now and see
about these young hotheads. As I live, they are setting to tow the ships
out already!—breaking the men’s backs overnight to make them fight the
lustier in the morning! Well, well, they haven’t sailed round the world,
John Hawkins.”

And John Hawkins, with a hearty “bye-bye” to the bystanders, waddles off
with the remark, “We’re going to blow the Dons up now in earnest.”

     “Night sank upon the dusky beach and o’er the purple sea;
     Such night in England ne’er has been, nor e’er again shall be!
     From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,
     That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day.”

Meanwhile the lordly fleet of Spain, swelling in white clouds of sail to
the heavens, speeds on towards the shores of our threatened land.

Why, you ask, is the Spaniard bent on invading England?

Who does not know something of the exploits of the sea-dogs—how they
harried King Philip’s territories in America, and how no treasure ship
put out from the ports save in fear and trembling? Philip, the most
powerful monarch of Europe, and the champion of the Pope, had been hard
hit by Drake and his fellows. He saw clearly that unless England were
crushed he could not retain his empire in the New World. Further, his
Flemish subjects were in desperate revolt against him, and English
troops had now joined them. How he hated England! She should bite the
dust, and he would stake the whole strength of his kingdom, the wealth
of the two Indies, the flower of Spanish chivalry on the enterprise. It
was a Crusade—nothing less. The Pope had excommunicated the heretic
Elizabeth, and the martyred Queen of Scots had bequeathed England to him
on the scaffold. Holy Church would fight for him, and victory was
already assured. So every dockyard in Spain rang with the hammers of
shipwrights, and all Latin Christendom sent him volunteers. The sea was
covered with vessels freighted with arms and provisions streaming to the
mouth of the Tagus. Cadiz harbour was thronged with transports,
provision ships, powder vessels—a hundred sail of them—many of a
thousand tons and over, loading with stores for the Armada.

Drake begged Elizabeth to let him fit out a fleet and sail along the
coast of Spain to see what was going on. Very reluctantly she consented,
but ere his vessels were hull down a courier galloped into Plymouth with
orders that under no condition was he to enter a Spanish port or haven.
The courier arrived too late—Drake, knowing the mind of his mistress,
had sailed, and recall was impossible. In five days he was at Cape St.
Vincent, and a day later he saw before him the forest of masts in the
harbour of Cadiz. In dashed Drake, with a fair wind and flood tide, past
the batteries, which hurled a storm of shot and shell at him. He did not
pause to reply, but pushed on, seized and sank the guardship, took
possession of the Spanish shipping, and looted everything of the
slightest service to him. Then he set the hulls on fire, cut the cables,
and left them blazing beneath the walls of the town. He had, in his own
pleasant phrase, “singed the King of Spain’s beard.” He had delayed the
Armada for a whole year, and had spoiled his Catholic Majesty to the
tune of a million ducats, without losing a boat or a man!

Home came Drake, begging the queen to let him play the same game on the
Tagus, where fifty great galleons, the main strength of the fighting
naval force of Spain, were assembled. But the queen would not consent;
she would provoke the King of Spain no further. Negotiations for peace
had begun, and must not be interrupted.

In the spring of the next year the Armada was ready, and the whole
Spanish nation, smarting under the indignity of Drake’s exploit, was
burning to revenge itself on England. It consisted of one hundred and
thirty vessels, half of them being galleons of the largest size. The
ships were manned by eight thousand sailors, and overcrowded with twenty
thousand soldiers, besides slaves, servants, and priests. Every noble
family in Spain sent a son to fight for the holy cause. The ships,
however, were ill-found and ill-provisioned, and were commanded by a
modest gentleman who confessed that he was no seaman, that he hardly
knew a mast from an anchor, and that when he ventured out in a boat he
was always seasick. To meet this vast fleet England had but thirty-four
ships in the royal navy, but almost every seaport and many rich
merchants and noblemen fitted out craft to fight the Spaniard. Their
crews numbered eighteen thousand men, all good seamen, and their
commanders were sea-dogs all.

The Spanish Lord High Admiral—the Duke of Medina Sidonia—received his
orders directly from Philip. He was to fight no battle, but was to haste
with all speed to the North Foreland and there communicate with the Duke
of Parma, who was in the Netherlands with thirty thousand men waiting to
cross. The army would be landed, and England would be at his feet! So
much for instructions. On May 14, 1588, the Armada dropped down the
Tagus, and as the galleons came out the blustering north wind met them,
and day by day they drifted to leeward until they were off Cape St.
Vincent. The wind changed at last, and the ships steered northward
again, their crews in a terrible state owing to the stinking water and
the putrid pork, fish, and bread which fraudulent contractors had
foisted on them. The ships were obliged to put into Corunna, with crews
too weak to man the yards, and ready to desert in shoals.

At last the Armada got under way again, and the old seaman who burst in
upon the admirals and captains on the Pelican bowling-green told a true
tale: the Armada was coming without a doubt. Badly, indeed, was the
English fleet prepared to meet them. Elizabeth’s niggardly soul would
not permit her to provide sufficient stores and provisions for the
fleet. The English sailors were ill-clothed and ill-provided in every
way, but they did not complain. They tightened their belts and prayed
for the speedy coming of the enemy. Their prayer was soon to be
answered.

The Armada was now in the Channel, sailing crescent-wise. As it passed
by, out went the Plymouth fleet, hanging on to its rear like grim death.
The English guns were far more powerful than those of the Spaniards, and
they poured in broadsides at a safe distance with deadly effect.
Further, they could fire five shots to the Dons’ one. Every broadside
told, and the effect of the shot and splinters on the overcrowded
Spanish ships was terrible.

So the Armada pursued its way, and Howard “plucked out its feathers one
by one.” For a week the running fight was kept up. During the first few
days the English were badly hampered by want of powder and provisions,
but now that danger was imminent there was no lack of ammunition and
stores. Off Calais the fleets faced each other, and a long day’s battle
was fought. On the night of Sunday, July 28, a memorable council of war
was held in the _Ark’s_ main cabin, attended by Howard, Drake, Seymour,
Hawkins, Martin Frobisher, and others. The conference was short, for
there was no time to lose. Eight useless vessels were immediately coated
with pitch—hulls, spars, and rigging. Pitch was poured on the decks and
over the sides, and men were told off to steer them. The night was dark
as the grave; a faint westerly wind was curling the waters; and towards
midnight the look-outs on the Spanish galleons saw several phantom-like
vessels bearing down on them.

Suddenly the ships broke into a blaze from water-line to truck, and
lighted up the scene like noonday. The Spaniards lost their heads, and
in their panic they slipped their cables and put to sea, uncertain which
way to steer. Drake and Hawkins now bore down upon them, pouring in
cataracts of round shot. The decks of the Spanish ships were like
slaughter-houses. The Spanish shot flew high over the low hulls of the
enemy, while every English broadside found its billet. Not until his
magazines were empty and his last cartridge was fired did Drake draw
off.

Then a gale sprang up and the Dons were forced to steer up the North
Sea. The English closely followed them, and “the Lord sent His wind and
scattered them.” Of the proud fleet which left Spain for the conquest of
the heretic isle only fifty-three shattered vessels returned to Spain.
Thousands of Spanish corpses strewed the shores of the Orkneys, the
Western Isles, and the Atlantic coast of Ireland. Scarcely a noble
family in Spain but mourned a relative slain or drowned.

Thus England and English liberty were saved. All honour to you, noble
sea-dogs! May Britain never lack sons of your breed! To you we owe
freedom, literature, commerce, and empire, and above all the mastery of
that

                  “KINGDOM none can take,
                  The realm of the circling sea.”




[Illustration: =The Armada in Sight.=
 (_From the Picture by Seymour Lucas, R.A. By permission of Mr. Arthur
   Lucas._)]

[Illustration: =QUEEN ELIZABETH AT TILBURY FORT.=
 (_From the picture by Daniel Maclise, R.A. By permission of the Council
   of the Art Union of London._)]




[Illustration]


                          SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

                “_For ’tis the sunrise now of zeal,_
                _And faith and hope are in their prime_
                _In great Eliza’s golden time._”

Once more Queen Elizabeth figures in our pageant. She is passing to her
barge amidst a crowd of courtiers, who buzz round her like bees seeking
the honey of her smile. Amongst the spectators of her progress you
observe a young man, comely of person, handsome of face, and gallant of
bearing. Suddenly her Majesty pauses; the ground is miry, and she
hesitates to soil her dainty shoes. In a moment the young man has pulled
off his rich plush cloak and has thrown it upon the ground for the queen
to walk upon. She is flattered by the attention; she smiles graciously
on the young man and says, “You have this day spoiled a gay mantle in
our behalf. We thank you for your service, though the manner of offering
it was unusual and something bold.”

“In a sovereign’s need,” he replies, “it is each liegeman’s duty to be
bold.”

“That is well said,” the queen remarks, and at a bound the young man
springs into her royal favour. It was afterwards said that the spoiling
of his cloak gained him a good many _suits_.

The young man whose introduction to the queen you have just witnessed is
Walter Raleigh, a Devonshire gentleman who has already seen much warlike
service, and has shown himself to be possessed of many qualities besides
personal bravery and prowess in battle. In sooth he is one of the most
heroic and brilliant men of that brilliant and heroic age—explorer,
soldier, sailor, poet, prose writer, and true-hearted gentleman—“a
spirit without spot,” as Shelley finely calls him. Let us learn
something of his career.

Raleigh was not yet thirty when he first attracted the attention of
Elizabeth. He was then a tall, well-built man with thick, dark hair, a
bright complexion, and an expression full of life. His dress was always
magnificent, and he had the faculty of displaying himself and his
capacities to the best possible advantage. His speech was bold and
plausible; he was fearless and dashing, a man of a stout heart, a sound
head, and a strong right hand. Now that Elizabeth had admitted him to
her favour, she speedily raised him from the position of a poor
gentleman adventurer to one of the most wealthy of her courtiers. He was
knighted in 1584, and subsequently sat in Parliament for Devonshire.

Soon, however, he wearied of a life of luxury and busy idleness at the
court, and arranged with his half-brother, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, to join
him in his projected voyage to Newfoundland. But Elizabeth positively
forbade him to go, and reluctantly he bowed to the royal command.
Gilbert never returned from Newfoundland. On the homeward voyage he
stuck to his little, unseaworthy vessel, the _Squirrel_, and declined to
take his passage on board the _Golden Hind_, the larger vessel which
convoyed him. To all arguments he had but one reply, “I will not forsake
my little company, with whom I have passed through so many storms and
perils.” When the ships were to the north of the Azores terrible seas
arose, and the _Squirrel_ was well-nigh swamped. Through all the foul
weather Sir Humphrey, gallant gentleman that he was, sat on deck, calm
and unmoved, reading a book. When they besought him to board the _Golden
Hind_ he said, “We are as near to heaven by sea as by land.” During the
night of Monday, September 9, 1583, the watchers on the _Golden Hind_
suddenly missed the lights of the _Squirrel_. She had gone down with all
her crew.

Raleigh applied for the patent which Sir Humphrey, his half-brother, had
held, and was accorded the royal permission to discover unknown lands,
take possession of them in the queen’s name, and hold them to his own
profit for six years. At once he fitted out an expedition, which coasted
northward from Florida and took possession of Roanoke Island, within the
lagoons of what is now North Carolina. His captains returned with a
glowing account of the “good land” which they had discovered, and
Raleigh took immediate steps to colonize it. He called it Virginia, in
honour of the Virgin Queen.

Accordingly, in the year 1585, he sent out Sir Richard Grenville with
one hundred and eight men, and on Roanoke Island a little colony was
established. Ralph Lane was left in charge of the party, and Grenville
sailed for home, hoping for the best but fearing the worst. Unhappily
the wrong sort of men had been sent out—soft-handed gentlemen who could
not dig, and were ashamed to beg. Before long there were bitter quarrels
in the little hive between the drones and the workers, food ran short,
and the colonists were on the verge of starvation.

In the next year Drake touched at Roanoke after his attack on Cartagena,
and seeing what a helpless, shiftless crew the colonists were, he
carried them all back to England save fifteen. The colony had thus
proved a costly failure, but the experiment was notable, because it was
the first attempt to found a greater Britain beyond the seas. He who
writes the history of British expansion must never forget to give
Raleigh a foremost place in the roll of Empire-makers.

One of the immediate results of the voyage was the introduction into
this country of the potato and the tobacco plant. Raleigh grew potatoes
in his garden at Youghal, and thus gave Ireland the staple food of her
peasantry. According to an old story, he was the first man to smoke
tobacco in England. It is said that his servant, seeing volumes of smoke
issuing from his mouth, concluded that he was on fire, and promptly
poured a bucket of water over him, thus effectually putting out his
pipe.

A second attempt to found a colony on Roanoke Island failed, and Raleigh
was terribly disappointed. He could do no more; so in 1589, the year
after he helped to repel the Armada, he disposed of his rights to a
company of merchants, who made no attempt to found a new colony on the
ruins of the old. Thus the sixteenth century came to an end, and England
had no colony of any kind in America.

In the year 1592 Raleigh fell into disgrace with his royal mistress. She
discovered that the man she had delighted to honour and enrich had
actually dared to love one of her maids of honour. An excuse was
speedily found by the jealous queen for sending Raleigh and his
lady-love, Elizabeth Throgmorton, to the Tower. At length, however, the
queen relented and restored Raleigh to liberty, but forbade him the
court. The lovers were married and settled at Sherborne, where Raleigh
busied himself in erecting a magnificent mansion and laying out its
grounds with great taste.

About this time he made acquaintance with the Spanish legend of the
fabulous wealth of El Dorado, the city of Manoa, in South America. The
story fascinated his romantic nature, and he could not rest until he had
attempted its discovery. Yielding to his wife’s entreaties, he refrained
from going in search of it himself, and sent his tried and trusty
servant, Jacob Whiddon, in his stead. Whiddon returned without having
discovered anything, and Raleigh now essayed the adventure himself. With
a fleet of five ships he sailed in February 1595, and in the next month
arrived at the island of Trinidad. He seized the capital and captured
the governor, who confirmed the stories of the richness and wonder of
Manoa, and told him of its remarkable inhabitants, the dog-headed men
“whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.”

Early in April Raleigh started on the quest with a little flotilla of
five boats, a hundred men, and provisions for a month. He entered the
Orinoco, but found the labour of rowing against the vast and powerful
stream most exhausting. Sometimes his boats did not progress a
stone’s-throw in an hour. After struggling onwards for nearly four
hundred miles he was obliged to own himself beaten. He brought back with
him some pieces of quartz showing grains of gold and the earliest
specimens of mahogany ever seen in this country. Subsequently he
attacked several Spanish settlements and then returned to England, where
his enemies declared that the story of his river voyage was an
invention. As a matter of fact, Guiana is rich in gold, and more than
one famous mine has been worked in the country which Raleigh endeavoured
to explore.

Raleigh lived peacefully at home for nearly two years, and then played a
brilliant part in Drake’s daring attack on Cadiz. He commanded the
_Warspite_, the leading ship, and though severely wounded, landed with
his men for the storming of the town. His gallantry won him the queen’s
forgiveness, and once more he was a familiar figure about the court.
Under Essex he commanded a ship in the fleet which sailed for Flores, in
the Azores, to lie in wait for Spanish treasure galleons. His
disobedience of orders in his capture of Fayal earned for him the enmity
of Essex, who now became one of his bitterest enemies. Essex, however,
came to the block, but not before he had done Raleigh considerable
mischief.

Queen Elizabeth died in 1603, and James the Sixth of Scotland became
James the First of England. There were plots to prevent his accession
and to put Lady Arabella Stewart, an Englishwoman of the royal house, on
the throne. The cowardly Lord Cobham was at the head of the Main Plot,
and when arrested he made a lying confession implicating Raleigh, who
was tried and found guilty of compassing the death of the king, of
endeavouring to set Arabella Stewart on the throne, of receiving bribes
from the court of Spain, and of seeking to deliver the country into the
hands of its enemy. Raleigh’s execution was ordered, and he wrote a
touching farewell to his wife; but on the eve of the fatal day he was
reprieved and committed to the Tower with the death sentence hanging
over his head. For about twelve years he remained a prisoner. He was
treated leniently, and given apartments in the Bloody Tower, where he
lived with his wife and son and his attendants. Frequently the young
Prince Henry visited him, and the lad grew fond of his gallant and
brilliant friend. “No man but my father,” he once said, “would keep such
a bird in a cage.”

Raleigh now busied himself in a variety of occupations: he designed a
model of a ship, he condensed fresh water from salt, he compounded
drugs, he began his “History of the World,” and wrote verses and
political pamphlets. About the year 1610 he revived his old project for
discovering Manoa. Twenty years had now passed since he had returned
from Guiana, but during his long solitude in the Tower his mind returned
again and again to the fabulous riches of El Dorado, and he devised plan
after plan for securing its wealth. He now made a proposition to certain
lords of the Council, and they listened to it. “If I bring them not to a
mountain covered with gold and silver ore,” he wrote, “let the commander
have commission to cut off my head there.” All he stipulated for was
that if half a ton of precious ore should be brought home he should have
a free pardon. At length the king was persuaded to agree to the
proposal, and in March 1617 the order for his release was signed.

Raleigh and his wife adventured all they had in fitting out the
expedition. Ere it sailed the Spanish ambassador intervened. He
protested loudly that Guiana belonged to Spain, and that Raleigh’s
expedition proposed an invasion of Spanish territory, and was simply a
cloak for piracy on a gigantic scale. The ambassador believed that
Raleigh had his eye on the Mexican Plate fleet, and as after events
proved, he was right. James warned Raleigh that he was not to fight the
Spaniards, and on this understanding he was permitted to sail.

Misfortune dogged him from the outset. Foul winds and storms drove him
back, and afterwards scattered his fleet and sank one of his vessels. He
had difficulty in getting water at the Canaries, and a hurricane drove
him from the Cape Verde Islands. For forty days he lay in the doldrums,
while his men fell a prey to scurvy and fever and grew mutinous. At
length, when the remnant of his ten ships arrived off the mouth of the
Orinoco, Raleigh was prostrate with fever, and his men had lost all hope
of success. But his courageous spirit was equal to the occasion. “We can
make the adventure,” he cried; “and if we perish, it shall be no honour
to England or gain to his Majesty to lose one hundred as valiant men as
England hath in it.”

While he remained off the mouth of the river, his lieutenant, Thomas
Keymis, with five ships and four hundred men, undertook the great quest.
For three weeks they battled against the mighty current, but when they
approached the proposed landing-place they found a Spanish settlement
blocking their path. This they stormed and burnt, Raleigh’s son being
killed in the attack. Though the settlement was captured, the Spaniards
were still in the woods, and Keymis, having done all that man could do,
was forced to retreat. Raleigh met him with a bitter reproach——“You
have undone me by your obstinacy.” Keymis said not a word, but betook
himself to his cabin, where he ran a dagger through his heart.

Raleigh was now desperate. He proposed to go himself in search of the
mine, but his men would not follow him. Then he suggested the capture of
the Mexican Plate fleet; but they refused, saying that, even if they
succeeded, the king would hang them when they got home. There was no
help for it, so Raleigh was obliged to return to England. With angry
reproaches to his “rabble of idle rascals,” he set sail, knowing well
the fate which awaited him.

In June 1618 he was back at Plymouth, and was at once arrested. James
was courting the favour of his “dear brother of Spain,” and the Spanish
ambassador had obtained a promise from him that, “if Raleigh returned
loaded with gold acquired by an attack on the subjects of the King of
Spain, he would surrender it all, and would give up the authors of the
crime to be hanged in the public square of Madrid.” Now the Spaniard
claimed his victim, and James actually proposed to keep his word; but he
dared not do so, for England now regarded Raleigh as a champion of
English interests against Spanish tyranny. He was thereupon brought to
trial. In the course of it the Attorney-General said, “Sir Walter
Raleigh hath been as a star at which the world hath gazed; but stars may
fall—nay, they must fall when they trouble the sphere where they
abide.” There was a legal difficulty in the way: Raleigh was under
sentence of death, and therefore could not be legally tried. The easiest
way out of the difficulty was to order his execution on the old charge
of treason. This was done. As Raleigh returned to his prison he
remarked, “The world itself is but a larger prison, out of which some
are daily selected for execution.”

On October 19, 1618, he was brought to the scaffold, which had been
erected in Old Palace Yard. He met his fate cheerfully, and jested
pleasantly even on the way to the block. He addressed the crowd in a
well-known speech, thanking God heartily that He had brought him to die
in the light, and not left him to perish obscurely in the dark prison of
the Tower. He denied all accusations of treason, and defended himself
against other charges. When he had finished he said, “And now I have a
long journey to go, and must take my leave.” As he laid his head on the
block the executioner bade him turn his head to the east. “What matter,”
he answered, “how the head lies, so that the heart be right?” These
noble words had hardly fallen from his lips when the axe descended.

[Illustration: =THE BOYHOOD OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH.=
 (_From the picture by Sir J. E. Millais, Bart., P.R.A., in the National
   Gallery of British Art._)]




[Illustration]




                             Chapter XIII.
                          THE GREAT REBELLION.


                           CHARLES THE FIRST.

                  “_He nothing common did or mean_
                  _Upon that memorable scene,_
                  _But with his keener eye_
                  _The axe’s edge did try;_
                  _Nor called the gods with vulgar spite_
                  _To vindicate his helpless right,_
                  _But bowed his comely head_
                  _Down, as upon a bed._”

THE incident you are now to witness is without a parallel in the history
of our land. The scene opens in Westminster Hall, the vast building
erected for the judicial courts of the realm by William the Second.
There is a troop of horse in the courtyard, and armed men guard the
doors. Now a procession enters, and as the doors open to admit it you
hear loud shouts of “Justice! justice!” from the mob in the courtyard.
At the head of the procession are officers bearing the mace and the
sword of state; behind them, in black robes, you see John Bradshaw, and
with him a number of members of Parliament. He takes his seat on a chair
of crimson velvet, and his companions range themselves to the right and
left of him. The sword and the mace are placed on the table at which the
clerk sits, and the doors are flung open. At once a tumultuous crowd
rushes in, eager to witness the dread ceremony. They struggle for
places, and the hall rings with their shouts. At length order is
restored, and the clerk reads the Act of Parliament constituting the
court. Then the roll of judges is called over. Out of one hundred and
thirty-five on the list only sixty-nine answer to their names.

“Mr. Sergeant,” says the president, “bring in the prisoner.”

There is a deep hush, and you hear the tramp of armed men and the clank
of scabbards on the pavement. A guard of thirty-two officers leads the
prisoner to a chair of crimson velvet at the bar. Now you see him
clearly; he is none other than CHARLES STUART, KING OF ENGLAND.

Look at him well. He is tall, dark, and handsome, with a long, fine
face, large black eyes, thick eyebrows, a pointed beard, and black,
curly hair streaked with silver. His whole aspect is noble, dignified,
and refined. He is a chaste, temperate man, devout at prayers, a good
father, and a fond husband, a lover of music and painting. Nevertheless
he is faithless by nature, and addicted to dark and crooked ways. Seldom
or never is he straightforward in his dealings. He is firmly convinced
that between him and his subjects there can be no agreement which will
bind him, and he holds that whether he keeps a promise or breaks it is a
matter for him to decide, and for him alone. He has inherited his
father’s beliefs in the doctrines of the Divine right and the absolute
power of kings, and he has pushed these doctrines to such utmost
extremes that he has plunged the nation into civil war, and in the
contest has irretrievably ruined himself.

He is not a clever man, and he is incurably obstinate. He cannot
understand the great movements which have been going on around him. He
has never been able to perceive that the time has gone by when men will
allow the king to be a tyrant, and permit him to override both the law
and the will of the people. For eleven years he has ruled the land
without a Parliament, aided by subservient ministers, who have been very
geniuses of tyranny, and have goaded and maddened the people by all
sorts of illegal expedients. These ministers have gone to the block, and
he has been powerless to save them. One of them has died with the
ominous words on his lips, “Put not your trust in princes.”

Charles has endeavoured to make himself absolute alike in Church and
State. The Puritans, who are now very strong, have been the especial
object of his hatred. They have been tormented, fined, whipped,
pilloried, and imprisoned. His wife is a Roman Catholic princess, whose
intrigues have still further brought him into bad odour, and he has
showed such favour to those of her faith that the Puritans bitterly
denounce him. Many earnest men of less fanatical mind have long ago come
to the conclusion that unless he is removed all freedom will be banished
from the land.

Fifteen years ago John Hampden refused to pay an illegal tax, and though
he was heavily fined, his resistance thrilled all England and made him
“the argument of all tongues.” The patience of the Scots also broke
down, and they indignantly refused to permit the king to alter their
mode of worship. In the churchyard of Greyfriars, Edinburgh, they signed
their bond of resistance with blood and tears. Charles would gladly have
chastised them, but his soldiers were unwilling to fight and his
treasury was empty. In this plight he was forced to call a Parliament,
which was full of opponents, who were determined to grant no supplies
until the causes of all grievances were pulled up by the roots. But when
this Parliament had done much good work for liberty, the members split
on religious questions, and Charles, profiting by their dissensions, was
safe for a time.

Suddenly terrible news arrived from Ireland. The native Irish, who were
Roman Catholics to a man, had attacked the Protestant English colonists,
and had slaughtered five thousand of them with horrible cruelty. The
leader of the Irish had showed his followers a letter purporting to come
from the king and encouraging him to the massacre. The letter had the
royal seal attached to it, and looked genuine, but it was a forgery. The
English Puritans, however, were now ready to think the worst of Charles,
and they firmly believed that he had instigated the Irish to slaughter
their fellow-countrymen and his own subjects. When Parliament
reassembled, the Puritan leaders drew up a long list of all the illegal
acts which the king had done, and issued it as a manifesto to the
nation. Tact and conciliation might have worked wonders at this time,
but Charles was in no mood for pacific measures. His wife urged him to
go to Parliament and seize the five Puritan leaders. “Pull the rascals
out by the ears,” she cried, and in fatal hour Charles took her advice.
He went down to Westminster at the head of five hundred men, and entered
the House only to discover that “the birds had flown.” The five members
had escaped to the city, and the king was foiled and humiliated. He left
the House amidst low mutterings of fierce discontent and loud cries of
“Privilege! privilege!” The London militia rose in arms to protect the
five members, and war could no longer be avoided.

In April 1642 the king rode to Hull, where there was a large magazine of
arms and gunpowder, and demanded admittance. The gates were shut in his
face, and the governor declared that he would only take orders from
Parliament. This was the first act of war.

On the stormy evening of August 22 the king raised his standard at
Nottingham, and when it was blown down there were many who saw in the
occurrence an evil omen. Then began a series of miserable years, during
which father fought against son and brother against brother. The fortune
of war at first favoured the king; but the tide turned, and the forces
of the Parliament gradually gained the upper hand. It was inevitable
that they should win: London and the most populous and wealthy part of
the country were with them; the great military genius, Cromwell, rose
amongst them; and a deep, religious fervour inspired them.

For three years the land rang with the tumult of battle, but on one June
day in the year 1645 the crisis arrived. The Parliamentary horsemen
scattered the Cavaliers of the king like chaff before the wind, and they
were never dangerous again. The king fled from the field, and in his
captured baggage the victors found damning proof of his intrigues with
the French and the Irish, and proposals that foreign armies should come
over and subdue his revolting subjects.

The king’s cause was now desperate, and he rode to the camp of the
Scots, who had come to the assistance of the English Parliament, and
yielded himself to them. The Scots were glad to have him, and were ready
to restore him to his throne if he would promise to support
Presbyterianism in Scotland and make the Church of England a
Presbyterian Church. Charles indignantly refused to make the Church
which he loved so well the price of his freedom, and the Scots handed
him over to the Parliament. At this time the Parliament was divided in
opinion. The Presbyterians, who were the stronger party and had the
custody of the king, were eager for peace, so they offered to set
Charles on his throne again if he would agree to their demands, which
included the abolition of bishops in the English Church. Charles had
sworn that he would never sacrifice his crown or his Church even to save
his life, and he kept his word. But for months he would not give a
straightforward answer. He tried every sort of shift and trick to gain
time, and in doing so disgusted many of those who would gladly have been
his friends.

Now the army, which was largely composed of Independents, took matters
into its own hands. It seized the king, marched to London, expelled the
members of Parliament opposed to it, and so obtained a majority. But
even the stern men who had overthrown the king on the field of battle
were ready to offer him terms which he might easily have accepted. He
refused them, because he was still hopeful of regaining his throne
without making terms. It was an evil hour when he rejected the final
olive branch. When a Royalist rising took place in Scotland, and a
second and quite unnecessary civil war broke out in England, the army
felt that the end of his tether had come. They hopelessly crushed the
royal forces in less than three months, and the king’s doom was sealed.
The Independent remnant of Parliament passed a Bill for bringing him to
trial, and appointed a High Court of Justice for the purpose.

Now you know why Charles faces a court of his subjects in Westminster
Hall. Now you know why the members keep their hats on their heads, and
refuse to show him honour. To them he is a malefactor, a “man of blood.”
He is now sitting in his chair waiting for the proceedings to begin.
Bradshaw rises and says:—

“Charles Stuart, King of England, the Commons of England assembled in
Parliament, taking notice of the effusion of blood in the land, which is
fixed on you as the author of it, and whereof you are guilty, have
resolved to bring you to a trial and judgment, and for this cause the
tribunal is erected. The charges will now be read by the
Solicitor-General.”

As the Solicitor-General rises to speak, the king touches him with his
cane on the shoulder and cries “Silence!” The head of the king’s cane
falls off! It is a ghastly portent, and the king himself shows a
momentary sign of emotion. Then the Solicitor-General reads out a long
indictment, and concludes by demanding that justice be done upon the
king as a tyrant, traitor, and murderer. At these words Charles laughs
in the face of the court.

Usually he hesitates in his speech, but to-day he is very fluent. He
refuses to plead before such a court. He tells his judges that they are
an illegal meeting appointed by a mere remnant of the House of Commons.
Again and again he declares that they have no authority to sit in
judgment on him.

Then Bradshaw cries, “Take away the prisoner. The court adjourns to
Monday next.” The escort marches up, and the king rises to depart with
them. As he does so his eye falls on the sword placed on the table. “I
do not fear that,” he says, pointing to it with his cane. Then he is led
forth, and the populace greet him with mingled cries of “Justice!
justice!” and “God save the king!” “God save your Majesty!”

On Monday the court sits again, and the king makes the same protest. On
Tuesday the same scene is enacted, and meanwhile popular sympathy for
the royal prisoner is growing rapidly. The shouts of “Justice!” and
“Execution!” are now only raised by the soldiers. The crowd cries “God
save the king!” whenever it can do so with impunity. As the hours pass
by the same cry is heard amongst the troops. A soldier of the guard who
has dared to say to the king, “Sire, God bless you!” is struck by his
officer. “Methinks,” says Charles, “the punishment exceeds the offence.”

On Wednesday and Thursday the court meets to hear evidence, and then
retires to consider its verdict. On the 27th, at noon, it assembles
again, and all men notice that Bradshaw wears a red robe in place of the
customary black. As the roll of judges is called over there is no
response to the name of Fairfax. Suddenly the silence is broken by the
voice of his wife in the gallery, “He has too much wit to be here.” The
king enters, and loud shouts of “Justice!” “Execution!” are raised by
the soldiers, but the crowd is silent.

The president harangues the prisoner; but when he speaks of the crimes
charged against him in the name of the people of England, he is cut
short by the voice which has answered to the name of Fairfax, “Where are
they or their consents? Oliver Cromwell is a traitor!”

Excitement and confusion break out for a space, but the cry of “Justice!
execution!” is again raised. The king, almost beside himself,
passionately cries, “Hear me! hear me!” but he is not permitted to
speak. Then Bradshaw delivers a long and solemn address, the clerk reads
the sentence, and the judges stand in their places to signify their
assent. The king again tries to speak, but being considered dead in law
is not permitted to do so. He is led away, and as he leaves the hall the
soldiers on the stairs puff smoke in his face and hurl the grossest
insults at him. But outside the mob shouts, “God save your Majesty!”
“God deliver your Majesty from the hands of your enemies!” The soldiers
retort with cries of “Justice!” “Execution!” and the king, who has now
regained his serenity, observes, “Poor souls! for a piece of money they
would do so to their commanders.”

The condemned king is lodged in St. James’s Palace, where he is allowed
to take a last fond farewell of his weeping children. He takes the
little boy on his knee, and says, “My dear heart, they will soon cut off
thy father’s head. Mark, child, what I say: they will cut off my head,
and perhaps make thee king; but thou must not be king so long as thy
brothers Charles and James live. I charge thee, do not be made a king by
them.” To which the child replies amidst its tears, “I will be torn in
pieces first.” The children are removed, and the king spends the few
remaining hours in prayer with his good friend Bishop Juxon. On January
30, between two and three in the afternoon, he is led by armed men
through the leafless avenues of St. James’s Park to his palace of
Whitehall, before which a scaffold draped with black has been erected.
All marvel at the calm dignity which he displays.

The scaffold is hedged round with soldiers, and the headsman stands
beside the block. The king, with head erect, steps through an opening in
the wall of the banqueting hall on to the scaffold. He addresses himself
to the bystanders, and in the last words he utters he shows clearly that
he has not abandoned his fatal theory of kingship. Then he turns to the
good Juxon, who says, “There is but one stage more, sire; it is full of
trouble and anguish, but it is a very short one, and it will carry you a
great way—from earth to heaven!” “I go,” returns the king, “from a
corruptible to an incorruptible crown, where I shall have no trouble to
fear.” Then with a mysterious admonition—“_Remember!_”—he lays his
head on the block. The axe falls, and a deep groan of pity and horror
goes up from the people.

A blood-red line has been ruled across the page of our national
history—the Old Rule has gone; the New Rule has yet to appear.




[Illustration: =Charles I. leaving Westminster Hall after his Trial.=
 (_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the Mappin Art Gallery,
   Sheffield. By permission of the Corporation of Sheffield._)]

[Illustration: =CROMWELL AT MARSTON MOOR.=
 (_From the picture by Ernest Crofts, A.R.A._)]




[Illustration]


                            OLIVER CROMWELL.

         “_Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud_
         _Not of war only, but detractions rude,_
         _Guided by faith and matchless fortitude._”

Six years have come and gone since the execution of Charles the First,
and England has had no king in the interval. The great, strong man,
Oliver Cromwell, who by his military genius has overthrown the king and
made the army supreme, has crushed all opposition by the weight of his
iron hand. At the head of his buff-coated Ironsides—men with psalms on
their lips and ruth in their hearts—he has stamped the very life out of
Ireland, and by a happy accident, which he believes to be an
interposition of Providence, he has reduced Scotland to impotence. Now
he is master of three kingdoms, and only the remnant of an old
Parliament stands in his way. The “Rump,” as it is contemptuously
called, refuses to dissolve, so Cromwell strides into the House and,
after roundly rating the members, stamps on the floor. At the signal
armed men enter and proceed to drive out the occupants of the chamber.
The Speaker refuses to leave the chair, and tries to speak, but his
voice is drowned in the uproar. Then one of Cromwell’s friends offers to
lend him a hand to come down, and the Speaker, yielding to force, does
so. Pointing to the mace, the symbol of the authority of the House of
Commons, Cromwell cries, “What shall we do with this bauble? Here, take
it away!” and a soldier removes it. Then he locks the door and strides
away with the key in his pocket, while a wag chalks up on the building,
“This house to let.”

Six weeks later he summons another Parliament, and finds it composed of
fanatics and doctrinaires who are passionate admirers of his, but
propose to overturn every established custom. Under the leadership of
“Praise-God Barebone” it actually suggests that the law of England shall
be superseded in favour of the law of Moses! The members quarrel
fiercely, and at last give up to the Lord-General the powers which they
have received from him. The Council of State begs him to become Lord
Protector, with rights and duties which differ very little from those of
a king, and he accepts the proffered honour. Nine months elapse, and
another Parliament is called; but it is a hindrance to the Lord
Protector’s schemes, and is dissolved. Another takes its place, and
offers to make Cromwell king. He refuses, for the name of king is
loathsome to him, and he is already king in all but name. Then this
Parliament goes the way of the others, and Cromwell never calls another.

You see him now an even more absolute ruler than “martyred Charles:” he
is a despot, but with a difference. Whatever his detractors may say of
him, this cannot be disputed, that never was the sceptre of England
wielded by a more vigorous or sagacious hand. His protectorship,
compared with any preceding age, or with several ages succeeding it, was
an era of toleration, justice, and law. Weakened though she was by the
Civil Wars, England rose to respect and greatness abroad, and foreign
tyrants and persecutors trembled at her name. “We always reckon,” said a
Royalist bishop, “those eight years of the usurpation as a time of great
peace and prosperity.” Trade and commerce increased, and the land grew
wealthy and great; yet all the while Cromwell was bitterly hated, and
his life was always in peril. He wore mail beneath his clothes, and
slept in a different room almost every night. Despite his ever-present
danger, he went his way fearlessly, though expecting a pistol-shot from
every dark corner.

Now let us witness a scene which shows Cromwell at his best. You see
before you the interior of a room in the palace of Whitehall. Seated
carelessly on a table is the Lord Protector. He is a man of massive
build, with a “figure of sufficient impressiveness: not lovely to the
man-milliner species, nor pretending to be so.” A massive “head so
shaped as you might see in it a storehouse and shop of a vast treasury
of natural parts. . . . On the whole, a right noble lion-face and
hero-face; and to me royal enough.” He is careless in his dress, utterly
indifferent to externals, and wholly without affectation. He is the man
who warned Lely, when painting his picture, to put in all the
roughnesses, pimples, and warts of his countenance, or he would not pay
a farthing for the work. Hard, stern, implacable in warfare, he is
nevertheless simple, loving, and pure in his private life, sincerely and
ardently religious, and convinced to the bottom of his soul that he is a
chosen instrument “to do God’s people some good.” True, he owes his
power to the sword; but he wields that power so well, and stoops to so
little that is mean or base, that future generations will have good
cause to rejoice that the guidance of the state was for a brief space of
years entrusted to him.

At the other end of the table sits John Milton, that inspired poet of
whom Wordsworth wrote:——

            “His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart;
            So didst thou travel on life’s common way
              In cheerful godliness.”

Look at his noble face, which reflects in its every expression the
splendid mind with which he is gifted and the noble thoughts which flit
through it. No man ever served the Muses with such exquisite devotion.
He comes to his desk as a knight to his vigil, believing that no man can
worthily write of great things unless his life is worthily lived. He
loves virtue with all the passion of his nature——

                   “She can teach ye how to climb
                   Higher than the sphery chime.”

And now he is engaged on a task which enlists all his sympathy, and
sends a throb of righteous indignation through his veins.

He is Latin Secretary to the Council, and it is his task to Latinize all
communications to foreign states. Cromwell has heard that in the valleys
of Piedmont the Waldenses, a body of dogged Puritans, are being
persecuted by the Duke of Savoy, who is harrying them with savage
cruelty, and has already slain thousands of them. Cromwell is greatly
moved by the news, and his anger breaks forth in a torrent of
inconsequent words. The upshot, however, is clear to Milton: France
shall receive those attentions which have made the English fleet the
terror of the Mediterranean, unless an immediate end is put to the
persecution. Milton has already written the most sublime of all his
sonnets on this subject:——

        “Avenge, O Lord! Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
          Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
          Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old,
        When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
        Forget not; in Thy book record their groans
          Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
          Slain by the bloody Piedmontese that rolled
        Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
        The vales redoubled to the hills, and they
          To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
        O’er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
          The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
        A hundredfold, who, having learned Thy way,
          Early may fly the Babylonian woe.”

Cromwell has already sent £2,000 out of his own purse to the sufferers.
Now he dictates his stern message, and Milton translates it into
resounding Latin of such force and fervour that Cardinal Mazarin dare
not ignore its purport. The Duke of Savoy and the cardinal may gnash
their teeth with rage, but, with the whole power of France at their
command, they dare not again lift a finger against the Waldenses while
Cromwell lives. No incident in the whole history of the Commonwealth
reveals more clearly the salutary fear which the name of Cromwell
excites on the Continent.

But his days are numbered. In three short years he will go hence, and in
two years more a Stuart will sit on the throne, and at his coming
England will be “reduced to a nullity”—aye, and worse, to reproach and
shame. Worn out with constant anxiety, the death of a favourite daughter
brings him speedily to the valley of the shadow. “I would be willing to
live,” murmurs the dying man, “to be further serviceable to God and His
people; but my work is done.” He lies on his deathbed while a great
storm rages over England. In the morning calm succeeds tempest, and on
the anniversary of his great victories at Dunbar and Worcester he
breathes his last. They bury him in Westminster Abbey, amidst the kings;
but his bones are not long to rest in that hallowed fane. The Stuart
king, to his everlasting shame, will tear the unoffending body from its
coffin and gibbet it in unavailing contempt. But ages to come will do
him tardy justice, and men will come to honour his memory even while
they lift their hats and pray, “God save the king!”

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =Cromwell dictating Dispatches to Milton.=
 (_From the picture by Ford Madox Brown, in the Manchester Art Gallery. By
   permission of the Manchester Corporation._)]




[Illustration]


                             ROBERT BLAKE.

               “_Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell_
                 _Your manly hearts shall glow,_
               _As ye sweep through the deep,_
                 _While the stormy winds do blow,_
               _While the battle rages loud and long,_
                 _And the stormy winds do blow._”

An admiral sits writing at a table in the cabin of his dismasted
flagship, the _Triumph_. He is a short, squat, ungainly man, but within
that unprepossessing exterior there is one of the most heroic and purely
patriotic souls that ever existed. His heavy face is clouded by deep
depression. He is a beaten man, and he is even now inditing the frank
and ungarnished story of his defeat to the Lords of the Council. “Your
honours,” he writes, “I hope it will not be unreasonable for me to
desire your honours that you would think of giving me, your unworthy
servant, a discharge from this employment so far too great for me, that
so I may be freed from that burden of spirit which lies upon me, arising
from the sense of my own insufficiency.” He finishes his task, signs it
“Robert Blake, Admiral,” strews the sand upon the wet ink, folds the
missive, and dispatches it.

What is the meaning of this scene? You see a man of the sublimest
courage and the most ardent patriotism humiliated and vexed with himself
because he has failed to achieve the impossible. A little more than a
month ago he met the Dutch fleet, and fought a furious battle which
raged until nightfall, when the foe, too severely handled to continue
the struggle, drew off and sailed for home. “Nothing in this to be
ashamed of,” you will say; but you do not yet know the whole story.

After the victory—for such it was—the Commonwealth, feeling secure,
dispersed the fleet either on various detached services or to refit, and
left Blake with only thirty-seven ships to guard the Channel. The
Dutchmen, on the other hand, flung themselves heart and soul into the
work of preparing a fleet which should speedily cancel their reverse and
restore that great prestige which they then enjoyed as the first of
maritime nations. Yesterday this fleet of eighty ships of war, convoying
three hundred merchantmen, appeared off the Goodwins, standing to the
southward, and evidently about to force the strait in defiance of its
guardian. As the vast and well-equipped fleet of the Dutchmen hove in
sight Blake called a hasty council of war, and announced his
determination of attacking it with the wholly inadequate forces at his
command. It was a venture rash almost to the verge of madness, but Blake
could not sit still and see the proudly defiant foe go by without
attempting to chastise it. Twice before he had met the Dutchman and
belaboured him; he would do so again.

In the battle which followed, the wind blew Blake’s leading ships into
the midst of the enemy. A stout fight was stubbornly maintained against
tremendous odds; but the Dutchmen were overwhelmingly strong, and by
evening two English ships had been captured, one had been burnt, another
had blown up, and the remainder, under cover of the darkness, had
staggered into Dover for safety. And now the Channel is full of Dutch
ships, and their admiral, in the arrogance of victory, has hoisted a
broom at his masthead to signify that he has swept the narrow seas
clean! No wonder Blake is sick at heart; no wonder he writes himself
down failure, and begs to be relieved of his command. But to-morrow he
will be himself again. The Council will refuse to supersede him; they
will cheer him with tokens of their confidence; they will immediately
set about repairing their errors, and will speedily give him a fleet
adequate to the work which they expect him to do. They know full well
the splendid courage and the unswerving fidelity of their admiral, and
they repudiate the “insufficiency” which, with the modesty of the truly
brave, he ascribes to himself.

And now, before we relate the story of his subsequent exploits, let us
learn something of his earlier career. As a young Oxford scholar he
coveted a fellowship, but his appearance offended the artistic eye of
the warden of his college and he was passed over. When the Civil War
broke out he was forty-three years of age, and his sentiments were
strongly republican. Joining the Parliamentary army, he was entrusted
with the defence of a post at Bristol, which was then besieged by the
Royalists. The town was yielded by the governor after a feeble
resistance, but Blake resolutely held on to his post for twenty-four
hours after the capitulation was signed. He was compelled to yield, and
narrowly escaped hanging; but the eye of the Parliament was now upon
him, and before long he found himself entrusted with the defence of
Taunton town.

The place was wholly without defences. It had no forts, no walls, and
only a meagre garrison of eighty men. Nevertheless, it was a most
important strategic post, situated at a point on which all the main
roads converged, and Blake saw that it must be defended at all costs. He
worked like a Trojan, and inspired his men to similar efforts. Roads
were barricaded, breastworks were thrown up, guns were mounted, houses
loopholed, and the Royalists, unable to carry it by storm, were forced
to invest it and wait for famine to do its deadly work. The little
garrison grew terribly hungry, but Blake was as blithe as a lad on a
holiday escapade. When only one pig remained, he had it driven about the
town and whipped from time to time, so that its squeals might delude the
besiegers into the belief that he still possessed a whole herd of
porkers. When the Royalist captain sent in a ragged messenger to treat
for terms, Blake dismissed him with a new suit of clothes! Taunton never
yielded. After the battle of Naseby the siege was raised, and Blake
emerged from his heap of ruins a man of mark. He had delayed a whole
army in the west, and had enabled the Parliamentary army in the Midlands
to win the decisive battle of the Civil War.

When the second Civil War broke out, part of the fleet declared for the
king, and, under Prince Rupert, the “mad Cavalier,” was giving much
trouble. A fleet was fitted out to meet this new danger, and, somewhat
inexplicably, Blake was chosen as one of the generals-at-sea. Probably
Cromwell thought that the man who could defend Taunton town could defend
anything. Blake knew little more about naval matters than the Duke of
Medina Sidonia; but he was a born sailor, and before long he was a
master of seamanship in all its intricacies. Rupert was a most difficult
man to catch; but Blake cornered him at last, and at Cartagena drove his
ships ashore and set fire to them. For this exploit Blake received the
grateful thanks of Parliament and a sum of one thousand pounds.

Blake had now to meet a much more powerful foe than Rupert. The Dutch
and the English, old allies against Spain, were now at daggers drawn.
Ill-feeling between the two nations had been long rife; now it came to a
head. Holland swarmed with Royalist exiles, and the Government showed
them much friendship. A Commonwealth envoy was murdered, and the Dutch
Government would give no satisfaction for the outrage. Further, and
beyond all, the two nations were rivals in trade, and the Dutch were
going ahead every day. The bulk of the carrying trade of the world was
in their hands; they waxed fat and kicked. The heads of the Commonwealth
knew that war with Holland would be popular, and in spite of Cromwell’s
opposition they proceeded to provoke it. A Navigation Act was passed,
aimed directly at Dutch trade. Henceforth no goods were to be imported
into England unless they came in English ships or in those of the
country which produced them. This hit the Dutch hard, and war began.

Under Van Tromp, a genuine son of the Vikings, who had risen from
cabin-boy to admiral, the Dutch sent to sea a magnificent fleet of one
hundred sail, which the raw English navy could scarcely hope to beat.
The first shot was fired off Dover in May 1652, and you already know
something of the course of events up to that bitter day in November of
the same year, when Blake was beaten by a largely superior force of the
enemy, and wrote despairingly to the Council of State to suggest that he
should be retired on account of his “insufficiency.” You know, too, what
their answer was. They were true to their promise, and by the middle of
February 1653 Blake was provided with more than seventy sail, ready to
renew the contest.

He had not long to wait for a chance of retrieving his credit. Tromp,
with ninety ships, was returning with the home-coming fleet from the
Indies, and Blake was scouring the Channel looking for him. On Friday,
February 18, Blake sighted him; but Tromp took him at a disadvantage,
and he had to bear the brunt of the fighting with his single division of
twelve ships, the remaining divisions under Penn and Monk being then at
a considerable distance from the scene of the battle.

The battle raged fiercely round the _Triumph_, and Blake was in the
utmost peril. He himself was severely wounded, and large numbers of his
men fell around him. Four ships were captured, and the end seemed near,
when Penn and Monk arrived. At once the fight assumed a different
complexion, and the captured ships were retaken before nightfall
suspended the battle. Neither side could yet claim the victory, and the
loss of both, though very great, was fairly equal. In the night Tromp
slipped off; but he was followed, and the battle was resumed. The “four
days’ battle” ended on Sunday the 20th. Five Dutch ships had been sunk
and four captured, as well as some thirty or forty merchant vessels.
Tromp, however, got the remainder away safely by dint of clever
seamanship. The Dutch had been beaten, but they were by no means
dismayed, and immediately began to make preparations for a renewal of
the struggle.

While Blake was making a slow recovery from his wound news arrived that
the Dutch were again at sea. Before, however, he could reach the fleet a
great battle had been fought. He and his squadron did not arrive till
late in the afternoon, but their coming turned the victory into a rout.
Tromp’s vessel was boarded; but to save her from falling into the hands
of his foes, he blew her up, and by a miracle saved both himself and his
ship. Another English victory followed, in which the gallant Tromp was
killed, and then the war was brought to a close. Holland paid a war
indemnity, and agreed that the English were masters of the sea.
Henceforth the Dutch might only pass through the Strait of Dover by the
kind permission of England. Blake and Monk received the thanks of
Parliament, gold medals, and gold chains valued at £300. A few weeks’
rest restored Blake to health so far as to enable him to return to the
fleet, and all was ready for his next exploit.

Cromwell, now dictator, turned his attention to Spain, which was the
most dangerous trade rival of the English Puritans in America.
Accordingly, in 1654, he sent out two fleets, one to the Mediterranean
under Blake, the other to the West Indies under Penn and Venables. Blake
had a general commission to protect British commerce, and this he
interpreted as permission to attack the Barbary pirates, who levied
blackmail on all the commerce of Europe passing their shores. Scores of
luckless merchantmen bound for the Levant were boarded and rifled, and
their crews carried off as slaves. Possibly the compilers of the English
Church Litany had the sufferings of thousands of their fellow-countrymen
in mind when they wrote, “That it may please Thee to show Thy pity upon
all prisoners and captives.” Blake ran into the harbour of Tunis in
spite of fleet, castles, moles, batteries, and musketeers, and in a few
hours nine vessels of the pirate fleet were in flames, and he was
outward bound, congratulating himself on a good work well done. This
gallant exploit made the British name a terror in the Mediterranean. He
now visited the chief ports of the western Mediterranean “to show his
flag” and everywhere he was received with fear and trembling.

He returned to England in October 1655, but spent little time ashore,
for the Protector had now a daring task to set him. Penn and Venables
had failed miserably in the West Indies, and British arms had suffered a
discreditable reverse. Cromwell was not the man to overlook failures of
this sort. He promptly sent the quarrelsome officers to the Tower, and
dispatched Blake to the Spanish Main to do the work properly. In a
preliminary cruise off the Spanish coast he captured several Plate
ships, and in 1657 he set sail for Santa Cruz, in Teneriffe, where he
accomplished his last and most brilliant feat. Within the
horseshoe-shaped harbour, belted with forts mounting the heaviest
artillery then known, lay sixteen great galleons, all well armed. The
Spaniards boasted that within that death-trap their treasure-ships were
absolutely safe. The historian of the time wrote truly: “All men who
knew the place concluded that no sober men, with whatever courage soever
endued, would ever undertake it.”

Blake discovered that the six largest galleons were drawn up in line,
commanding the entrance to the harbour, and that behind them were the
other ships. When he learnt this he might have repeated Cromwell’s
exulting cry at Dunbar, “The Lord hath delivered them into my hands.” If
he ran in with a fair wind and a flowing tide beneath the walls of the
great fort at the entrance, little harm could come to him, for its great
guns could not readily be depressed so as to stay his progress. Further,
the massing of the largest galleons at the harbour mouth covered the
fire of the ships behind, and prevented several of the forts from firing
lest they should injure friend and foe alike.

To make a long story short, Blake dashed into the harbour, attacked at
the very closest quarters, and before evening had burnt, blown up, or
sunk every Spanish ship in it. Then, under cover of the dense masses of
smoke blowing seaward, the British ships crept out into safety, with not
above fifty men slain outright and one hundred and twenty wounded.
Nothing so daring or so brilliant had ever been accomplished before, not
even by Drake when he “singed the King of Spain’s beard.” The sea-power
of Spain was absolutely annihilated, and England rang with the praises
of the man who had done it.

A public thanksgiving was held, and the Protector wrote to the
victorious admiral: “We cannot but take notice how eminently it hath
pleased God to make use of you in this service, assisting you with
wisdom in the conduct and courage in the execution; and have sent you a
small jewel”—his own portrait set in gold and diamonds—“as a testimony
of our own and the Parliament’s good acceptance of your courage in this
action.”

Blake now sailed for home, and his countrymen eagerly waited his coming.
Alas, he was never to tread the shores of his native land again, never
to see the fields and hedgerows, the hills and moorlands of his
dear-loved West Country. Worn out by the fatigues and anxieties of
warfare, he grew feebler day by day, and constantly asked if the shores
of England were in sight. When at last the look-out at the masthead
cried “Land O!” Blake was a dying man. He called his captains to him and
bade them farewell. Then just as his ship entered Plymouth Sound he
breathed his last.

In what lay the great glory and inspiration of Blake’s life? Not so much
in his brilliant achievements, not so much in the care and forethought
which he exhibited, as in his chivalrous character and splendid
patriotism. His men loved him and honoured him because his honour and
honesty of purpose were unimpeachable, and because he had no trace of
self-seeking in his character. His first and only thought was for the
honour and glory of his land. He was a British sailor—nothing more and
nothing less. To him was entrusted the sacred jewel of the national
honour, and never was it placed in cleaner or more zealous hands. “It is
not for us,” he once declared, “to mend state affairs, but to keep
foreigners from fooling us.” This was the watchword of his life, and
this was his fame.




[Illustration]




                              Chapter XIV.
                 FROM THE RESTORATION TO THE REVOLUTION.


                 THE RESTORATION OF CHARLES THE SECOND.

          “_Who comes with rapture greeted, and caressed_
          _With frantic love,—his kingdom to regain?_”

IT is the 29th of May, 1660, and London is a gala city. The streets are
hung with tapestry; flags and banners wave from the housetops; the
citizens in their best attire throng the streets; the mayor, aldermen,
and the gilds in all their bravery of ceremonial robes and gold chains
hie them to the city gates; every balcony is full of lords and ladies
clad in the sumptuous trappings of state; drums roll, trumpets sound,
and bells clash from the steeples. The guns of the Tower roar out a
welcome, and loud cries of “The king! the king!” are heard. His
procession approaches “with a triumph of twenty thousand horse and foot,
brandishing their swords and shouting with inexpressible joy.” Now you
see him sitting his horse with easy grace, and bowing calmly as he
responds to the acclamations of the crowd. He is tall and graceful, his
countenance somewhat swarthy and forbidding. He smiles as maidens strew
flowers in his way and men cheer until they can cheer no more. “It must
be my own fault,” he says, “that I have not come back sooner, for I find
nobody who does not tell me that he has always longed for my return.”

He passes on to Whitehall and takes possession of the palace from which
his father stepped on to the scaffold. Courtiers and sycophants, and
honest men with tears in their eyes, crowd the presence-chamber to kiss
his hands and wish him a long and happy reign, while the citizens
outside give themselves up to unrestrained joy. A special Lord Mayor’s
show is paraded as part of the festivities, and several of the pageants
represent scenes from the life of the king who has just come into his
own again.

Look at this device now passing on a great wheeled platform. It is a
scene in Boscobel Wood. In the midst is a spreading oak, and high in the
branches you see a figure representing Charles hiding from the
Commonwealth soldiers, who are searching for him below. This incident
actually happened just nine years ago, after the “crowning mercy” of
Worcester, when Cromwell thoroughly routed the Royalists and the young
prince was a hunted fugitive. Another scene in the show represents him
riding towards safety as the servant of faithful Jane Lane, who sits
behind him trembling with anxiety. The fugitive is now receiving the
obeisance of a gay, glittering throng in the palace of his sires. As he
does so he recalls the shifts and subterfuges, the hairbreadth escapes,
the privations and perils of those dark days, and bitterly contrasts the
glorious present with the long years of his shabby and penurious exile.

And now he is crowned and anointed king—hailed with enthusiasm by the
very men who overthrew his father and consented unto his death. How has
this wondrous change come about? Cromwell built his power on the sand,
and with his last breath it fell to pieces like a house of cards. His
son Richard, an easy-going country squire devoted to hawking, hunting,
and horse-racing, hated the greatness which was thrust upon him, and
within a year laid down his office. Then “Honest George” Monk, in
command of the army in Scotland, saw that the hour had arrived when his
countrymen were eager for steady and lawful government in place of the
harsh and uncertain rule of the sword. He marched south, and the
Londoners hailed him with wild shouts of delight. Like the Israelites of
old time they cried, “Give us a king to reign over us,” and Charles was
invited to return and claim his birthright.

The monarchy has been restored, and what manner of man is he who sets up
the throne anew? Nature has given him excellent parts and a good temper;
he has polite and engaging manners and a unique experience of the world;
but otherwise he is utterly selfish and utterly ungrateful, “without
desire of renown and without sensibility to reproach.” He is a cynic; he
has absolutely no faith in human nature; he believes that every man has
his price; and he values his kingship precisely for the amount of
selfish indulgence which it can afford him. The father who was sent to
the block was an angel of light compared with the son who has now been
recalled to fill the empty throne. Forthwith he tramples all that is
good as well as all that is harsh and unlovely in Puritanism under foot.
He sets the nation a shameless example of licence and frivolity, and his
subjects are not slow to imitate it. His court is filled with every kind
of open wickedness; religion is scoffed at; morality, honour,
steadfastness, and justice are fit subjects for the ribald jests of
reckless roysterers. The pendulum has swung to the other extreme with a
vengeance. Never before has national virtue been at so low an ebb.

The reign of Charles was one long reaction in Church, State, and
national life. The efficiency of old Noll’s day became a thing of the
past. The king wasted huge sums of money on his follies and vices, and
the services were shamefully starved. Only fourteen years ago the Dutch
were forced to acknowledge England as mistress of the seas; and now they
entered the Thames, destroyed Sheerness, sailed up the Medway to
Chatham, and burnt eight men of war, while the navy, paralyzed by
corruption and mismanagement, was powerless to chastise them. At this
humiliation the anger of the nation knew no bounds. “Then at length
tardy justice was done to the memory of Oliver. Everywhere men magnified
his valour, genius, and patriotism. Everywhere it was remembered how,
when he ruled, all foreign powers had trembled at the name of England;
how the States General, now so haughty, had crouched at his feet; and
how, when it was known that he was no more, Amsterdam was lighted up as
for a great deliverance, and children ran along the canals shouting for
joy that the devil was dead! Even Royalists exclaimed that the State
could be saved only by calling the old soldiers of the Commonwealth to
arms. . . . Tilbury Fort, the place where Elizabeth had, with manly
spirit, hurled foul scorn at Parma and Spain, was insulted by the
invaders. The roar of foreign guns was heard, for the first and last
time, by the citizens of London.”

While this ignominious war was raging, London suffered two disasters of
such a terrible character that men openly spoke of them as the
well-deserved scourges of Almighty God. Turn to the diary of Samuel
Pepys, the Admiralty clerk who so faithfully mirrored the loose,
careless life of the time, and read the entry of July 7, 1665: “This
day, much against my will, I did in Drury Lane see two or three houses
marked with a red cross upon the doors and ‘Lord, have mercy upon us’
writ there, which was a sad sight to me, being the first of the kind
that to my remembrance I ever saw.” The Great Plague had arrived. Those
who were stricken with the disease began to shiver; then they had
headaches and were light-headed. On the third or fourth day they fainted
suddenly, and spots broke out on the breast. As soon as these appeared,
all hope was gone; the poor victim was dead within an hour.

As we follow Pepys’s pages we see alarm spreading, the clergy taking
flight to the country, the stoppage of all work and trading, grass
growing in the deserted streets, the bells tolling all day long,
searchers going about to discover infected houses, dreaded death-carts
rumbling over the stones to the mournful cry of “Bring out your dead;”
then the last scene of all—the carts shooting their contents into huge
pits dug at St. Martin’s in the Fields and at Mile-End. It is a terrible
picture, and we shudder as we realize it.

All infected houses become prisons, with watchers at the doors so that
none might come out or go in. Pepys tells us that a complaint was
brought against a man for taking a child from an infected house, and the
case was inquired into by the magistrates. They discovered that the
child was the little daughter of a saddler. All his other children had
died of the plague, and the saddler and his wife were shut up in their
house, never expecting to leave it alive. They had one only wish in
their despair, and that was to save the life of their little girl. At
last they managed to communicate with a friend, who promised to take her
away from London. The child was handed down from the window stark naked,
and the friend, having dressed it in fresh clothes, took it to
Greenwich, where, when the story was known, it was permitted to remain.

In all, the death-roll of that terrible year reached nearly 100,000, or
about one-fifth of the total population. The worst time of all was in
the first fortnight of September, when the deaths were over a thousand a
day. As the summer passed, and the cold, high winds of winter blew, the
plague gradually passed away.

Scarcely, however, had the dead-cart ceased to go its rounds when fire
laid well-nigh the whole city in ruins. It broke out at one o’clock on
Sunday morning, September 2, 1666, at the house of a baker in Pudding
Lane, not far from the Monument which now commemorates the visitation.
Most of the city was then built of wood, and as a high wind was blowing
at the time the flames spread rapidly. The citizens could do nothing to
stop the fire, and before long the city from the Tower to the Temple,
and from the river to Smithfield, was one sheet of flame. A great terror
seized the people, but as soon as they recovered from their fright they
endeavoured to save what they could from the flames. Five, ten, and even
fifty pounds were given for a cart, and the barges and boats on the
river were laden to the gunwale with fugitives and their belongings. The
fields round London were full of furniture and of people camping out
amidst the pitiful remnants of property which they had saved. On Monday
night the streets were as light as noonday, and the flames had reached
St. Paul’s.

John Evelyn tells us in his diary that the stones flew like bombs,
melting lead ran down the streets in streams, and the very pavements
were red hot. “God grant,” says he, “my eyes may never behold the like.
I now saw about ten thousand houses all in one flame. The noise and
cracking and thunder of the flames, the shrieking of women and children,
the hurry of the people, the fall of towers, houses, and churches, was
like an awful storm. The air was so hot that at last men were not able
to approach the fire, and were forced to stand still and let the flames
burn on, which they did for nearly two miles in length and one in
breadth. The clouds of smoke were dismal, and reached nearly fifty-six
miles in length. London was, but is no more!”

At last the fire was checked by blowing up a number of houses with
gunpowder. The wind fell, and on Wednesday morning the fire ceased, “as
it were by a command from Heaven.” It began at Pudding Lane, and it
ended at Pie Corner in Giltspur Street. Actually 13,000 houses and 89
churches were burnt down, but only fourteen persons were killed. Every
dwelling and building over an area of 436 acres was destroyed. The fire,
however, was a blessing in disguise, for it swept away the foul courts
and alleys and destroyed the plague germs lingering in the soil. Wider
and more open streets were built, and new and stately churches arose.
The genius of Sir Christopher Wren was afforded a unique opportunity. He
re-created St. Paul’s, his chief monument, and erected fifty-four
churches, each with its own special features, yet all in harmony with
the great mother-church of the city.

The restoration of Charles was a triumph for the Church of England, and
marked the downfall of that religious toleration which Cromwell had
established. At the instigation of Clarendon, the only man of real zeal
and probity about the king, the Cavalier Parliament passed a series of
spiteful Acts against the Puritans, or Nonconformists, as they may now
be called. Henceforth all mayors, aldermen, councillors, and other
borough officers must renounce the Solemn League and Covenant, deny the
lawfulness of taking up arms against the king, and receive the sacrament
according to the rites of the Church of England. This harsh and unfair
Act was a great blow to the Nonconformists, and it practically drove
them out of local government. They were next excluded from the Church by
the Act of Uniformity; and then the expelled ministers began to form
congregations outside the pale. But a new Act of Parliament forbidding
the holding of all religious services except those of the Church of
England, under pain of fine and imprisonment, was speedily passed to
keep them forcibly within the fold. This shocking law actually made
family worship a crime if more than five persons not belonging to the
family were present. Then came another Act which forbade ministers
expelled under the Act of Uniformity from teaching in a school or living
within five miles of a city or corporate town. Thus the Church system
which Laud had lost his head in trying to establish in the reign of
Charles the First became the law of the land by the will of the people
in the reign of his indifferent and cynical son.

The author of these cruel Acts was not long to sit high in the king’s
favour. He was a grave, ponderous man, with the utmost scorn for the
idle triflers and wicked spendthrifts amongst whom the king wasted his
days. Frequently he took Charles to task for his misdemeanours, and by
his importunity goaded him into keeping his promises. “He often said it
was the making those promises which had brought the king home, and the
keeping of them must keep him at home.” The king’s friends hated the
solemn, long-winded Polonius, and one of them used to whisper in
Charles’s ear, “There goes your schoolmaster.”

After the second Dutch War, in which England was covered with disgrace,
Clarendon was a convenient scapegoat, and Charles dismissed him without
a shade of regret and no single mark of gratitude for the long and
faithful service which the deposed chancellor had rendered him both in
exile and after the Restoration. Clarendon’s fall was the signal for
great rejoicing amongst the shameless crew which surrounded the king. As
he left Whitehall, disgraced and abandoned, a courtier assured Charles
“that this was the first time he could ever call him King of England,
being freed from this great man.”

And now, “freed from this great man,” Charles began to descend deeper
and deeper into the mire. He formed a ministry of his friends, and laid
deep plans for ruling as an absolute king, but without running any undue
risks. Hitherto he had laughed at religion; now, when sick and serious,
he turned to the Church of Rome, and desired to re-establish it in his
land, but again without running undue risks. On one principle and one
principle alone Charles was absolutely fixed—he would never go on his
travels again. Then he perpetrated his last and foullest piece of
infamy—he sold himself to Lewis of France for a miserable £200,000 a
year. Henceforth he was the pensioner of the French king and a secret
traitor to his own subjects.

No king so absolute as Charles when suddenly he was stricken with
apoplexy. On his deathbed he was openly received into the Roman Catholic
Church, to which he had long secretly belonged. He lingered until
Friday, February 6, 1685. As the morning light began to peep through the
windows he apologized to those who had watched him through the night for
all the trouble which he had caused them. “He had been,” he said, “a
most unconscionable time dying, but he hoped they would excuse it.”

So passes Charles. One of his friends had previously suggested this
epitaph:—

              “Here lies our sovereign lord the king,
                Whose word no man relies on;
              Who never said a foolish thing,
                And never did a wise one.”

There was, however, another and a better side to Charles’s character. He
frequented the society of the most learned men of his time, founded the
Royal Society, and attended its meetings. He had undeniable talents and
a taste for arts and sciences, but his talents only served to bring into
high relief his grovelling vices and sordid treasons.

[Illustration: =JANE LANE HELPING PRINCE CHARLES TO ESCAPE.=
 (_From the fresco by C. W. Cope, R.A., in the Houses of Parliament._)]

[Illustration: =RESCUED FROM THE PLAGUE, LONDON, 1665.=
 (_From the picture by Frank W. W. Topham, R.I. By permission of the
   Artist._)]

[Illustration: =The Fall of Clarendon.=
 (_From the picture by E. M. Ward, R.A., in the National Gallery of
   British Art._)]




[Illustration]


                        JAMES, DUKE OF MONMOUTH.

     “_Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read,_
     _Suffer not the old kings—for we know the breed._”

Once more the scene is laid in Whitehall. James, the brother of Charles,
is king, and he is now about to grant an audience to a nephew who has
unsuccessfully rebelled against him and lies under sentence of death.
Look at the king’s face. You see at once that he is a slow, narrow man,
singularly obstinate, harsh, and implacable. His heart is as hard as the
marble chimney-pieces of his own palace. He never forgets and he never
forgives an injury. As you glance at his hard, cruel face you feel that
he will be deaf to every cry of mercy and relentless to every touch of
pity. Now the door of an antechamber is thrown open and the Duke of
Monmouth, a handsome man, pale as death, is ushered in. His arms are
bound behind him with a silken cord. At once he throws himself on the
ground, and in an agony of weeping crawls to the king’s feet. He
begs—oh, how passionately he begs—for life, only life—life at any
price. In frenzied tones he beseeches his uncle to show him mercy for
the sake of the late king, his father. If he is spared, he will never,
never offend again.

“I am sorry for you,” says the king in icy tones, “but you have brought
all this upon yourself. You have called yourself king, you have raised
rebellion, and foully aspersed me in your Declaration. Your treasons are
black and many. There is no hope of pardon for you this side the grave.”

At once the wretched prisoner cries out that he signed the Declaration
without reading it; that it was the work of a villain.

“Do you expect me to believe,” says James with contempt, “that you set
your hand to a paper of such moment without knowing what it contained?”

Now Monmouth makes his final and most abject appeal. He who has been the
champion of Protestantism, and has called men to arms against a Catholic
king, now offers to be reconciled with the Church of Rome! The king,
always eager to make converts, immediately offers his spiritual
assistance, but not a word does he say of pardon or respite.

“Is there no hope?” asks Monmouth.

The king turns away in silence, and the prisoner rises from his knees.
The bitterness of death is past; his craven weakness has gone; he leaves
the room with a firm step. In the Tower he takes farewell of his
children and of the brave wife who has reclaimed him from a life of
vice. Then he goes to the block, and his head is hacked off by an
executioner whose nerve has failed him.

Let the story of the ill-starred rising be told. Monmouth was the son of
King Charles and Lucy Walters, the daughter of a Welsh Royalist. In his
thirty-first year he was probably the most popular man in England,
extremely handsome, and gifted with the most charming manners. His
father had conferred all possible honours on him, and as there was a
movement to exclude his Roman Catholic uncle James from the succession
he had come to regard himself as heir to the throne. He had proved
himself no mean soldier on battlefields in the Netherlands and in
Scotland, where he had shown mercy to the vanquished. He neglected no
opportunity of making himself popular with the people. “He stood
godfather to the children of the peasantry, mingled in every rustic
sport, wrestled, played at quarter-staff, and won foot races in his
boots against fleet runners in shoes.”

His great claim, however, to the sympathy of the people was his staunch
Protestantism. As a matter of fact, he had no settled religious
opinions. His private life was bad, and his Protestantism was but a
means to an end. He had taken part in a reckless plot towards the close
of his father’s reign, and had been obliged to take refuge in the
Netherlands, with a sentence of death hanging over his head. On his
deathbed, when Charles blessed his children, his eldest and best-loved
son was an exile and a wanderer. The dying king never mentioned his
name.

James began his reign by promising to “preserve the government both in
Church and State as by law established.” There was no opposition to him;
men were ready to rely upon “the word of a king who was never worse than
his word.” They remembered his good work at the Admiralty and praised
his personal courage, while they hated and feared his religion. Really,
James was a stronger and better man than Charles; but while the late
king was witty, gracious, good-natured, and easy-going, James was dull,
suspicious, sullen, and silent. A contemporary said, “Charles could have
been a great king if he would, and James would have been a great king if
he could.” While Charles cared nothing for religion, and would risk
nothing for the Church which he favoured, James was a zealous Roman
Catholic, and was prepared to risk his crown for the sake of his Church.

The Protestantism of the nation was soon alarmed. The king openly heard
mass, and a week or two later the rites of the Church of Rome, after an
interval of a hundred and twenty-seven years, were once more performed
at Westminster. Then came a proclamation suspending the penal laws
against Nonconformists, and thousands of prisoners, including the author
of “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” were released. Parliament showed no anger;
it was packed with the king’s friends. They granted James a most liberal
income, which almost made him independent of further Parliamentary
grants.

Meanwhile, Monmouth in Holland was busy hatching a plot to oust James
and secure the throne for himself. His fellow-conspirator was Archibald
Campbell, Earl of Argyll, the leader of the Covenanters who had suffered
persecutions many and sore during the last reign. Two years after the
Restoration Episcopacy had been re-established in Scotland, and more
than three hundred ministers had given up their livings rather than
conform. Severe fines were inflicted on all who dared to abstain from
public worship in the parish churches, and troopers rode about the
country cursing and swearing, harrying and plundering, wounding and
killing to their hearts’ content. Many of the ejected ministers
continued to preach in the open air, and their flocks, greatly daring,
attended their secret ministrations. “Conventicles” increased daily in
number. With a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other, the
blue-bonneted Covenanters gathered on lonely hillsides for worship,
while scouts kept watch for the coming of the dreaded troopers.
Persecution at last drove them to arms. After a victory at Drumclog,
they were utterly defeated at Bothwell Bridge, and a terribly cruel time
of shooting and hanging, torture and transportation set in.

Argyll’s father had been leader of the Covenanters in the days of
Charles the First, and after the Restoration he lost his head. The son,
Monmouth’s fellow-conspirator, refused to take the oath of the Scottish
Test Act without adding a statement that thereby he was not precluded
from trying to amend both Church and State. For this he was brought to
trial, and on evidence that would not hang a dog condemned to death.
Fortunately, however, he escaped in disguise, and found a refuge in
Amsterdam, where the leading English and Scottish exiles were assembled.
Though there was not much sympathy between Monmouth and Argyll, they
joined hands, and arranged that the great MacCallum More should rouse
his clansmen and head a rising in Scotland. This was to be promptly
followed by Monmouth’s descent on England.

The Scottish expedition was doomed to failure from the first, because it
was commanded, not by a single general, but by a committee, which
disputed and quarrelled on every possible occasion. The expedition
reached Campbeltown, on the coast of Kintyre, and here Argyll issued a
proclamation declaring that King James had murdered King Charles, and
that Monmouth was the rightful king. His clansmen flocked to him; but
the Lowland leaders despised them, and endeavoured to raise the
Cameronians of Ayrshire, who showed not the slightest disposition to
take up arms. Soon the committee was at loggerheads, and all was
confusion and despondency. Food ran short, and the Highlanders deserted
in hundreds. Argyll now yielded to the committeemen, who urged him to
march into the Lowlands. Ere a battle could be fought his army had
melted away, and his only safety lay in flight.

Argyll disguised himself as a peasant, and pretended to be the guide of
Major Fullarton. The friends journeyed through Renfrewshire until they
reached the junction of the Black Cart and the White Cart. Here they
found that the only practicable ford was held by a party of militia. The
travellers were challenged, their answers were evasive, and an attempt
was made to seize the supposed guide. He broke loose and sprang into the
water, where for a short time he held his own against five assailants.
His pistols, however, had been wetted and were useless. Struck down with
a broadsword, he was easily overcome, and his captors learnt to their
dismay that the champion of the Protestant religion, the heir of a great
and honoured name in Scotland, was in their hands.

On June 20, 1685, Argyll was dragged through the streets of Edinburgh
bareheaded, his hands tied behind his back, guards surrounding him, and
the hangman walking in front. Up the Canongate and the High Street he
passed, and when the castle was reached he was put in irons and informed
that he had but a few days to live. No new trial was necessary; he was
to be executed on his old sentence. He heard his fate with majestic
resignation, for he did not fear death. Torture was threatened, but the
threat did not move him, and not a word would he say to betray a friend.
He composed his own epitaph, and spent the short remaining hours in
devotion.

On the very day on which he was to die he dined well, and according to
his wont, lay down for a short slumber after the meal. A Lord of the
Council who came with a message insisted on seeing him. He was told that
the earl was asleep, but could not believe that such was the case. The
door of the cell was softly opened, “and there lay Argyll on his bed,
sleeping in his irons the placid sleep of infancy.” In his last hour he
wrote a most loving and cheering letter to his wife, and at the call of
his jailers mounted the scaffold with undaunted courage. He made a short
speech to the people, declaring that he died “not only a Protestant, but
with a heart-hatred of Popery, of Prelacy, and of all superstition.” He
then embraced his friends, gave them tokens of remembrance, prayed a few
moments, and the axe fell.

Now, having seen a noble man pay the price of failure, let us turn to
the progress of Monmouth. On the morning of June 11, 1685, a week before
the capture of Argyll, three ships appeared off the little port of Lyme
Regis, in Dorsetshire. The inhabitants from the cliffs saw eighty
well-armed men land on the shore, kneel down, and pray for a blessing on
their venture. Then they saw a gallant figure draw his sword and lead
his men over the cliffs into the little town. His name and the character
of his mission were soon known, and there was great excitement in the
place. The fishermen flocked to him shouting, “A Monmouth! a Monmouth!
the Protestant religion!” Meanwhile a blue flag had been set up in the
market-place, and now Monmouth’s Declaration was read. It was full of
wild charges against James, and accused him of burning London and
poisoning the late king, his brother. James was denounced as a tyrant,
murderer, and usurper. Monmouth said that he had come as captain-general
of the English Protestants in arms against tyranny and Popery.

The news of his coming spread like wildfire through the West Country.
Many of the people were Dissenters, who had suffered all kinds of petty
persecution, and they hailed the advent of Monmouth with the utmost
eagerness. They remembered how he had endeared himself to them when he
made his progress through the country five years before, and they rushed
to his banner with alacrity. By the time he reached Exeter nearly all
Devonshire had flocked to him, and nine hundred young men in white
uniform marched before him into the city. Recruits came in by hundreds
daily; there were not enough clerks to take down their names. Arming and
drilling went on all day, and everything promised well.

On June 18, Monmouth reached the pleasant and prosperous town of
Taunton, which gave him a right royal welcome. The children of the men
who had helped Blake to hold out against the Cavaliers now welcomed
Monmouth with unrestrained joy. Every door and window was adorned with
wreaths of flowers, and no man appeared in the streets without the badge
of the popular cause in his hat. Damsels of the best families in the
town wove colours for the rebels. One flag in particular was embroidered
with the royal arms, and was offered to Monmouth by a party of
school-girls. Their school-mistress presented the duke with a small
Bible of great price. He took it with a show of reverence. “I come,” he
said, “to defend the truths contained in this book, and to seal them, if
it must be so, with my blood.”

Now let us hasten on to the final scene. It is Sunday morning, July 5,
1685, and “King” Monmouth is standing on the lofty tower of Bridgwater
parish church, looking out over an expanse of fertile and well-wooded
country, with the Mendip Hills to the north-east and the Quantocks to
the south-west. He turns his eyes anxiously towards the south-east,
where there is a wide extent of dreary morass known as Sedgemoor. In the
villages round the moor the royal troops are encamped, and are rapidly
drinking themselves drunk with Somerset cider. Monmouth is in a
despondent mood; his heart has failed him, and he has already meditated
flight. The trainbands of the surrounding counties and the life-guards
of the king are closing in upon him in overwhelming force, and if
victory is to be secured a battle must be fought without delay. He
forthwith determines to march that very night, under cover of the
darkness, and fall on the surprised enemy before dawn.

As the clock strikes eleven, Monmouth and his men march out of Taunton,
the moon shining brightly and the northern streamers flashing in the
sky. By one o’clock his half-armed rabble is on the moor, where the
marsh-fog lies so thick that nothing can be seen fifty paces away.
Between him and the enemy are three broad ditches or rhines full of mud
and water. Monmouth knows of two of these ditches, and has planned the
advance so as to cross them by the causeways. He is, however, ignorant
of the third, and when his army reaches its brink it is powerless to
cross and attack the king’s troops, only a few paces away. A random
pistol-shot has already aroused the Royalists; their drums beat to arms,
and the cavalry and foot, scrambling into order, advance towards the
rhine which separates them from the enemy. “For whom are you?” shouts an
officer of foot-guards. “For the king,” is the reply from the rebel
ranks. “For which king?” is then demanded. The answer is a loud shout of
“King Monmouth! God be with us!” The royal troops fire; the rebel
horsemen flee, and the drivers of the ammunition wagons hasten after
them with the powder and ball.

Now the sun rises and the battle begins in earnest. It resolves itself
into two rows of men firing at each other across a broad ditch of inky
water. The Somersetshire rustics fight like veterans, but all in vain.
The unequal contest is soon decided, and Monmouth, seeing that all hope
has gone, turns and runs away. His deserted followers, however, make a
gallant stand, but their scythes and pitchforks are useless against the
swords of the king’s troopers. The arrival of the artillery brings the
engagement to a speedy close. The rebel battalions waver, break, and
flee, the Mendip miners alone remaining to stain the marshy ground with
their blood. More than one thousand of the rebels lie dead on the field.
The last battle has been fought on English ground.

But what of Monmouth? He did not draw rein until he reached Chedzoy,
where he stopped a moment to mount a fresh horse and hide his blue
ribbon and his George. He rode on all day towards the south-east, hoping
to gain the New Forest, where he might lurk in the cabins of
deer-stealers until an opportunity arrived to escape to the Continent.
The night was passed in the open air; in the morning he and his
companions found themselves ringed in by their foes. Monmouth changed
clothes with a peasant and betook himself into a field, partly of rye,
pease, and oats, partly overgrown with furze and brambles.

A woman reported that she had seen two strangers enter the field, and
soldiers, stimulated by the offer of £5,000 for the capture of the duke,
were told off to watch the fences while dogs were turned out among the
bushes. At nightfall no capture had been made. The fugitives lay close
behind a thick hedge; thirty times they ventured to look out, and thirty
times they saw an armed sentinel watching for them. At sunrise the
search began again, and not a yard of the field went unexamined. At
length a gaunt figure in a shepherd’s dress was discovered in a dry
ditch. In his pockets were some raw pease, a watch, a purse of gold, and
the George which he had received from the hands of his father in the
days when he was the spoiled darling of the court.

The wretched man was conveyed to London in a state of abject terror. He
begged for an interview with his uncle, and what happened at that
interview you already know. The scene with which this chapter opened was
the sequel to his capture, the painful episode which preceded his
execution.

“Woe to the vanquished!” James now wreaked such a vengeance on
Monmouth’s poor, deluded followers that his name has become a byword of
inhuman cruelty. A brutal soldier named Kirke was sent down to the west
with his “lambs,” and the savage sport began. You may still see at
Taunton the house in which he lodged. It was formerly an inn, and on its
signpost he hanged scores of peasants, while his drums struck up and his
trumpets sounded “so that they should have music to their dancing!” “My
lord,” said the Bishop of Bath and Wells to Lord Feversham, who was
equally ferocious, “this is murder, not law; the battle being over,
these poor wretches should be tried.”

Then came Judge Jeffreys, a drunken, foul-mouthed, degraded wretch, with
a forehead of brass and lungs of leather. Nothing more revolting than
his so-called trials have ever disgraced our annals. He roared, he
bullied, he blasphemed, he laughed, joked, and swore until men believed
him to be drunk from morning till night. So he was—drunk with blood.
When the “Bloody Assize” was concluded, Jeffreys openly boasted that he
had hanged more traitors than all the Chief-justices since the Conquest.
“At every spot where two roads met, and every market-place, on the green
of every large village which had furnished Monmouth with soldiers,
ironed corpses clattering in the wind, or heads and quarters stuck on
poles, poisoned the air and made the traveller sick with horror. In many
parishes the peasantry could not assemble in the house of God without
seeing the ghastly face of a neighbour grinning at them over the porch.”

Perhaps the most infamous sentence of this ermined fiend was that on
Alice Lisle, the widow of a man who had been one of the regicides, and
had filled high posts under the Commonwealth. Her crime was that she had
sheltered two fugitives from Sedgemoor. She was old and deaf; she had no
counsel to defend her; and she pleaded that what she had done was simply
an act of common charity. So innocent and devoid of offence did she seem
that the jury were inclined to acquit her. Jeffreys turned on them with
the utmost fury, and at length they brought in a craven verdict of
“guilty.” “Gentlemen,” said he, “in your place I would find her guilty
were she my own mother.” It was the only word of truth which fell from
his lips during the trial. Then he condemned her to be burnt alive that
very afternoon.

Appeals for mercy came to him on all hands and from all classes. He
consented to postpone the execution for five days, during which ladies
of high rank interceded with James for the poor old lady, but all in
vain. The only mercy wrung from the pitiless king was to forgo the
burning in favour of hanging. She went to her death with serene courage,
and good men and women held up their hands in horror throughout the
length and breadth of the land. Elizabeth Gaunt, a pious and charitable
Baptist, was actually burnt alive at Tyburn on a like charge.

The judicial murders reached in all three hundred and twenty; the number
of persons transported as slaves to the West Indies was eight hundred
and forty-one. The poor wretches destined to the plantations were
distributed into gangs and bestowed on courtiers, who made huge sums by
this traffic in the flesh and blood of their fellow subjects. The
Chief-justice traded largely in pardons, and managed to accumulate a
fortune in this way. No wonder the popular name for the estate which he
bought with the money was _Aceldama_, “the field of blood.” The ladies
of the queen’s household were specially prominent in this odious work of
selling pardons. The little girls who had presented the banner to
Monmouth became the portion of the queen’s maids of honour. Two of them
died in prison, and the rest were only released upon payment of a heavy
ransom.

And now James stands triumphant; his throne seems unassailable. He is at
the height of his power and prosperity, and Jeffreys is his Lord
Chancellor; yet already the writing appears on the wall, and the day of
his doom is fast approaching. His terrible vengeance in the west has
sent a thrill of horror through the whole country, and has made men
loathe his very name.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =The Last Sleep of Argyll.=
 (_From the fresco by E. M. Ward., in Westminster Palace._)]

[Illustration: =The Arrest of Alice Lisle.=
 (_From the picture by E. M. Ward, R.A._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter XV.
                          AFTER THE REVOLUTION.


                           WILLIAM THE THIRD.

               “_I am constant as the northern star,_
               _Of whose true-fixed and resting quality_
               _There is no fellow in the firmament._”

A PRINCE now passes by on horseback. He is small, almost diminutive, but
by no means insignificant. His figure is slender and apparently feeble,
but few men have borne such hardships and sustained such reverses of
fortune as he. His forehead is ample, his nose aquiline, his eye bright
and keen, his lips thin and compressed, his cheek pale and deeply
furrowed by the marks of sickness and care. His whole aspect is pensive,
severe, almost morose. At a glance you judge him to be neither a happy
nor a good-humoured man. His bearing is simple; he cares nothing for
pomp and parade, and he has no particular desire for popularity; yet
there is an unmistakable dignity in his presence, and you feel as you
gaze upon him that here is a man of high spirit and of great
intellectual power, of constant and lofty soul, of unshaken courage and
calm fortitude.

This is William of Orange, the man whom the exasperated English people
called upon to invade their country in order to preserve their liberties
and the Protestant faith. He accepted the invitation, and without
striking a blow marched from Torbay to London, where he and his wife
became King and Queen of Great Britain and Ireland.

You are once more standing outside Whitehall. It is the thirteenth day
of February, in the year of grace 1689. All London is agog with
excitement. Trumpets sound and kettledrums roll as the Garter King of
Arms in tabard and plumed hat rides up to the gates, followed by
officials carrying the maces of the two Houses of Parliament, the Lord
Chancellor and the Speaker, the chief officers of state, and a long
train of coaches filled with noblemen and gentlemen. Then in loud, clear
tones he proclaims the Prince and Princess of Orange King and Queen of
England, and charges all Englishmen to bear, from that moment, true
allegiance to the new sovereigns. He concludes by praying that God, who
has already wrought a signal deliverance for Church and nation, will
bless William and Mary with a long and happy reign.

Loud cheers break forth, and the procession re-forms and winds its way
along the Strand to Temple Bar. The streets, the balconies, the very
housetops are crowded with gazers, and all the steeples from the Abbey
to the Tower ring out a joyous peal. The proclamation is repeated at
Temple Bar and in front of the Royal Exchange, amidst the shouts of
citizens and the din of trumpets.

In the evening every window from Whitechapel to Piccadilly is
illuminated. The state rooms of the palace are thrown open, and are
filled with a brilliant company of courtiers eager to see and to do
homage to their new sovereigns. The features of the Prince of Orange are
familiar to them from his portraits, but now for the first time most of
them see him in the flesh. They cannot fail to note, even in this scene
of gaiety, his cold, reserved manner and his lack of kingly grace. The
new queen, however, charms all beholders. She is beautiful, winning, and
gracious, with a good heart, an excellent disposition, and an affection
for her sullen husband which nothing can daunt. It is clear from the
first that Mary’s popularity will be great, and that William, though he
may be respected, will never be loved by his new subjects.

Look at yonder graybeard gazing up at the gay lights glittering in the
windows. He has seen many changes in his sixty-five years of life, and
he cannot but reflect on the strange vicissitudes through which the
Stuart kings, now barred for ever from the British throne, have passed.
Listen to him as he talks to the youth at his side. “My lad,” he says,
“I remember well the Scotchman James the First feasting in this very
hall, and expounding to his son Charles and the courtiers in right
learned language the pestilent principles of what he called ‘statecraft’
and the divine right of kings to rule and to suspend the laws of the
land at their will and pleasure. Right well did young Charles learn the
lesson, and perchance we should blame his father and not him for all
that happened. He held by the hateful doctrines which he had sucked in
as a youth, like the obstinate man that he was, and ruthlessly destroyed
our liberties till we were forced to take up arms and fight him for
seven long, miserable years. I got this wound, that makes me go lame, at
Naseby, the last great battle of the war. That was forty-three years ago
save three months. I mind well seeing King Charles step through a hole
in yonder wall on to the black-draped scaffold and lay his head on the
block. It was a pitiful sight. I did not hold with killing him, mark
you, but perchance it was better so.

“Then came the Commonwealth and the days of ‘Old Noll.’ It was not a
‘Merrie England’ in his time, I warrant you. There were no Maypoles and
no Bartholomew fairs in his day; it was almost a sin to eat a mince pie.
You young fellows would think yourselves hardly done by if those times
were to return. But we were a strong nation then, my lad. Foreigners
feared us, the Dutchmen had to eat humble pie, and money flowed right
merrily into our coffers. It was a harsh and cheerless time, no doubt,
and there was no liberty to speak of, but trade was brisk, and this land
has never seen such good prosperous days since.

“When Cromwell died—the night after the great storm—and his son Dick
couldn’t be bothered with business of state, we sent across the sea for
Charles’s son, and I remember well the joy with which these fickle folk
greeted him as he rode into London on Oak-apple Day. But, my lad, I
blush with shame to think of the foreign wickedness he brought with him,
of the way he squandered the public money and ‘made Israel to sin.’ Not
to my dying day shall I forget standing in the Strand—the very year in
which you were born—and hearing the Dutch guns roaring in the Thames.
It was a bitter disgrace; we all felt it, and we all longed for Blake
and Old Noll again to send the Dutchman to the right about in
double-quick time. Aye, and the second Charles did worse than that; he
sold himself and us to the French king for a dirty pension, and plotted
to overturn the Church and rob us of our liberties. But, thank God! he
went to his own place before he had time to do his worst. And then came
his brother, James the Second. Well, you know all about him. Two short
months ago he lay within these very walls. Now they say he’s with the
French king, and here’s his son-in-law standing in his shoes. The
Dutchman is welcome, lad; he is the saviour of the country, and he has
secured our liberties. Please God, under him the old days of good
government and prosperity shall come back again.”

The liberties of the land were indeed secured, for no future British
king would dare to tread the path which the Stuarts had trod to their
destruction. William and Mary now ruled in England by virtue of a solemn
contract made between themselves and their subjects. Before the crown
was offered to them they were required to assent to the Declaration of
Rights, which branded as illegal all the arrogant pretensions of the
Stuarts. This Declaration asserted anew the national liberties, and is
the third great charter of British liberty.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =The Prince of Orange landing at Torbay.=
 (_From the picture by J. M. W. Turner, R.A. in the National Gallery._)]




[Illustration]


                     THE GREAT DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH.

                     “_If I lose mine honour,_
                     _I lose myself._”

Who comes hither? A soldier of commanding stature and strikingly
handsome face; dignified, yet winning in manner; blessed, it would seem,
with all possible gifts and graces. He is John Churchill, Duke of
Marlborough, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire—one of the greatest
military geniuses who ever lived, the victor of one of the decisive
battles of the world, the man who overthrew the vast fabric of power
which Lewis the Fourteenth had erected, the general who never fought a
battle that he did not win and never besieged a place that he did not
take! But do not be dazzled by his noble appearance and his military
glory. His genius is transcendent, his courage is of the highest order,
his personal graces are remarkable, yet he goes down to posterity as one
of the greatest and meanest of mankind. Treacherous, ungrateful, sordid,
and miserly, he is despicable as a man though unrivalled as a
diplomatist and glorious as a soldier.

William the Third died before his work was done. The long duel between
him and Lewis was only at its opening stages when he passed away, after
a life of stubborn resistance to his invincible foe. His mantle fell on
the shoulders of John Churchill, and he it was who finished the task
which William did not live long enough to accomplish. Churchill was the
son of a Devonshire cavalier, and early became a man of fashion and
pleasure at the court of Charles the Second. At seventeen years of age
he was an ensign in the army, and at twenty-two the colonel of an
English regiment in the service of France. By this time the “handsome
Englishman,” as Marshal Turenne dubbed him, had already shown the
qualities of a great soldier. When an advance post was given up to the
enemy, Turenne actually wagered a supper that Marlborough would recover
it with half the number of men who had abandoned it, and the wager was
won. He was absolutely fearless, bold and adventurous, cool and
unruffled in temper, calm and far-seeing in judgment, and capable of
enduring all sorts of fatigue.

Thanks to the friendship of the Duke of York, afterwards James the
Second, to whose fortunes he attached himself, he was raised to the
peerage. At the time of Monmouth’s rising he was major-general of the
forces, and the victory at Sedgemoor was largely due to his coolness and
resource in rallying the royal troops when thrown into confusion by the
night attack of the rebels.

Marlborough owed much of his rapid promotion to his wife. In 1678 he
married a penniless beauty of the court named Sarah Jennings. She was a
lady of violent temper and a most domineering disposition, but she also
possessed a strange power of winning and retaining affection.
Marlborough’s love for his wife “ran like a thread of gold through the
dark web of his career.” He hated letter-writing, chiefly because his
spelling was so bad, yet in the midst of his marches and sieges, and
even from the battlefield itself, he constantly wrote his wife letters
breathing the most passionate devotion.

When Marlborough wooed and won Sarah Jennings, she was the bosom friend
and constant companion of the Princess Anne, whom she had known from
girlhood. Soon she obtained complete mastery over the weak and feeble
nature of the princess, who became a mere puppet in her hands. The
friends laid aside all the formalities of rank in their intercourse;
Anne was Mrs. Morley, and the duchess Mrs. Freeman. Anne saw with her
favourite’s eyes, heard with her ears, and spoke with her tongue. If she
attempted to show one spark of independence, she was immediately crushed
and deafened by the violent reproaches of the woman who was nominally
her servant but really her tyrant. Anne’s husband, Prince George of
Denmark, did not count. He was considered the most harmless and stupid
man in the three kingdoms. “I have tried him drunk,” said Charles the
Second, “and I have tried him sober, and there is nothing in him.”

Counting upon his wife’s complete control of the princess, Marlborough
soon began to plot against William. His plan was to take advantage of
the king’s unpopularity and drive him from the throne in favour of Anne.
The plot was discovered, and William, usually calm and cool, was roused
to the utmost indignation. “Were I and my Lord Marlborough private
persons,” he cried, “the sword would have to settle between us.” At once
the earl was stripped of his offices, and his wife was driven from St.
James’s. Anne, however, refused to be parted from her friend, and left
the court with her. Then Marlborough opened a treacherous correspondence
with the deposed king at St. Germains. He basely revealed the plan of
William’s intended expedition to Brest, expressed his deep sorrow at
having deserted his rightful sovereign, and obtained a written promise
of pardon. The attack on Brest was a complete failure; the enemy, thanks
to Marlborough, was forewarned and forearmed, and more than a thousand
Englishmen were slain. This piece of foul treachery is the blackest
stain on Marlborough’s character.

Queen Mary died childless in 1694, and Anne became the acknowledged
heiress to the throne. William was obliged to recall her to court, and
with her returned the Marlboroughs, who were reluctantly received into
favour once more. William hated the earl’s baseness and treachery, but
he was obliged to recognize his splendid gifts, and to declare that he,
of all men, was the fittest to carry on the great work of checking the
ambition of Lewis. Marlborough was therefore sent to Flanders at the
head of the army, and had only just taken command when William met with
the accident which was the immediate cause of his death.

The succession of Anne practically made the Marlboroughs King and Queen
of England. Three days later Marlborough was appointed captain-general
of the British forces at home and abroad, and was entrusted with the
entire direction of the war. Offices and gifts were showered upon his
wife, and the ministers were chosen from his friends and adherents. Most
of these men had been in treasonable correspondence with James; but now,
in accordance with the loose notions of honour prevalent at the time,
they abandoned him, and for their own selfish ends determined to keep
Anne on the throne, secure the Protestant succession, and proceed with
the war.

Great Britain, Holland, Austria, and most of the smaller states of
Germany were soon leagued in arms against France, and in 1703 Lewis
found armies arrayed against him in the Spanish Netherlands, in South
Germany, in North Italy, and Spain. Marlborough was in command of the
allied British, Dutch, and Germans in the Netherlands. Though he had not
yet displayed his superb military genius, he had already exhibited his
unrivalled powers of conciliating the jarring elements which formed his
army. In North Italy the Austrian forces were under Prince Eugene of
Savoy, a man of extraordinary courage and talent, who was worshipped by
his soldiers, and still lives as a hero in song. No two such generals
had ever commanded armies against Lewis before.

The beginning of the war was uneventful. Marlborough, however, managed
to capture a number of fortresses along the line of the Meuse, and by
doing so cut off the French from the Lower Rhine and made the invasion
of Holland impossible. For the rest, the campaign was indecisive. On his
return to England he was created Duke of Marlborough, the title by which
he is best known.

Marlborough was now on the threshold of his great career. He was
fifty-four years old, and was about to win victories at an age when the
work of most men is done. Like his predecessor William, he owed little
to early training and much to his natural abilities. The keynote of his
greatness as a general was the vigour and audacity of his plans. His
greatest obstacle was the slowness and timidity of the Dutch, who
refused again and again to co-operate in the brilliant movements which
he suggested. Calm and unruffled, patient and tactful, he composed all
the differences of his allies, and proved himself even greater in the
council chamber than on the battlefield.

Lewis now began a campaign on a scale of grandeur which was only
equalled by Napoleon himself. He sent the flower of his army into
Bavaria, where the local troops joined them. Then the army of the
Danube, in massed and irresistible might, began its march on Vienna.
Marlborough saw that Austria was bound to be conquered unless prompt
action was taken, so, early in 1704, he made a dash for the Danube. To
do this he had to march right across Germany from the Lower Rhine, while
Prince Eugene had to cross the Alps from Italy. Both undertakings were
full of difficulty, but the difficulties were overcome. By his boldness
and secrecy he completely deceived his enemy, and not until he had
crossed the Neckar and united his forces with those of Eugene was his
real object revealed.

Marlborough was bound to fight a battle speedily, though his chances of
success were doubtful, and the consequences of defeat fatal. If Lewis
won, beyond all doubt “a universal despotic dominion would be
established over the bodies, a cruel spiritual thraldom over the minds
of men.” France and Spain, united in a close family alliance, would
prove irresistible. Protestantism would be destroyed, a despotism worse
than that of the Roman Empire would be set up, and the British race
would be arrested in its mission to overspread the earth. Marlborough
was not unaware of the consequences of defeat. “I know the danger,” he
said, “yet a battle is absolutely necessary; and I rely on the bravery
and discipline of the troops, which will make amends for our
disadvantages.”

On August 13, 1704, the armies faced each other. The enemy, numbering
fifty-six thousand men, was posted in a strong position, with the Nebel,
a marshy stream, in front, hill country on the left, and the Danube on
the right. A short distance from the great river stood the village of
Blenheim, which had been strongly defended by a palisade and trench, and
was occupied by Marshal Tallard’s infantry. At sunrise the allies were
in motion, but their movements were covered by a thick haze, and not
until the allied right and centre were nearly within cannon-shot of the
enemy was Tallard aware of their approach. Eugene, with twenty thousand
men, marched through broken and wooded country towards the Nebel, which
had to be crossed before he could attack the Bavarians opposed to him.
Not until midday did his troops cross the stream, and when they faced
the enemy they were so weary that they could do little more than hold
their own.

While Eugene was struggling on the right, the remainder of the allies
were inactive. During this interval, Marlborough ordered divine service
to be performed by the chaplains at the head of each regiment, for with
all his faults he was sincerely religious. Then he rode along the lines
and found officers and men in the highest spirits, waiting impatiently
for the signal to attack. At length an aide-de-camp galloped up from the
right with the welcome news that Eugene was across the stream. At once a
strong brigade of infantry under Lord Cutts was sent to assault the
village of Blenheim, and Marlborough himself led the main body down the
eastward slope of the valley of the Nebel, and crossed the stream.

Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault of Blenheim under
a shower of grape and musketry. He ordered his men to reserve their fire
until he struck his sword against the palisades. The troops advanced
with great steadiness, but they were repulsed with severe loss; and
Marlborough, finding how strongly Blenheim was held, gave up the attempt
to capture it, and bent all his energies to breaking through the centre.
The ground which he had to traverse was very swampy; but he constructed
something like an artificial roadway, and late in the afternoon, despite
artillery fire and cavalry charges, he crossed the blood-stained stream
with eight thousand horsemen. The infantry were then brought across to
“hold up” the French troops in Blenheim.

Marlborough chiefly relied on his cavalry, and by means of this arm
Blenheim was won. Leading two furious charges in person, he completely
broke the squadrons of the enemy. They discharged their carbines,
wheeled round, and spurred from the field, leaving the infantry to be
ridden down by the victorious allies. Marlborough then drove the French
southward to the Danube, where they were obliged to drown or yield. The
troops in Blenheim, after several gallant but unsuccessful attempts to
cut their way out, laid down their arms. The French army was almost
entirely destroyed. About twelve thousand men were killed and fourteen
thousand taken prisoners; all the cannon, a vast number of colours and
standards, tents and equipages, were captured; and the French general
and twelve hundred officers of rank were in the hands of the conqueror.

“It was a famous victory.” Austria was saved, the French were driven out
of Germany, and the Elector of Bavaria was forced to make peace. The
moral effect of the battle, however, was still greater. For half a
century the French had been considered invincible; now the spell was
broken, and the prestige of France had vanished. For the rest of the war
Lewis had to act on the defensive, and “Malbrook” became a name of fear
to every child in France. The British nation in gratitude presented
Marlborough with £500,000, with which to purchase the manor of
Woodstock, and erect a house which should be named after the battle.
Blenheim Palace still remains one of the most magnificent of England’s
“stately homes,” and a not unworthy monument to Marlborough’s great
military genius.

Next year Marlborough began to attack the great line of fortifications
which then extended almost from Antwerp to Namur. He proposed to fight a
decisive action near to the field of Waterloo, but was prevented from
doing so by the persistent opposition of the Dutch. At the end of 1705
the position of affairs was “as you were.” Next year, however,
Marlborough again covered himself with glory by destroying a French army
at Ramillies. The effect of the victory was enormous. The French
garrisons were panic-stricken, and place after place fell. “It really
looks more like a dream than the truth,” wrote Marlborough. Before long
he was master of the whole of Belgium. Prince Eugene also fared well in
Italy, where lie drove the French troops across the Alps. Austrian and
British troops also entered Spain, where they met with a stubborn
resistance and made but little progress.

In 1708 Marlborough and Eugene won another great victory at Oudenarde.
The French generals would not act together, and consequently their
troops were thrown into disorder. A long, running fight on the heights
of Oudenarde followed, and the French right wing was cut to pieces. The
remainder of the army, flying back to France, was pursued, and the
fortress of Lille was captured. Lewis begged for peace; but the allies
offered him terms which he could not accept, and so, much against his
will, the war went on.

Next year (1709) Marlborough fought his last battle, and again defeated
the French at Malplaquet, in what he called a “very murdering battle.”
The French position was very strong, with a narrow front protected on
both sides by thick woods and heavy batteries. Nevertheless, after a
series of desperate assaults, he met with his usual success, though his
victory was dearly bought with a great sacrifice of life. Marlborough
was deeply affected by the horrors of the scene, and spoke with real
feeling of his misery at seeing so many of his old comrades killed. The
British nation was now weary of the war, and ready to bring it to a
close. Peace was signed at Utrecht in 1713.

Long before the treaty was signed, Marlborough, once the darling of the
nation, was in dire disgrace. He had gone into the war as a Tory, but
during its continuance had allied himself with the Whigs, and by 1708
the ministry almost entirely consisted of men of his new party. Anne was
at heart a Tory, and she greatly disliked the change. Indeed, she only
agreed to the appointment of the Whig leader, Lord Sunderland, because
Marlborough threatened to resign and the duchess fiercely upbraided her
for daring to have inclinations of her own. Anne was now tired of the
Marlboroughs, and was only waiting for an opportunity to throw off their
yoke. A Mrs. Masham, cousin of the duchess, had contrived to usurp the
position of “Mrs. Freeman,” and she now encouraged the queen to rebel. A
bitter quarrel broke out between the queen and the duchess on the
occasion of the “Te Deum” for the victory of Oudenarde. The duchess had
selected certain jewels for the queen to wear, but Anne rejected them,
whereupon there was a furious scene. Violent quarrels and angry letters
followed, but peace was patched up for a time, though the end was fast
drawing near.

In 1710 a clergyman, named Dr. Sacheverell, in the course of a dull,
foolish sermon at St. Paul’s, preached the old Tory doctrine of the
divine right of kings. Very injudiciously, and against Marlborough’s
advice, the Whig ministers determined to prosecute him for the sermon.
The trial resolved itself into a great struggle between the two parties,
and Sacheverell became a martyr. The nation generally supported him, and
a storm of hatred arose against the Whigs. Thereupon the queen dismissed
them from office, restored the Tories, sent “Mrs. Freeman” about her
business, and removed Marlborough from his command. It is said that he
actually went on his knees to the queen and begged her to let him retain
the gold key which was the symbol of his office. There was a final
interview between the queen and the duchess, at which the latter shed
floods of tears, but could not shake Anne’s new-found determination. All
was over, and “Mrs. Freeman” set about removing the brass locks from her
apartments in the palace, and giving orders for the removal of the
marble mantel-pieces and other fixtures.

The Tories, headed by Henry St. John, Viscount Bolingbroke, a subtle
traitor in secret correspondence with the “old Pretender,” now wreaked
their vengeance on Marlborough. He was charged with embezzling public
money, and the charge was only too true, though it is but fair to say
that sums of money thus obtained were generally regarded as the
customary perquisites of his office. With all his greatness, Marlborough
had a mean and miserable soul. It has been said that he was perhaps the
only really great man who ever loved money for its own sake. He was
actually accused of sending officers unnecessarily into the thick of the
fight, so that he might fill his pocket by selling the commissions of
those who fell.

Instead of answering his accusers he fled to the Continent, where he
remained in voluntary exile until news reached him of Anne’s last
illness. He landed at Dover on the day of her death. The new king,
George the First, restored him to his command and his honours; but two
years later he had a paralytic stroke, followed by another. His great
physical strength, hardly tried by the fatigues of his many campaigns,
and his brilliant intellect, broken down by the stress and anxieties of
his labours and responsibilities, began to give way. He spent his
declining days in riding, playing with his grandchildren, and keeping
minute accounts of his most trifling expenditure. Even when old and
infirm, it was said that he walked in order to save sixpence for a
chair. He died on June 16, 1722, and was buried with great splendour in
Westminster Abbey. So passes Marlborough. He leaves a stained memory, it
is true, but let us not dwell upon his vices and failings. Let us rather
remember how—

           “Calm and serene, he drives the furious blast;
           And pleased th’ Almighty’s orders to perform,
           Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.”

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =The British Assault on the Village of Blenheim.=
 (_From the picture by Allan Stewart, specially painted for this book._)]

Brigadier Rose led the British infantry to the assault under a shower of
grape and musketry, and ordered them not to fire a shot until he struck
his sword against the palisades. While the flower of the French troops
were thus “held up” in the village, Marlborough broke the center with
the allied cavalry.




[Illustration]




                              Chapter XVI.
                         BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE.


            “_Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go,_
            _And live and die for Charlie._”

THE scene shifts to the shores of a remote loch in the Western Highlands
of Scotland. Great, gloomy hills rise from the water’s edge; the whole
aspect of the place is wild and solitary. At the head of the loch is a
little plain, from which a narrow, rocky glen runs far inland. Not a
soul is in sight; not a sound breaks the stillness. Now you see a small
company of men appear on the plain. In the centre of them is a gallant
young soldier, tall and slim, with a high, broad forehead, a shapely
nose, rich, dark-brown eyes, and chestnut hair. He carries himself right
nobly, and you feel as you gaze upon him that here at last is a real
hero of romance. Full of hope and eager anticipation he comes upon the
scene; but as he waits, and the minutes lengthen into hours, his
light-hearted gaiety gives place to dejection. The glen remains silent
and deserted. Those who have sworn to meet here have not kept tryst. The
young prince—for such he is—retires with a sinking heart to the
shelter of a barn. Suddenly he hears the faint sound of distant
bagpipes. His eyes light up, he springs to his feet, and hastily quits
his shelter. His heart beats fast as he listens. Louder and louder grows
the sound of the pibroch, and now on the skyline of yonder hill you see
Lochiel with seven or eight hundred Camerons. As soon as they sight the
prince they raise loud huzzas, which echo and re-echo from the hills.

The clansmen form up, and the feeble old Marquis of Tullibardine,
supported by a man on each side, proudly unfurls a royal standard. As
its white, blue, and red folds lift upon the wind, cheer after cheer is
raised, and the greatest enthusiasm prevails. A commission of regency is
read, and the prince, baring his head, makes a brief but gallant speech.
“I knew,” he says, “that I should find in Scotland brave gentlemen,
fired with the noble example of their predecessors, and jealous of their
own and their country’s honour, to join me in so glorious an enterprise.
For my own part I do not doubt of bringing the affair to a happy issue.”
The cheers which greet the prince’s speech have scarcely died away
before the Macdonalds, to the number of three hundred, arrive. Others
follow, and before the camp fires are lighted fifteen hundred men have
sworn to follow the prince to the death.

Who is this prince, and why has he invaded this remote and desolate part
of Scotland? He is Prince Charles Edward Stuart, the grandson of James
the Second, the son of the “old Pretender,” a gay, light-hearted,
active, robust, adventurous young man of twenty-five, who since boyhood
has cherished the hope of winning back the throne of his fathers. There
has already been one attempt, but it was a dismal failure. Fifty-seven
years ago his grandfather fled from the kingdom, and William and Mary
began to reign in his stead. Then followed his aunt, Queen Anne; and at
her death the Tories very nearly made his father king. The activity of
the Whigs foiled them just in the nick of time, and the King of Hanover,
“a wee German lairdie,” who claimed descent through his mother from
James the First, was brought over and crowned. Now his son, the second
George, was King of Great Britain and Ireland.

A fierce continental war was now raging, and Britain was foolish enough
to take a hand in it. To the exiled court, then established in Rome,
England’s embarrassment was the Jacobites’ opportunity, and our young
hero, “bonnie Prince Charlie,” saw that he must shoot his bolt now or
never. To his father he said, “I go in search of three crowns, which I
doubt not but to have the honour and happiness of laying at your
Majesty’s feet. If I fail in the attempt, your next sight of me shall be
in my coffin.” “Heaven forbid,” replied James, “that all the crowns in
the world should rob me of my son.”

Some months of delay elapsed, and then an expedition was fitted out; but
the winds and waves, never kindly disposed to the Stuarts, drove it
back. Weary of waiting for further French assistance, Prince Charlie
determined to stake all on a desperate venture. “I will go to Scotland,”
he said to Lord George Murray, one of the wisest and most trusted of his
advisers, “if I take with me only a single footman.” His equipment makes
us smile. He was about to challenge the might of Britain with a few
hundred muskets, some broadswords, twenty small field-guns, a war-chest
of £4,000, and a barrel or two of brandy. The whole story would be a
farce had not the splendid spirit of young Charles lifted it into a
romance. Sailing from Nantes with a little privateer and a fast brig
called the _Doutelle_, he soon lost the privateer, which was driven back
to harbour by a British ship. The _Doutelle_, however, skirted the
eastern shores of Scotland, rounded the tempestuous north, sailed amidst
the islands of the west, and landed him with seven followers at Eriskay,
a little island of the Hebrides, on July 25, 1745.

Let us picture the scene. The French frigate lies off the little rocky
isle, and the prince is eager to go ashore. During the brief voyage he
has exercised that extraordinary personal magnetism with which he is
endowed, and every man on board is his willing slave. No one, not even
Napoleon, ever possessed so much of that strange attraction which can
capture the imagination of men and women, and make them leave home,
kindred, and friends in order to throw themselves into a perilous and
ruinous cause. As the needle points to the pole, so do all men’s hearts
turn to him, whether in sunshine or in storm, in defeat or in victory.
As the French frigate comes to her anchorage an eagle hovers over the
ship. “Sire,” says old Tullibardine, “the king of birds has come to
welcome your royal highness.”

A few hours later Charles trod the soil of Scotland for the first time.
The day was wet and stormy, and the opening of the campaign was most
inauspicious. Next day a neighbouring chief, Macdonald of Boisdale, was
sent for. He came “over the water to Charlie,” but bluntly advised the
prince to return home. With that readiness of speech which marked him,
the prince replied, “I am come home, sir, and I will entertain no notion
of returning to that place from whence I came. I am persuaded that my
faithful Highlanders will stand by me.” He refused to be rebuffed, and
forthwith crossed in the French ship to the coast of Inverness, where he
summoned the gallant Lochiel and other leading chiefs to meet him. And
now his fate seemed to rest on the goodwill of a single man. Lochiel had
already denounced Charles’s invasion as a rash and desperate
undertaking, and he was in no mood to join the prince. Other leading men
shook their heads, though Charles pleaded his cause with all the
earnestness of despair, pacing up and down the deck, and pouring forth a
torrent of eloquent words.

As he did so he espied a young Highlander listening attentively with
flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. Here was a kindred spirit. The prince
suddenly turned to him and said, “You, at least, will not forsake me.”
“I will follow you to the death,” said the lad. “I would follow you to
the death, even were there no other to draw a sword in your cause.” The
lad’s speech had an excellent effect on his hearers. Their Highland
pride was touched, their Highland chivalry was aroused. Most of them
flung their caution to the winds and eagerly embraced his cause.
Lochiel, however, had yet to be persuaded, and Charles, tired of
pleading, tried reproach. “In a few days,” he said, “with the few
friends that I have, I will erect the royal standard and proclaim to the
people of Britain that Charles Stuart is come to claim the crown of his
ancestors, and to win it or perish in the attempt. Lochiel can stay at
home and learn from the newspapers the fate of his prince.” This was
more than Lochiel could bear. “No,” he cried; “I’ll share the fate of my
prince, come what may.” Forthwith arrangements were made for the meeting
at Glenfinnan. You have already witnessed the gathering of the clansmen
and the unfurling of the royal standard.

On the very day that the prince’s banner first waved in the northern
breeze, Sir John Cope, the commander of the royal forces in Scotland,
moved towards the Highlands with three thousand men, mainly raw
recruits, for well-nigh the whole British army was overseas in Flanders.
Cope was a dull man of the stock-and-pipeclay school, and a thoroughly
incompetent general. His object was to relieve the small garrisons of
royal troops stationed at Fort William and Fort Augustus. When, however,
he reached the rocky steeps of Corry Arrack he found the clansmen in
possession of the pass. Rumours were rife that every zigzag path was
commanded by big guns, and that every rock concealed an armed
Highlander. Turning aside, he marched towards Inverness, and thus left
the southern road open.

With banners flying, bagpipes skirling, and drums beating, the Highland
host, shaggy and unkempt as their own cattle, with a meagre equipment
and a strange assortment of weapons, pushed on towards Perth. The prince
rode at their head, and every day he grew in favour with his followers.
His frank, manly air and his gallant bearing knit him to them with
“hooks of steel,” and their spirits rose with every mile they marched.
Opposition melted away before him. Leaving Perth, he marched on
Stirling. The castle sent a few ineffective shots towards him as he
crossed the Forth and proceeded towards Edinburgh. On the 17th September
he was in possession of the Scottish capital without striking a blow.

Forthwith “King James the Eighth” was proclaimed at the Mercat Cross by
the heralds in all their finery, and the prince took up his abode in
Holyrood Palace, where balls and banquets and other brilliant
festivities were held. The time, however, was not suitable for such
scenes of gaiety. Cope had embarked his troops at Inverness, and had
sailed south for Dunbar, where he had landed his forces. He was now
ready to march on Edinburgh, and Charles determined to give him battle
at once. On the night of the 20th he led his army along the ridge of
high ground towards Inveresk, where he expected to meet the enemy. It
was wise to keep to the high ground, for, as one of his captains said,
“Even a haggis could charge down hill.” As the troops moved off Charles
drew his sword and said, “Gentlemen, I have flung away the scabbard.” At
Prestonpans Cope’s army was discovered on the narrow plain between the
hills and the sea. A deep morass lay between the two hosts, and Cope
prided himself that his position was secure. Both armies slept on the
field, and through the night watched each other. The prince lay amongst
his men with a bundle of pease-sticks for a pillow.

During the night a local gentleman, who knew every inch of the ground,
remembered that a path led from the height through the morass and round
the left wing of the enemy. The prince was roused and told the good
news, and immediately the order was given to advance. In deep silence
the march was commenced, Lochiel leading the way. The stars shone
brightly overhead, but as the men advanced the mist gathered and
concealed their movements. So, unseen, they threaded the narrow path,
their soft brogues making no sound. The path had been left unguarded,
and the Highlanders gained the plain, and were beginning to form when
the mist lifted and disclosed them to their foes. Cope’s men were taken
by surprise. The Highlanders charged furiously, and in six minutes the
battle was lost and won. Cope’s army was in flight, and Charles had
captured his cannon and baggage and seventeen hundred prisoners.

For six weeks after his victory Charles lay in Edinburgh, holding
councils and drilling his troops by day, and dancing gaily by night in
the oaken gallery of Holyrood, where his kinswoman, the unhappy Mary
Queen of Scots, had held her court. Not until the last days of October
did he begin his march on England, in the full expectation that his easy
conquest of Scotland would be repeated over the Border. No sign of the
expected rising, however, met the invaders as they marched southward.
The Highlanders began to desert, and his troops dwindled in number
daily. A few recruits joined his standard at Preston, but it was already
evident that his dream of an English rising was vain.

Throughout the long, disappointing march the prince was the life and
soul of his army. His tact, his endurance, and unfailing good-humour
endeared him more and more to his faithful followers. The farther his
army marched south the colder was his reception, until by the time he
reached Derby it was plain that he had come to the end of his tether.
The Duke of Cumberland had an army at Lichfield; there was a second army
in his rear; and a third on Finchley Common. The wiser of the Jacobite
leaders now advised a retreat to Scotland. Charles, however, had not yet
lost hope; all his talk at Derby was about the manner in which he should
enter London, whether on foot or on horseback, in the Highland or in the
Lowland dress. Lord George Murray pressed upon the prince the absolute
necessity of returning to Scotland, and at length Charles was very
reluctantly forced to give the order to retreat. Homeward in straggling,
sullen groups the Highlanders retraced their steps, with the foe hard at
their heels. Charles showed obvious signs of dejection, and constantly
lingered behind his men. On the 20th December the Highland army stood
once more on Scottish ground.

Eight days later Charles marched to Stirling at the head of the largest
army which he had ever commanded. Leaving a small party to watch the
castle, he hurried to Falkirk, where he met General Hawley, who was
advancing to the relief of Stirling. Here again the young prince was
victorious; but hardly had the smoke cleared away from the battlefield
before quarrels broke out amongst the Highland leaders, and Charles was
forced to retreat. The Highlanders, laden with booty, returned to their
homes, and Charles pushed on to Inverness, followed by the Duke of
Cumberland with a strong force of Royalist troops. Cumberland encamped
at Nairn, nine miles from the moor of Culloden, on which the remains of
Charles’s army lay.

They were ill-prepared for battle. The war-chest was empty, food was
scarce, and the men were worn out with fatigue and privation. Lord
George Murray proposed a night attack on the royal army, and suggested
the 15th April as the most suitable date, because it was Cumberland’s
birthday, and sure to be an occasion for revelry in the English camp.
Charles agreed to the proposal, and the march began; but so fatigued and
hungry were his men that no less than fifty halts had to be called in
eight miles. At two in the morning, the time fixed for the attack, the
Highlanders were still four miles from the English camp. Cumberland’s
men had already aroused themselves, and the Jacobite host had to plod
back wearily to Culloden once more.

The final hour had come. Cumberland advanced with his 10,000 troops,
fresh, ardent, well-fed, and well-equipped, and the battle was decided
before it was begun. At a distance of a third of a mile his guns opened
fire, making blood-red lanes through the Jacobite regiments. They stood
their ground with wonderful courage; but they were obliged to give way,
and as dusk settled over the moor the cause of the Stuarts was lost for
ever.

Then came the grim sequel. “Butcher” Cumberland took such a cruel
vengeance on the defeated foe that he well deserves his nickname.
Several Scottish lords were beheaded, and measures were taken to prevent
a similar rising in future. The tartan and kilt were proscribed articles
of dress, the clan system was broken up, and military roads opened the
Highlands to the rapid march of troops.

Meanwhile “bonnie Prince Charlie” was a fugitive, with a price of
£30,000 on his head. For months he encountered hairbreadth escapes and
perils by land and sea. His life was made up of days of hiding in the
heather, and nights of hunger, cold, fatigue, and anxiety in dim
mountain caves. Yet, though his whereabouts were known to scores of
people who might easily have earned the money and a pardon into the
bargain, no one betrayed him, no one revealed his hiding-place. Men and
women at the risk of their lives befriended him, and ultimately, by the
aid of those whom he had brought to ruin and to the verge of the
scaffold, he managed to escape.

History reveals no more splendid example of unswerving loyalty. The
whole story of Prince Charlie’s wanderings is one of the proudest
traditions of the land of mountain and of glen. As a memorial of his
gallant but hopeless attempt to overthrow King George the Second we have
those spirited and tender Jacobite songs which have become an
imperishable part of our literature. They are a monument not so much to
the young man whom they commemorate as to the race which saw in him its
best and most inspiring ideals.

Before we say farewell to Prince Charlie, the story of a woman’s superb
heroism and devotion must be told. When Charles was hiding in the
heather in South Uist, and the redcoats were within a couple of miles of
him, a young lady, named Flora Macdonald, was introduced to him. She had
lately come from Skye to visit her brother in South Uist, and Charles’s
faithful henchman, O’Neil, had heard of her and of her friendship for
the Stuart cause. He met her secretly, and begged her to convey the
prince to her mother’s house in Skye, where he might be safe until he
could be got away to France. The plan was most difficult and daring, for
Flora’s chief was then with Cumberland, and her stepfather was an
officer in the Skye militia, and was at that instant scouring South Uist
for the fugitive. Nevertheless Flora undertook the task, and O’Neil made
her known to the prince. O’Neil proposed that Flora should obtain a pass
from her stepfather for herself and her maid, Betty Burke, to go and
visit her mother in Skye. Flora’s stepfather was a Jacobite at heart,
and he furnished her with the passports. Betty Burke was none other than
the prince, who was now to don petticoats and follow Flora as her
servant. The prince made but a poor maid; he walked with such manly
strides that his disguise only served to attract attention. Further, he
could not manage his skirts; at one time they trailed in the mud, at
another time he held them above his knees. However, the boat was reached
in safety, and “over the sea to Skye” went Charlie. The night was
stormy, but Flora slept, and the prince watched over her and sang songs
to hearten the crew. In the morning they only just managed to escape the
boats of the enemy.

While the prince hid in the heather, Flora went to the house of a
friend, Lady Margaret Macdonald, and arrived at a sadly ill-timed
moment, for the militia were in the neighbourhood and their officer was
in the house. Nevertheless, arrangements were made, and Macdonald of
Kingsburgh undertook to get the prince to Portree. The night was spent
at Macdonald’s house, and next day Charles managed to get to Portree,
where he doffed his petticoats. Here he hid for some time in a cave, and
here, too, he said good-bye to his brave preserver. He kissed her and
said, “For all that has happened, I hope, madam, we shall meet at St.
James’s yet.” He called her “our lady,” and his last thought was for
her. Thus he parted from the courageous woman who had ventured all for
his sake. From this moment she fades out of history, but her place
amongst the heroines is assured for ever.

Months of flitting to and fro, of lurking in the heather and hiding in
caves and ruined huts, followed, and at last news came to him that two
French vessels were off the coast. Losing no time, he started off for
the very spot where fourteen months before he had landed so full of
hope. The ships were riding at anchor, a boat moored to a rock awaited
him. The prince jumped in, and in a few moments was climbing the sides
of the vessel, safe at last. And here we leave him while his ship is
rocking on the wave, and the stern men upon whom he has brought such
sorrow and suffering wave him a last farewell amidst their streaming
tears. We will not dwell upon the later years of his life—years of
misery and degradation, when the once gay, kind, brave, and loyal prince
sank into a fierce, shabby, homeless, and almost friendless adventurer.
For many years he moved about like a shadow, finding his way more than
once to England. Giving way to drink, he sank deeper and deeper into the
mire. Let us not dwell upon the sad scenes of his later life. Let us
think of him in his best moments, as the man who ennobled the Highland
race for all time by calling forth a devotion, loyalty, and love the
fame of which can never die.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =BONNIE PRINCE CHARLIE.=
 (_From the painting by John Pettie, R.A._)]

[Illustration: =AFTER CULLODEN: ROYALIST SOLDIERS SEARCHING FOR JACOBITE
  FUGITIVES.=
 (_From the picture by John Seymour Lucas, R.A., in the Tate Gallery. By
   permission of Messrs. Frost and Reed._)]

[Illustration: =A Royal Fugitive.=
 (_From the picture by Allan Stewart. Exhibited in the Royal Academy,
   1907._)]




[Illustration]




                             Chapter XVII.
                            MAKERS OF EMPIRE.


                    ROBERT CLIVE, THE DARING IN WAR.

                “_War, disguised as commerce, came;_
                _Britain, carrying sword and flame,_
                _Won an empire._”

YOU are now permitted to peep into the citadel of Arcot, the old capital
of the Carnatic. Its walls are ruinous, its ramparts unfitted for guns,
its battlements too low to protect soldiers. The town is in the hands of
four thousand native troops, assisted by one hundred and fifty
Frenchmen. Within the fort there are but a hundred and twenty Europeans
and two hundred Sepoys. Their stock of provisions is very low. At the
request of the Sepoys the Europeans take the rice, while the faithful
natives contrive to keep body and soul together on the water in which it
has been boiled. The defenders are daily diminishing in number from
starvation, disease, and the musketry fire of the enemy, but there is no
talk of surrender. You judge that their leader must be a man of no
common courage and resolution, and you are right. Within yonder room
their young English captain is placidly sleeping, though he knows that
the enemy is about to assault his feeble post.

Already he has been offered honourable terms and a bribe of money if he
will but yield. He has rejected both with the utmost scorn and defiance,
though he knows full well that the capture of the fort means the death
of every man in it. In haughty tones the young Englishman has told the
prince who commands the besieging army that his father is a usurper,
that his forces are a mere rabble, and that he will do well to think
twice before he sends such poltroons against English soldiers. It is now
the 14th day of November, and on the 30th of August last he and his
little army marched through a violent storm of thunder and rain, and
captured the fort without striking a blow. He has already held out for
seventy-five days, hoping hourly for relief. But he has not been
inactive. Time after time he and his little band have sallied forth and
inflicted considerable damage on the besiegers. The artillery of the
enemy has already made much havoc; two great breaches gape in the walls.
Every attempt to storm them has failed. Now the enemy is in overwhelming
force, and to-day an assault is to be made; yet the commander of the
post lies calmly sleeping, though a touch on the shoulder will awaken
him and bring him on to the walls to direct the defence. He has made all
arrangements; he has done all that man can do. Now he is recruiting his
exhausted strength for the critical struggle that awaits him.

To-day is the most solemn festival in the Mohammedan calendar, a day on
which the followers of Mohammed believe that he who falls in fight
against the infidel will enter at once into Paradise. The religious
enthusiasm of the besiegers is almost a frenzy, and they have further
increased their madness by a free use of the intoxicating drug which
they call bhang. They are ready to go to death with eager joy; no man of
them will flinch from the most dangerous duty; all are zealous for the
privilege of sacrificing their lives.

Suddenly you hear the discharge of three bombs. It is the signal for the
attack. Our young Englishman is awake now, and you get your first
glimpse of him. One glance at his face convinces you that he is a
warrior of warriors, that there is not a particle of fear in his whole
composition, that he is a born leader of men. His Sepoys positively
worship him. They believe him to be more than mortal. Whatever he
commands they obey. Their devotion to him exceeds that of the Tenth
Legion to Cæsar and of the Old Guard to Napoleon.

Such is Robert Clive, a young man of twenty-five, who left his
Shropshire home as the scapegrace of the family. In his home at Styche
and in the grammar school of Market Drayton he acquired a most
unenviable reputation—always in mischief, ready to use his fists on the
slightest provocation, an idle, worthless dunce. In desperation his
father packed him off to India as a book-keeper; but he has exchanged
the pen for the sword, and has now found his vocation. It is he who
suggested this desperate enterprise, and to-day he is about to lay the
foundations of his great fame.

The attack has begun. A vast multitude of besiegers is beneath the walls
carrying ladders, while against the four points where the fort is
weakest—the two gates and the two breaches—organized and simultaneous
attacks are preparing. Huge elephants, with their foreheads armed with
iron plates, are driven forward, and you expect that the gates will be
smashed to matchwood by the impact of these living battering-rams. But
watch! Now you see Clive directing his men to pour their fire into the
elephants. They do so, and the huge beasts, stung by the bullets, turn
round and trample under foot the dense masses of men behind them. The
enemy has been hoist with his own petard.

There is a wild rush into the north-west breach, which is blocked with
yelling natives. Suddenly you hear a volley, and down go scores of the
assailants. Clive has dug trenches behind the breaches, and his men are
in them pouring a murderous fire on the living, struggling mass that
swarms through the gap in the wall. As soon as the guns are discharged
they are handed to the rear-rank men to be loaded, and others charged
and primed are received in exchange. Three field-pieces now open fire,
and every shot tells. After three desperate onsets the enemy is driven
back.

Meanwhile the south-west breach is attacked. Water fills one part of the
ditch which protects it, and on this the foe has launched a raft crowded
with soldiers, who are urging it towards the shattered walls. The
gunners at this post fire wildly and their aim is bad. Clive springs to
the gun and works it himself. In three discharges he has cleared the
raft and torn it asunder. Many of its occupants are drowning in the
ditch, the remainder are swimming back to the bank.

The fight has now lasted an hour, and four hundred of the assailants are
dead. The grand attack has failed. There is firing during the night, but
when day breaks the besiegers are nowhere to be seen. They have
hurriedly abandoned the town, leaving their artillery and ammunition
behind them.

At once India rings with the praises of Clive. Reinforced, he proceeds
upon his victorious career, and the natives tremble at his name. Within
the next three years, by his marvellous energy and skill, he will
establish British supremacy in India.

Now we must hark back in order to understand the meaning of the struggle
which we have just witnessed. The East India Company, in whose service
Clive had enlisted, was established as far back as the days of Queen
Elizabeth. It was founded for trade, and it attended closely to
business. When Clive arrived in India its territory consisted of a few
square miles of land, for which rent was paid to native rajas. Its
troops were scarcely sufficient to man the ill-constructed forts which
had been erected at Madras, Bombay, Calcutta, and a few other places to
protect the warehouses. Most of the soldiers in the service of the
Company were natives, and were neither furnished with European weapons
nor disciplined according to European methods. The white servants of the
Company were simply traders, whose business it was to make advances to
manufacturers, ship cargoes, and in other ways push the business
interests of their employers. Most of the younger clerks, of whom Clive
was one, were miserably paid, while the older ones enriched themselves
by trading on their own account.

A French East India Company had also been founded, but at the outset it
met with much less success than the English Company. At the close of the
seventeenth century it possessed little more than the small town of
Pondicherry, which still remains in French hands. At this time the
Moguls, the descendants of the Mohammedan conquerors of Northern India,
dominated the land; but a few years later their power fell to pieces,
and India was splintered into little independent kingdoms. The land was
given over to civil war; every nawab, or governor, quarrelled and fought
with his neighbours. The feebleness of the native rulers and the
disturbed state of the country positively invited the European traders,
both English and French, to conquest. Hitherto they had been merely
competitors for commerce; soon they were to become rivals for dominion.

Such was the condition of affairs when Clive sailed for India. He was
very homesick and depressed during the long voyage round the Cape, and
when he arrived he had spent all his money and contracted some debts. He
was stationed at Fort George, Madras, where he was wretchedly lodged and
badly paid, and engaged in duties ill-suited to his daring, ardent
nature. On more than one occasion he got into scrapes and received
reprimands. Twice he attempted suicide, and twice the pistol which he
snapped at his own head failed to go off. “It appears I am destined for
something,” he said, and, as you already know, his prophecy proved true.
In the year of his arrival in India (1744) war was declared by Britain
against France, and the struggle in Europe led to the long fight for
supremacy in India.

Dupleix, the French Governor of Pondicherry, was a man of great
ambition, and he now conceived the idea of founding a great French
empire in India. Himself an able soldier, he made two most important
discoveries. First, he observed that the native armies could not stand
against men disciplined in the European fashion; and, secondly, he
perceived that the natives could be brought under European discipline by
European officers. Forthwith he began to enlist Sepoys, or native
soldiers, and to arm and discipline them after the French manner. With
these Sepoys he intended to intervene in the disputes of the native
rulers, and by taking first this side, and then that, gradually win
India for France.

A French expedition appeared before Madras, captured Fort George, and
seized the contents of the warehouses as prize of war. Some of the
servants of the Company, including Clive, were paraded through the
streets of Pondicherry in triumphal procession, and treated with great
indignity. Clive, in the disguise of a Mohammedan, managed to escape
from the town by night and make his way to Fort St. David, a small
British settlement one hundred miles south of Madras. Here he begged an
ensign’s commission in the service of the Company, and at twenty-one
entered upon his military career.

He took part in Admiral Boscawen’s unsuccessful siege of Pondicherry,
where he distinguished himself, and in his twenty-fifth year was
promoted to be a captain. Shortly after the failure at Pondicherry peace
was proclaimed. Nevertheless, there was but a short cessation of
hostilities in India; for though British and French were supposed to
have sheathed the sword, a great struggle for power was about to begin
both in India and in America. Before long there was open war, which at
first went greatly in favour of France.

Dupleix, continuing his rapid and brilliant career, had intervened in
the affairs of the two great native states of Hyderabad and the
Carnatic, and had managed to get his own candidates placed on the
thrones of both these states. Thus he was practically master of South
India. Civil war, however, continued in the Carnatic, where the French
nominee was besieging Trichinopoly, the last stronghold of his rival.
Trichinopoly was about to fall, and its fall would mean the complete
supremacy of the French in India. At the critical moment Clive persuaded
the Governor of Madras to entrust him with a small force to attack
Arcot, the capital of the nawab whom Dupleix was supporting. By doing
so, he hoped to draw off the nawab’s forces from the siege of
Trichinopoly. You already know how splendidly he defended Arcot, and how
he forced the enemy to raise the siege. By 1753 he had completely undone
the work of Dupleix.

Worn out by anxiety and fatigue, he now returned to England. He had gone
out ten years before, a friendless, wayward boy; he now returned, at the
age of twenty-eight, to find himself greeted as one of Britain’s most
famous soldiers. Naturally, his father and mother and the other members
of his family were overjoyed to learn that naughty, idle Bobby had
developed into a famous man, the theme of all tongues, honoured and
praised by the greatest in the land. The East India Company thanked him
for his services in the warmest terms, and offered him a sword set with
diamonds. This he refused to accept unless a similar one was given to
his friend and commander Lawrence. With his prize-money Clive helped to
pay off some of his father’s debts, and to redeem the family estate.

In 1755 Clive returned to India. He had only just arrived when terrible
news reached him. Suraj-ud-Dowlah, the Nawab of Bengal, a fiend in human
shape, whose amusement as a child was to torture beasts and birds, and
his pastime as a man to watch the sufferings of his fellow-creatures,
had attacked the British settlement at Calcutta, and had seized one
hundred and forty-six Europeans. These he thrust into a chamber known as
the “Black Hole.” It was eighteen feet by fourteen, and its cubical
content was twenty feet square. When ordered to enter the cell the
prisoners imagined that the soldiers were joking, and as the nawab had
promised them their lives they laughed aloud at the absurdity of the
idea that they could possibly exist during the stifling heat of a Bengal
June night in such a confined space. They discovered their error when
they were driven in at the point of the sword. The windows were small
and barred, and soon the air was poisonous. The horrors that followed
are almost too terrible to recount. The poor creatures cried for mercy,
they strove to break in the door, they offered large bribes to their
jailers; but all to no purpose. Nothing could be done without the
nawab’s orders, and he was asleep and could not be awaked. Many went
mad; they trampled each other down, and fought like wild beasts for
places at the windows. The murderers outside mocked at their agonies,
holding lights to the bars, and shouting with laughter as they beheld
the struggles of their victims. When day broke and the doors were opened
only twenty-three ghastly figures staggered out into the sunlight. A
hundred and twenty-three corpses were flung promiscuously into a pit dug
for the purpose.

The rage and anger of the British in India can well be imagined. Clive
hastened to Bengal to avenge the awful outrage. He had nine hundred
Europeans and fifteen hundred Sepoys with which to oppose
Suraj-ud-Dowlah’s huge army. After a short, sharp fight the enemy fled
in confusion, leaving baggage, guns, and cattle in the hands of the
victors. This battle of Plassey, fought on June 23, 1757, secured for
the British the province of Bengal, the richest and most populous
province of India.

The battle, however, was not won without grave treachery. Prior to the
battle Clive learned that Mir Jaffier, Suraj-ud-Dowlah’s chief
commander, had formed a plot against his master. He managed to get into
communication with the disaffected general through the agency of one
Omichand, a wily, unscrupulous Bengali merchant. This man held the
thread of the whole plot in his hands; one word whispered by him in the
ear of Suraj-ud-Dowlah would have meant the lives of all the
conspirators. Omichand claimed £300,000 sterling as the price of his
secrecy and assistance, and insisted that an article regarding his
claims should be inserted in the treaty between Clive and Mir Jaffier.
Clive now descended to conduct for which he cannot be defended, though
excuses may be made. He knew he had to do with a villain, and he
determined to defeat him by his own knavish acts. Two treaties were
drawn up—the one, on white paper, was real; the other, on red paper,
was a sham. The red paper contained the promise to pay Omichand’s
demand; there was no mention of it in the white paper. Clive now added
his signature, and forged that of Admiral Watson to the red paper, which
was handed to Omichand. The treaty to which Mir Jaffier agreed was on
the white paper.

When Suraj-ud-Dowlah was overcome, Mir Jaffier received the throne of
Bengal as his reward. According to the terms of the treaty, he granted
territorial and other rights to the East India Company, and gave Clive a
gift of £200,000. “It is now time,” said Clive, “to undeceive Omichand.”
Turning to the man, Clive’s interpreter said, “Omichand, the red treaty
is a trick. You are to have nothing.” Omichand fell back insensible, and
afterwards relapsed into a state of idiocy. Soon after, Mir Jaffier was
besieged by the eldest son of the Great Mogul; but Clive marched to his
relief, and the besiegers melted away. Then Mir Jaffier in gratitude
made over to Clive the yearly rent, amounting to £30,000, which the
British paid for the lands which they occupied about Calcutta. Probably
Clive was justified in accepting this present, but it gave his enemies a
powerful handle against him. In 1760 Clive returned to England, and was
everywhere greeted as a “heaven-born general.” He became member of
Parliament for Shrewsbury, and received an Irish peerage. His fortune,
acquired by spoils, presents, and grants, actually yielded him £40,000 a
year.

In 1765 he returned to India as governor-general, and set himself the
task of purifying the administration of the Company. The officials and
military commanders received very small salaries; but these they turned
into fortunes by “shaking the pagoda tree”—that is, by blackmail,
extortion, and corruption of all kinds. Clive attempted to stop these
practices, and though his reforms were bitterly opposed, he left the
Company’s service much purer than he found it. In the process he raised
up a host of enemies, who in 1767, when he finally returned to England
in shattered health, brought about his impeachment for corrupt
practices, especially with reference to the Omichand affair and the
present from Mir Jaffier. During the Parliamentary inquiry, Clive, when
confronted by hostile evidence, remarked, “Mr. Chairman, at this moment
I stand astonished at my own moderation!” The House of Commons evaded a
decision on his conduct by passing a resolution that Lord Clive “had
rendered great and meritorious services to his country.” He was
acquitted, but the acquittal was really a vote of censure. Clive, broken
in health, keenly sensitive to the disgrace of the verdict, and
enfeebled in mind by the use of opium, felt the disgrace keenly. During
one of the fits of deep depression to which he was subject, he ended his
life by his own hand (November 1774).

Thus perished, in his forty-ninth year, the great Clive. His faults were
many, but his merits outweighed them, and he must always stand high in
the roll of British empire-makers. “Our island has scarcely ever
produced a man more truly great either in arms or in council.” Let this
be his epitaph.




[Illustration: =Clive at Bay.=]

The natives of India believed that Clive bore a charmed life. On one
occasion, when he was resting along with several of his men, a party of
Frenchmen fired into the room which he occupied, killing the man next to
him. Clive rushed out, and finding himself confronted by six Frenchmen,
loudly ordered them to lay down their arms as they were surrounded. The
native allies of the French fled, and the assailants themselves took
refuge in a temple. Next day they surrendered.




[Illustration]


                   JAMES WOLFE, CONQUEROR OF CANADA.

          “_Wolfe, where’er he fought,_
          _Put so much of his heart into his act_
          _That his example had a magnet’s force,_
          _And all were swift to follow whom all loved._”

Once more you see a young soldier advancing. He is a hero of heroes, yet
never was the soul of a hero enshrined in a more unhero-like frame. His
features are homely, his hair is fiery-red, his shoulders are narrow,
and his limbs are veritable spindle-shanks. But look at his eyes, and
you will instantly forget his plain features and his rickety body. They
are bright, searching, brimful of intelligence and vivacity, and speak
eloquently of the indomitable spirit within. This is James Wolfe, the
man who gave us Canada—“eldest daughter of the Empire”—that vast land
of fertile prairie, dense forest, widespreading pasture, rich mines,
unrivalled waterways, fine cities, and, above all, of a sturdy nation,
heart-warm towards the mother-country, and eager to give her tangible
proofs of kinship and affection. Wolfe gave Canada to the Empire at the
price of his heart’s blood. In one “crowded hour of glorious life” he
gave us the heritage of this majestic land, already the greatest and
most prosperous of all British lands beyond the seas, and yearly
advancing towards a mighty destiny.

James Wolfe was a soldier from his youth. His father was an officer of
distinction; his mother a woman of great sweetness and charm, deeply
beloved by her two sons, of whom James was the elder. He was born on
June 2, 1727, at Westerham in Kent. Of his brief boyhood’s days we know
little—indeed, there are but meagre details of his whole life. We know,
however, that he was a delicate, sensitive, highly-strung boy, who
inherited his mother’s frailty though not her beauty. We know, too, that
he saw little of his father, who was almost constantly absent from home
on active service. Nevertheless, he was tenderly and judiciously reared
by his devoted mother.

When a mere schoolboy—a little over fifteen years of age—he became an
ensign, and carried the colours in one of his Majesty’s regiments. From
the beginning of his career he set himself to study the art of war, and
at sixteen he was adjutant of his regiment, then serving in Flanders. He
discharged his duties with great intelligence, and very early
demonstrated his capacity for leading men. Even though an adjutant, he
had not lost his schoolboy tastes, for we find him writing to his mother
warmly thanking her for a plum-cake which she had sent him.

At twenty-one he had seen seven campaigns, and was a major. He had been
present at the victories of Dettingen and Culloden, and it is said that
on the latter battlefield he proved the nobility of his nature by
refusing to shoot a wounded Highlander when ordered to do so by
“Butcher” Cumberland. It is also said that he recommended the enlistment
of Highlanders as soldiers in the British army. This may or may not be
true, but it is certain that the Highland regiments first began to win
their great renown under his command.

At thirty years of age he had acquired the reputation of a capable,
active, zealous officer, but so far he had given little indication of
the great fame which was soon to be his. In 1758 he first crossed the
Atlantic; and here we may interrupt the narrative in order to explain
the condition of affairs at that time in America. By the middle of the
eighteenth century the British had established themselves in thirteen
colonies along the Atlantic coast from Florida to Nova Scotia. The
French had chosen Quebec as their capital, and had occupied Acadia (now
the provinces of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick) and the valley of the
St. Lawrence from the Atlantic to the Great Lakes. A new England and a
new France had thus grown up in the New World.

New England grew rapidly in population and wealth. New France also
prospered, though in a lesser degree. Its progress was hindered by
constant warfare with the Indians, by the trading enterprise of the
British, and by the interference of the home government. The two white
races constantly advanced their frontiers, and their outposts drew
nearer and nearer to each other every year. Border strife between the
rival nations soon became frequent. In 1690, for example, the British
settlers invaded New France to revenge themselves for the plunder of
certain frontier stations. The invaders were driven back, but for years
afterwards the French and the British kept up an irregular warfare.
During the War of the Spanish Succession a powerful British fleet which
was protecting the colonies seized that part of Acadia now known as Nova
Scotia.

Though Britain had colonized the whole Atlantic seaboard from Florida to
Nova Scotia, her territories had not advanced inland beyond the great
barrier of the Alleghany Mountains. France, in addition to Canada,
possessed the colony of Louisiana at the mouth of the Mississippi. She
claimed that Louisiana stretched to the head-waters of the Mississippi
and its tributary the Ohio. Had this claim been allowed, the British
seaboard colonies would have been shut in on the west, and prevented
from extending to the rich plains of the interior. Already the British
needed elbow-room, for they numbered some 2,000,000, while the French in
all the vast territory which they claimed could only muster 180,000.

The French now proposed to link Louisiana with Canada by a chain of
forts along the Mississippi and the Ohio. The three northern links in
the chain were Fort Ticonderoga, at the end of Lake Champlain; Fort
Niagara, near the great falls; and Fort Duquesne, on the Ohio River,
where the great manufacturing town of Pittsburg now stands. The first
and last of these forts were close to the English back settlements,
which were constantly ravaged by Indians in the pay of France. In 1754,
while Britain was ringing with the fame of Clive fresh from his great
defence of Arcot, a party of Virginian militia made a dash at Fort
Duquesne under the leadership of George Washington, soon to be the
greatest name in American history. The attack, however, was
unsuccessful. This was the beginning of the great struggle between the
French and the British for the possession of North America.

Next year General Braddock, who had been sent out to be
commander-in-chief in America, marched against the French at the head of
2,200 British regulars and American settlers. He cut his way through
almost impenetrable forest, but when eight miles from the fort fell into
an ambuscade. The Indians and French were hidden in bushes and behind
trees, and they poured volley after volley into the British ranks. The
settlers wished to fight in the Indian fashion, and take cover behind
the trees; but Braddock thought this mode of warfare cowardly, and so
they fought in the open until so many of the British were killed that a
retreat had to be sounded. Soon the retreat became a flight, and but for
Washington and his Virginians, Braddock’s little army would probably
have been cut off to a man. The consequences of this defeat were
terrible. The French let loose the Indians on the outlying British
settlements, and the woods rang with the screams of tortured victims.
For a time France was supreme on the American continent.

In 1758 the British outlook was black indeed, and at home men trembled
in hourly expectation of a French invasion. England was in a very bad
way indeed; but the hour found the man, and that man was William Pitt.
He sketched out a bold plan of campaign in America. Simultaneous attacks
were to be made on Fort Ticonderoga and Fort Niagara, and on Quebec, the
key to New France. Pitt looked around for a general after his own heart.
He found him in James Wolfe, a young soldier with the daring, skill, and
determination to accomplish what the great statesman planned. Merit and
merit alone decided Pitt’s choice, and a better choice was never made.

Wolfe had just returned from the capture of the chief fort in Acadia,
where as brigadier under General Amherst he had covered himself with
glory, and had earned the proud title of “hero of Louisbourg.” When Pitt
offered the command of the new expedition to Wolfe he jumped at the
chance. “Mr. Pitt,” he said, “may dispose of my slight carcass as he
pleases.” The Duke of Newcastle, then Prime Minister, was shocked at
Pitt’s choice. He told the king that Wolfe was mad. “Mad is he?” said
George; “then I hope he will bite some others of my generals.”

On February 17, 1759, Wolfe sailed for Canada with a strong fleet and
9,000 troops. During the voyage he suffered tortures from sea-sickness.
In May he was in the harbour of Louisbourg, and on the sixteenth of June
he weighed anchor for Quebec, the troops cheering and the officers
drinking this toast, “British colours on every French fort, port, and
garrison in America.”

Quebec, the most historic spot in all the New World, has not inaptly
been called the Gibraltar of America. It stands on the nose of a rocky
peninsula shaped like a bull’s head and facing eastward. On the south
and east sides it rises by steep cliffs to a rocky summit. On south,
east, and north it is defended by rivers: to the south flows the great
St. Lawrence River, which expands on the east into a broad basin upon
which the navies of the world might ride; while on the north the
peninsula is protected by the estuary of the river St. Charles. The town
itself consists of two parts—a lower town, which huddles by the water
side, and an upper town, which climbs the cliffs. High on the summit is
the grim and frowning citadel. Let us ascend to this historic fortress
and gaze in admiration on the scene which unfolds itself. The lower
town, with its steep streets, its old gabled houses, its public
buildings, and numerous churches with their tin-covered cupolas and
minarets, rises sharply from the water’s edge. Opposite to us, on the
other side of the river, is Point Levis, and to the east is the
beautiful Isle of Orleans. On our left, across the basin, is the
Montmorency River, which hurls itself over a precipice to mingle its
waters with those of the great river. To our right extend the famous
Plains of Abraham, now purchased and preserved as a national park
consecrated to great historical memories. Such is the Quebec of to-day.
In the year 1759 it presented a much ruder aspect, though it was then
lively and important, and had been made almost impregnable by walls,
bastions, and fortified gates.

Within this city Vaudreuil, its bombastic, corrupt governor, and his
gang of unscrupulous officials kept up a feeble imitation of the
luxurious court of France. They robbed the king, their master, and they
robbed the Canadians committed to their protection. “Are the walls of
Quebec made of gold?” asked Lewis when official after official returned
to France bloated with wealth. New France was honeycombed with
peculation and fraud, and there was but one honest, incorruptible man
amongst the greedy horde. He was Lewis Joseph, Marquis of Montcalm, a
soldier of unblemished repute and no mean scholar. His life was one long
struggle with the governor, who thwarted him in every possible way, and
arrogated to himself all the credit and honour which his noble colleague
managed to win.

Montcalm had early news of Wolfe’s errand, and he hastily collected
every able-bodied man and every boy who could hold a gun within the
walls of the town. “Never,” said he, “was Canada in a state so critical
and full of peril.” Quebec was already strong by nature, and Montcalm
proceeded to make it stronger still by art. Redoubts, batteries, and
lines of entrenchment were thrown up along the lofty, curving shores
from the St. Charles River to the Montmorency, and a boom of logs and
hulks mounted with cannon barricaded the former river. Fourteen thousand
men lined the earthworks, and one or two thousand more manned the guns
of the fortress. When Wolfe arrived on the 21st of June, Quebec was
well-nigh impregnable.

Wolfe landed his men on the Isle of Orleans, and soon realized the
desperate character of the task which he had undertaken. To take Quebec
seemed impossible. The cliffs to his left were edged with palisades and
capped with redoubts, while on his right was a far-extended line of
entrenchments, ending at the foaming cataract of Montmorency. There
seemed to be no chink in the wall of defence. For weeks Wolfe lay
inactive, wearing himself to a shadow in the attempt to find a weak spot
against which he might hurl his army.

He seized Point Levis, and from it bombarded the city, only a mile away.
Fierce as his fire was, it did nothing to help him to capture the place.
At length, tired of inactivity, he attempted on the 31st of July to gain
a footing on the north shore of the St. Lawrence by landing his men at
the Montmorency Falls and climbing to the plateau above. In this he was
successful; but though his guns now played on the flank of Montcalm’s
entrenchments, the city of his desire was as far off as ever. “You may
demolish the town,” said the bearer of a flag of truce, “but you shall
never get inside it.” “I will take Quebec,” replied Wolfe, “if I stay
here until November.”

A frontal attack on the Beauport Heights was a complete failure, and
Wolfe lost more than two hundred men. He was now almost worn out. His
pale face and tall, lean form were no more seen going to and fro amongst
his soldiers. He lay dangerously ill, and his life was almost despaired
of. He felt his failure intensely, especially as news now arrived that
the attacks on Ticonderoga and Niagara had been successful. Meanwhile
the British fleet had accomplished a great feat. Despite a furious
cannonade from the guns of Quebec, ship after ship had managed to sail
up the river past the forts, and now were able to threaten the city from
a position which the French believed to be unattainable by the enemy.

On the 20th of August the young general was about again, and was
diligently searching the steep, rocky shore above Quebec for a possible
landing-place. At last, about three miles from the city, at a place now
called Wolfe’s Cove, he discovered a goat track that wound up the wooded
precipice for two hundred and fifty feet above the St. Lawrence. A
French guard was stationed at the top, but Wolfe thought it could easily
be surprised. Had he known that the captain in charge had gained a
reputation for cowardice, and had allowed his men to go home to dig up
their potatoes, his hopes would have been higher. At any rate he was now
resolved to climb the Heights of Abraham and meet Montcalm’s army at the
very gates of Quebec.

Now let us pass on to the fateful night of September 13, 1759. Under
cover of the darkness the British flotilla of boats moved silently with
muffled oars towards the landing-place. Wolfe, who was in the leading
boat, began in a low whisper to recite the beautiful lines of Gray’s
“Elegy.” He came to the noble verse—

             “The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
               And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
             Await alike the inevitable hour;
               The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”

“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “I would rather have written those lines than
take Quebec.”

The boats drifted on in death-like silence. Suddenly, as the tide bore
them inshore and the mighty wall of rock loomed above them, they were
sharply challenged by a sentry. “Qui vive?” he cried. A Highland officer
replied in good French, “La France.” “Of what regiment?” demanded the
sentry. “The Queen’s,” answered the Highlander, and the sentry was
satisfied. A sigh of relief escaped from the commander, and the boats
glided on. Presently another sentry challenged, but he too was deceived.
In a few moments more the boats lightly ran aground in a little cove.
The men disembarked silently and scrambled up the wooded precipice on
their hands and knees. The French guard at the top was captured, and
loud British huzzas proclaimed that at last a footing had been gained on
the coveted spot. Before the day broke Wolfe had marshalled his men on
the Heights of Abraham, and in the gray dawn they saw the city almost
within their grasp. When they became visible, Montcalm was greatly
alarmed. “This is a serious business,” he said. Bugles and mounted
messengers called in his troops. To save the citadel he was obliged to
abandon his entrenchments and give fight in the open.

The battle that followed was singularly brief in duration, yet it
settled the fate of Canada. The French advanced, firing rapidly; but the
British reserved their fire until the enemy was within close range. Then
a fearful hail of bullets sped from their muskets. The French wavered,
and as the British reloaded and advanced, they turned and fled. Wolfe
was wounded in the wrist as he led the charge, but he wrapped a
handkerchief about the wound and pushed on. Soon after another bullet
struck him in the breast. “Don’t let my men see me drop,” he said as
they carried him to the rear. Here he lay, his eyes glazed, and his life
fast ebbing away. Suddenly one of the little group about him cried,
“They run; see, they run!” The dying man roused himself as though from
sleep. “Who run?” he asked. “The enemy, sir,” was the reply; “they give
way everywhere.” The dying flame of life flickered up for a moment, and
he gave a clear, emphatic order for cutting off the retreat. This done,
he turned on his side, murmuring, “Now God be praised, I die happy.”
Wolfe was dead.

His gallant foe, Montcalm, was also stricken down in the fight. “How
long have I to live?” he asked of his surgeon. “Twelve hours, more or
less,” was the reply. “So much the better,” said the dying man; “I shall
not live to see the surrender of Quebec.” Before passing away, he wrote
to the British commander beseeching him to show mercy to the townsfolk.
“Do not let them perceive,” he said, “that they have changed masters. Be
their protector, as I have been their father.” It is to Britain’s honour
that she has observed this dying request of a great and good man with
scrupulous care. The French Canadian of to-day would be the first to say
that under the Union Jack he retains his faith and language, his old
laws and cherished institutions, and that under British rule his liberty
has been enlarged and his prosperity established.

On September 18, 1759, the British flag was hoisted on the citadel of
Quebec. At home the news was received with rapturous joy. “The whole
nation rose up and felt itself the stronger for Wolfe’s victory.” The
scattered remnants of the French fell back on Montreal, and in the next
autumn they were surrounded and forced to surrender. The victory of the
British was complete; the destiny of Canada was fixed for ever.

A tribute to the joint memory of the two leaders who in death were not
divided now stands in the public gardens of Quebec, and on the
battlefield is a simple obelisk with the plain inscription, “Here died
Wolfe, victorious.”

And here we leave James Wolfe “alone with his glory.” He died, as he
wished to die, a soldier’s death, and he leaves to future ages a noble
example of high honour, strict integrity, and noble devotion to duty.

[Illustration: =DEATH OF WOLFE.=
 (_From the picture by Benjamin West, P.R.A._)]

[Illustration: =The Battle of Trafalgar, and the Victory of Lord Nelson
  over the French and Spanish Fleets,= =October 21, 1805.=
 (_From the picture by Clarkson Stanfield, R.A., in the National Gallery
   of British Art._)]




[Illustration]




                             Chapter XVIII.
                           NELSON OF THE NILE.


                “_Admirals all, for England’s sake,_
                  _Honour be yours, and fame!_
                _And honour, as long as waves shall break,_
                  _To Nelson’s peerless fame._”

IT is a gray, melancholy spring day in the year 1771. You are at
Chatham, looking on to the deck of his Majesty’s ship _Raisonnable_,
commanded by Captain Maurice Suckling. The sixty-four is not yet ready
for sea; her chief officers are not yet aboard. On the quay you see a
thin, delicate-looking lad of twelve years of age dressed in a “middy’s”
uniform. The wind bites shrewdly; the lad shivers in his thin jacket,
and there is something like a tear in his eye. This morning his father
left him in London to make the best of his way to Chatham and there join
his ship. He has wandered about, friendless and alone, for hours; he is
hungry, footsore, and weary, and he cannot discover the vessel to which
he is posted. You feel sorry for the lonely little fellow, but his
troubles are now over. A kindly officer accosts him, and brings him on
board. The lad’s eyes gleam as he gazes on the ship which is to be his
home. He glances down at the almond-white decks; he looks around at
grinning lines of black cannon; he turns his eyes aloft to the
symmetrical fabric of spars and sails and rigging. It is a wonder-world
of delight. There is fascination everywhere—in the red muzzles of the
guns, in their white tompions, in the petticoat trousers and long
pigtails of the sailors. His young eyes, brilliant with intellect, dart
hither and thither; he is astonished and delighted by all the novel
sights which he sees.

This frail weakling is Horatio Nelson, the proudest name in the naval
annals of his land. He is to develop into the “unique sailor,” the great
hero of his race, the man whose statue is decked with laurel and whose
fame is eagerly commemorated year by year, though well-nigh a century
has elapsed since he passed away.

Horatio Nelson was born in the year before Wolfe captured Quebec. He was
the son of a plain country parson with a quiver full of children and a
modest income. The future hero first saw the light in the pleasant
rectory of Burnham Thorpe, Norfolk. At nine years of age his mother
died, and the weak, sickly lad grew up under the care of his
grandmother. There was nothing remarkable about the boy’s school days,
though many stories are told of his mischievous exploits, his
fearlessness, and his high sense of honour. The best-known story relates
that as a little boy he strayed from the house on a birds’-nesting
excursion, and was absent so long that his grandmother grew alarmed and
sent out servants to look for him. At length young Horatio was
discovered sitting placidly by the side of a stream which he could not
cross. When brought back his grandmother said, “I wonder that you were
not driven home by hunger and fear.” “Fear! grandma,” said the boy.
“Fear! what is that? I never saw it!” Truly the boy was father to the
man. To the end of his life he never saw fear or knew what it meant.

You already know that at twelve years of age Nelson began his naval
career as a midshipman on board his uncle’s ship, the _Raisonnable_. At
twenty-one he was a captain in the Royal Navy—“the merest boy of a
captain,” as Prince William, afterwards William the Fourth, described
him. Nevertheless, there was no better seaman or more gallant officer in
the service.

Now let us pass on to the year 1789, when Nelson was thirty-one years of
age, and was regarded by those who knew him best as one of the finest
commanders in the service. In this year that huge upheaval known as the
French Revolution took place. For centuries the kings and nobles of
France had grossly mismanaged the country and had bitterly oppressed the
people. The State was well-nigh bankrupt, and the land was full of
starving and despairing men. In July of this fateful year Paris rose,
the Bastille, or State prison, was stormed, the prisoners were released,
and the garrison slain. All over the country the peasants revolted,
murdered the nobles, and burned their castles. The king was powerless to
interfere, and the National Assembly, which had now seized the reins of
power, passed laws sweeping away the privileges of the nobles and the
rights of the Church. Before long the king and his family tried to
escape from the country, but they were brought back and treated as
prisoners. Meanwhile large numbers of the nobles had sought refuge
abroad, and were urging foreign governments to declare war on France.
When the German sovereigns threatened invasion, the French declared war
against Austria and Prussia.

Now we must introduce the most dominant figure of the modern
world—Napoleon Bonaparte. He was born in Corsica in the year which saw
the American colonists beginning to rise against the British Government.
In the first year of American independence he was a “gentleman cadet” in
the military school at Paris. Here he was chiefly noteworthy as a
silent, haughty lad, full of self-love and of great ambition. He was
studious and very fond of mathematics and geography, but his abilities
were not striking. None of his teachers prophesied for him the
astonishing genius which he afterwards displayed. When Nelson was
twenty-seven years of age, Napoleon became a lieutenant of artillery. He
was a zealous republican, and was placed in command of the artillery
which was to besiege the naval port of Toulon, then in possession of the
British, who had been called in by the royalist inhabitants of the town.
Napoleon conducted the siege with such skill that the British were
forced to evacuate the place, not, however, without burning the French
fleet which lay in the harbour and destroying the arsenal.

At this juncture Nelson was detailed to besiege certain coast towns of
the island of Corsica. He captured Bastia and Calvi, but at the latter
place he lost the sight of an eye. A period of dangerous and exhausting
service followed. Napoleon was now in command of the army of Italy, and
was at the beginning of his extraordinary career. He was marching along
the narrow coast-road of the Riviera, and Nelson’s task was to harass
his shoreward march. Scarcely a day passed without a skirmish of some
kind with a battery, a gunboat, or an armed cruiser. Nelson’s force,
however, was inadequate, and Napoleon accomplished his purpose. His
victories in Italy were extraordinary, and speedily he was acclaimed on
all hands as the greatest general of the republic. As he rose in fame
and influence new vistas opened before him, and he soon perceived that
the highest office in the State was his to grasp. Next he advanced into
Austria itself, and carried all before him. When he was within eighty
miles of Vienna the emperor begged for peace, and obtained it at the
price of Belgium and Lombardy. Prussia now deserted the allies, and
Holland and Spain had already purchased peace by promising the republic
the use of their navies. Great Britain was in a state of “splendid
isolation,” and all eyes turned to the fleet as the only hope of
succour. The banks stopped cash payments, alarm was at its height, and
Consols fell to fifty-one. Great Britain had her back to the wall.

Before long, however, the British fleet had its first great success. On
February 14, 1797—that glorious St. Valentine’s Day—Admiral Jervis won
a splendid victory over the Spanish fleet off Cape St. Vincent. In that
confused scene of roaring cannon, rolling clouds of smoke, crash of
falling spars, shrieks of the wounded, and stormy huzzas of the
half-naked sailors wrestling at the guns, Nelson stands out as _the_
conspicuous figure of the day. At one time he was engaging nine Spanish
ships. A little later he was abreast of the _San Josef_, pouring in such
a murderous fire that speedily she was unmanageable. The _San Nicolas_
drifted on to the _San Josef_, and Nelson manœuvred to foul the _San
Nicolas_. He hooked his sprit-sail yard into her rigging, and then
boarded. The ship yielded, but at this moment a fierce fire of musketry
was opened from the _San Josef_—only a jump away. Instantly Nelson and
his men sprang aboard the _San Josef_, and as they did so a Spanish
officer called out that the ship had surrendered. Thus on the deck of a
Spanish man-of-war, which he had boarded across the deck of another then
in his possession, Nelson received the swords of the vanquished
Spaniards. Already he was the darling of his sailors and a source of
pride to the nation.

In a daring but unsuccessful attack on Cadiz he lost an arm, and sank
into a state of deep depression, thinking that he had become a burden on
his friends and useless to his country. For a time our little one-armed,
one-eyed hero retired to a quiet country home; but on April 1, 1798, he
was afloat in command of a fleet scouring the Mediterranean with orders
to seek the French fleet, and use his best endeavours to take, sink,
burn, and destroy it. After a long and anxious quest he at last
discovered it anchored in Aboukir Bay. “We are moored in such a manner,”
wrote the French admiral, “as to bid defiance to a force more than
double our own.” How vain the boast was will shortly appear. The French
ships were anchored in single file along the shore, with three miles of
shoal water between them and the land, and the admiral believed that no
man-of-war could possibly get to the shoreward of him. He had actually
piled up his mess gear on the shoreward side of his ships, thus
rendering the guns on that side unworkable. As the British fleet drew
near, under a press of sail, during the afternoon of August 1, Nelson
observed that the enemy’s ships were moored five hundred yards apart, so
as to permit them to swing at anchor. Instantly he perceived that where
the enemy’s ship could swing there was room enough for one of his
squadron to anchor. The French were trapped, and Nelson cried, “Before
this time to-morrow I shall have gained a peerage or Westminster Abbey!”

Five ships with men in the chains, heaving the leads, now bore down,
rounded the bows of the leading vessel, and got inshore of the French
fleet. The rest of Nelson’s ships took up their stations on the seaward
side, and at half-past six, just as the sun was setting, the action
began. In twelve minutes the leading ship of the enemy was dismasted,
and almost at the same instant the third ship of the line suffered the
same fate. Black night came on at seven, and only the flash of guns,
crimsoning the heavens, lit up the darkness. At half-past eight the
fourth and fifth ships of the enemy’s line surrendered. At ten minutes
past nine the flagship, the _Orient_, caught fire. She lay between two
British ships, and was almost cut in halves by shot. Her gallant admiral
lay dying on the deck, and every moment the flames raged higher.

The burning of the _Orient_ was the most terribly grand spectacle ever
seen in naval warfare. Her magazine was full of powder, and an explosion
was inevitable. Such, however, was the heroism of her crew that while
the lower decks were in flames, her men continued to work the guns on
the upper deck. Huge forked flames and living sheets of fire leapt up as
though from the heart of a volcano. She had ceased to fire now, and the
remnants of her crew crawled out on the spars like flies. The flames lit
up the scene so vividly that even the Arabs could be seen on the shore.
At a quarter past eleven she blew up with a thunderous roar, and the
battle of the Nile was over. All that remained was to render the victory
complete. By three in the morning two ships alone of that proud French
fleet had escaped. Next morning Nelson, with a deep wound on his
forehead, called the fleet to return public thanksgiving to Almighty God
for the most decisive victory that has ever blessed British arms at sea.
The number of the enemy taken, drowned, burnt, and missing was 5,225. On
the English side 218 were killed and 677 wounded.

Napoleon was at this time in Egypt, which he proceeded to conquer as the
first step towards striking at India. The disaster at Aboukir Bay cooped
him up in the East. He crossed the desert into Syria, and drove the
Turks out of the southern part of the land. Before the walls of Acre,
however, his victorious march was checked. The Turks within, and a
British fleet under Sir Sidney Smith outside, completely baffled him. In
later years Napoleon said, “That man made me miss my destiny.” But for
Sir Sidney Smith, Napoleon would have been Emperor of the East. As it
was, he was forced to raise the siege of Acre and retire into Egypt,
where news reached him that the French armies had suffered some
reverses. He left his army in Egypt to get home as best it might, and
returned to France, where his friends arranged a revolution. On December
24, 1797, a new French constitution was proclaimed, and shortly
afterwards Napoleon became First Consul. He took up his abode in the
Tuileries, and was now on the direct highroad to the lofty position
which he meant to attain.

Napoleon had pledged his word to save France from her host of enemies,
and in May 1800 he took the field once more. Crossing the Great St.
Bernard Pass, never before traversed by a large army, he succeeded in
planting himself in the rear of the Austrians, and at the battle of
Marengo achieved a brilliant victory. Later in the year the French
general, Moreau, crushed another Austrian army at Hohenlinden, and then
Austria sued for peace.

The Tsar Paul had already abandoned the allies, and now confessed to
great admiration for Napoleon, who proceeded to form a league for the
purpose of subduing Britain by striking at her trade. He persuaded the
northern powers—Russia, Denmark, and Sweden—to mass their fleets and
close all their ports against British ships. This was a deep-laid
scheme, but it was doomed to failure.

On March 12, 1801, Nelson left Yarmouth Roads as second in command to
Sir Hyde Parker, a man of unflinching bravery but of no original ideas.
The fleet which these admirals commanded was detailed to destroy the
ships of the allies which lay at Copenhagen, backed by formidable
batteries. Parker was irresolute as to the route to be taken through the
dangerous channels that led to the town. “Let it be by the Sound, by the
Belt, or anyhow,” cried Nelson, “only lose not an hour.” We cannot stay
to recount the progress of the terrible battle that followed. When
twenty of the enemy’s ships were almost destroyed, Nelson offered a
truce, which was gladly accepted, and

                “All amidst her wrecks and her gore,
                Proud Denmark blest our chief
                That he gave her wounds relief;
                And the sounds of joy and grief
                Filled the shore.”

In the very height of the engagement, Parker, greatly alarmed for the
safety of his fleet, battered furiously by incessant broadsides, made
the signal to retreat. Nelson’s attention was drawn to it. “What does it
mean?” asked a colonel of marines standing by. “Why, to leave off
action,” said Nelson; “but hang me if I do! You know,” he went on, “I
have only one eye. I have a right to be blind sometimes.” Putting his
telescope to his blind eye, he exclaimed, “I really do not see the
signal.” So he nailed his colours to the mast, and in the midst of the
most terrible cannonade to which a British fleet has ever been
subjected, Nelson’s signal for “Close action” streamed high aloft, as
clear to every man’s sight as a star in the sky.

Napoleon had thus failed in his attack on the obstinate islanders, and
he was now ready for a breathing-space in which to recruit his armies
and build a navy powerful enough to beat Britain. Accordingly peace was
signed, and Great Britain restored all the colonial conquests which she
had made during the war, except Ceylon and Trinidad. This was all she
gained from a struggle which had cost her thousands of lives, and had
added two hundred and seventy millions to the National Debt.

Before the ink was dry on the treaty, Napoleon was busy planning the
establishment of a vast colonial empire, and aiming at the downfall of
the one power which thwarted him at every turn. The English press
bitterly attacked him, coarse and insulting caricatures of him were
constantly appearing, and French exiles in England frequently plotted
against him. He now demanded the suppression of the hostile newspapers
and the expulsion of the plotters, but the British Government refused.
Every day the relations between the two countries grew more and more
strained, and the breaking-point was not far off.

On May 12, 1803, war was again declared. Napoleon speedily forced Spain
to join him, and then began preparations for an invasion of Great
Britain. One hundred thousand men were marched to Boulogne, and every
road by which the soldiers passed bore the signpost, “To England.” A
huge flotilla of flat-bottomed boats was collected, and exercises in
embarking and disembarking went on within sight of the white cliffs of
Dover. “The Channel,” said Napoleon, “is but a ditch, and any one can
cross it who has but the courage to try.” He meant to put his courage to
the test as soon as the Channel was clear of the British fleet. From
June 1803 to September 1805 his men were waiting the word of command to
cross. It was never given.

The prospect of invasion roused every patriotic man in Great Britain.
Volunteers flocked to the standards, and soon, out of a nation of
fifteen million souls, including the people of Ireland who were not
allowed to volunteer, 300,000 men were in arms, besides 120,000 regular
troops and 78,000 militia. The dockyards worked night and day, and
before the end of the year one hundred and sixty-six new vessels had
been added to the fleet. The fortresses were strengthened, martello
towers were erected along the coast, and every possible preparation was
made. Nevertheless the year 1803 was one of alarm and terror. Next year
Napoleon attained the summit of his ambition—he crowned himself Emperor
of the French.

Still the projected invasion hung fire, and now Napoleon devised a plan
for securing the six hours’ command of the Channel on which the success
of his enterprise depended. His fleet was then in the harbour of Toulon,
which was being watched by a British fleet, with Nelson in chief command
for the first time. Napoleon ordered his ships to slip out of harbour
and sail for the West Indies, in order to decoy Nelson away from Europe.
Arrived at the West Indies, the French fleet was to put about and return
with all speed for Brest, where an attack was to be made on the British
squadron blockading that port while Nelson was far away. The defeat of
the British squadron at Brest would clear the Channel, and then the
grand invasion was to take place.

The plan nearly succeeded. Villeneuve, the French admiral, did slip out
of Toulon. Nelson was deceived, and went off on a false scent. When,
however, news arrived that the French fleet had sailed for the West
Indies, Nelson dashed after it in hot pursuit, and went half-way round
the world and back again before he caught it up. Villeneuve had
thirty-five days’ start, but Nelson arrived at Gibraltar on the return
voyage only three days after the French fleet sighted Cape Finisterre.
Here it found a British squadron under Admiral Calder. An indecisive
battle took place; and though the result was considered in England as a
failure, and almost a disgrace, it ended the grand invasion scheme.
Villeneuve was obliged to put into Ferrol to refit, and, meanwhile,
Nelson had arrived. Napoleon’s plan had failed, and Britain could
breathe freely once more.

In disgust, Napoleon broke up his camp at Boulogne, and rapidly marched
his army across France into Germany, where he met the Austrians and
Russians, who had formed a new league against him. Now began a series of
triumphs which laid the Austrian empire open to the invaders. While
Napoleon was rejoicing in his victories, terrible news reached him. The
greatest sea-fight in the history of the world had been fought, and the
combined fleets of France and Spain were no more. The beginning of the
end had arrived for the “terror of Europe.”

Villeneuve, with thirty-three Franco-Spanish vessels, lay in Cadiz
harbour, and outside was Nelson with twenty-seven British ships. The
French admiral had been stung to the quick by a bitter, taunting letter
from the emperor, accusing him of cowardice. To vindicate his courage,
Villeneuve gave the order to put to sea. On the morning of October 20,
1805, the fleets came in sight of each other.

“The sun never rose on a grander and more impressive ocean-picture. As
the courses and hulls of the hindmost of the British vessels floated up
the sea-line, the blue girdle of the deep became a field of ships; giant
structures bristling with guns, canvas swelling in clouds to the heavens
from their tall sides black with grim and formidable defences, crowds of
sailors motionless in expectation, quarter-decks glittering with
uniforms, and stillness everywhere, broken only by the creaming wash of
the bow-surge as it was shouldered off into yeast by the towering
battleships.”

At daybreak, after a night clouded with the presentiment that he would
die on the morrow, Nelson arrayed himself in his full admiral’s uniform,
and came on deck blazing with orders. Watching the fleet of the enemy
forming line of battle, he exclaimed several times, “I’ll give them such
a dressing as they never had before.” He advanced in two columns,
intending to crash into the enemy’s line, thus breaking it and
destroying the ships in the centre before those on the wings could come
to their relief. Undoubtedly there _was_ a plan of attack, though modern
critics have questioned the fact. The battle perhaps looked like a
“heroic scramble,” but behind the apparent confusion there was a subtle,
daring, and unexpected plan.

Just before the battle began Nelson went to his cabin, and there on his
knees wrote a beautiful and touching prayer. Coming on deck again, he
ordered that signal to be made which is his greatest bequest to his
country—a signal which stirs the pulses of every true Briton even after
the lapse of a century. High above the _Victory’s_ deck flew the
colours, and as the words, =England expects every man to do his
duty=, were interpreted, a great huzza rose from the fleet. “Now,”
said Nelson, “I can do no more. We must trust to the great Disposer of
all events and to the justice of our cause.”

The British ships now bore down, Collingwood in the _Royal Sovereign_
being the first to engage. He was twenty minutes in the midst of a
furious cannonade before he received support. The whole British fleet
now came into action, but not near enough for Nelson, and he signalled,
“Engage the enemy more closely,” and set the example by dashing into the
enemy’s line. Seven or eight of the weathermost ships immediately opened
a terrific fire on him. So fierce was it that for a few minutes the
_Victory_ made no reply. Her mizzen top-mast went over the side, her
wheel was knocked away, and a double-headed shot killed eight marines at
one stroke. Amidst this hail of death the hero moved with the utmost
indifference. As a splinter tore the buckle from his shoe he remarked
smilingly to his captain, “This is too warm work, Hardy, to last long.”
But now the gallant old ship got to work, and with a broadside that
disabled her immediate enemy, drove into the _Redoutable_ so closely
that the muzzles of the _Victory’s_ guns touched the enemy’s side.

At half-past one, when Nelson was walking the deck, a musket-shot from
the _Redoutable_ mizzen-top struck him, and he fell with his face to the
deck. “They have done for me at last, Hardy,” he exclaimed. “I hope
not,” answered the captain. “Yes,” said Nelson; “my backbone is shot
through.” They bore him to the cockpit, and on the way he drew a
handkerchief over his face that his sailors might not see him and be
discouraged. The gloomy cockpit was a shambles, resounding with the
groans of anguished men. Dr. Beatty flew to his side. “Ah, Mr. Beatty,”
said Nelson, “you can do nothing for me. I have but a short time to
live; my back is shot through.” And so it was. The decorations with
which he had adorned himself were too good a mark for the French
sharpshooters.

The hero lay a-dying while the storm of crashing artillery continued to
rage. High above the thunder came the huzzas of his seamen as ship after
ship of the enemy struck. The dying man turned and smiled. “Will no one
bring Hardy to me?” he asked, but the captain could not be spared. All
the beauty, the magnanimity, and tenderness of Nelson’s disposition
shone out in those dying hours. At last Hardy came. “Well, Hardy, how
goes the day with us?” “Very well, my lord,” was the reply; “we have got
twelve or fourteen of the enemy’s ships.” “I hope,” said Nelson
anxiously, “that none of our ships have struck.” “No fear of that, my
lord,” replied Hardy. And now the surgeon tearfully told him that his
life was done. “God be praised,” he whispered. “Now I am satisfied.
Thank God I have done my duty!” Nelson was dead.

As his breath floated away, the cannonading ceased, and Trafalgar was
won. Of the French and Spanish fleet that rose and fell upon the waves
on that October morning all that remained was a huddle of hulks rolling
helplessly in the trough of the sea, with the British colours flying on
the stumps of the wreckage, and a trail of beaten ships staggering
portwards for safety. Nelson had not spent his life’s blood in vain. He
had ensured his land a century’s command of the sea, during which time
she spread her empire far and wide, and developed her commerce to an
extraordinary degree.




[Illustration: =The Death of Nelson.=
 (_By Benjamin West, P.R.A. By permission of the Corporation of
   Liverpool._)]

[Illustration: =Napoleon on Board the “Bellerophon.”=
 (_From the picture by W. Q. Orchardson, R.A., in the National Gallery of
   British Art. By permission of the Berlin Photographic Co._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter XIX.
                               WELLINGTON.


               “_Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,_
               _As fits an universal woe,_
               _Let the long long procession go,_
               _And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,_
               _And let the mournful martial music blow:_
               _The last great Englishman is low._”

IT is a bleak November day in the year 1852. Vast multitudes, most of
them in the garb of mourning, throng the streets of London, and stand
for hours waiting for a great funeral procession to pass by. The muffled
bells of the churches are tolling a knell, cannon are booming their last
farewells, buildings are draped with black, the flags fly at half-mast,
and all business is suspended. Now you see the long procession
approaching, soldiers with reversed arms leading the way, and marching
with slow, reluctant step to the roll of drums and the solemn wail of
the “Dead March.” Behind them come men representing all the rank,
talent, and dignity of Great Britain, as well as the distinguished
mourners which foreign sovereigns have sent to represent them on the
solemn occasion. Many of the older spectators barely stifle their sobs
as a riderless steed is led by, with reversed jack-boots in the
stirrups. He who has bestridden this war-charger was well known to them.
They remember all his greatness in the past; they recall him as a
familiar figure in the streets and in Parliament. But, hush! here is the
towering car upon which lies all that remains of him. Every head is
bared, and in deep, solemn silence the sad pageant passes.

                  “All is over and done:
                  Render thanks to the Giver,
                  England, for thy son.
                  Let the bell be toll’d.
                  Render thanks to the Giver,
                  And render him to the mould.
                  Under the cross of gold
                  That shines over city and river,
                  There he shall rest for ever,
                  Among the wise and the bold.”

Side by side with that Mighty Seaman, “saviour of the silver-coasted
isle,” they bury the Great Duke “to the noise of the mourning of a
mighty nation.”

Who was this Great Duke, and why does “sorrow darken hamlet and hall” at
his passing? Let the story of his life and fame be told.

Arthur Wellesley, afterwards Duke of Wellington, was born in 1769, less
than four months before Napoleon. His father was the Earl of Mornington,
an Irish peer, and Dublin still shows the house, 24 Upper Merrion
Street, where he was born. In 1787, when eighteen years of age,
Wellesley became an ensign in the army, but was at first quite
undistinguished, and was, indeed, considered dull, idle, and rather
frivolous. Not until 1793, when he was appointed to the command of his
regiment, did he show that he had found the vocation in which he was to
win such renown.

In 1798 his eldest brother sailed for India as governor-general, and
Arthur Wellesley accompanied him. Soon afterwards he was given a
military command, and speedily proved himself a most active and
successful general. In 1805 Wellesley was back in England, and for the
next few years he was employed in various capacities. During the year
after his return he became a member of Parliament, and was frequently
consulted on military matters by the ministry of the day.

The little kingdom of Portugal was almost the last European nation which
refused to join Napoleon. He therefore overran the country and entered
Lisbon. The king was deposed, and Joseph, Napoleon’s brother, was placed
on the throne. Thus the whole Iberian Peninsula passed into Napoleon’s
power. These high-handed proceedings roused the nations to another
struggle against him. An insurrection broke out in Spain and Portugal,
which even Napoleon could not stamp out. The British Government eagerly
seized the opportunity of waging a land-war with Napoleon. Arms and
money were sent to the Spaniards, and on August 1, 1808, an army was
landed in Portugal. Wellesley was given the command of a force of some
9,000 men, and was instructed to assist either the Spaniards or the
Portuguese at his discretion. He sailed on the 12th of July, and,
landing his men, moved towards Lisbon. This was a bold step, for the
French general, Junot, had been in occupation of the Portuguese capital
since November.

On the 21st of August he defeated Junot on the hillside at Vimiera, and
Lisbon would have been captured and the whole French army destroyed had
Wellesley been permitted to pursue. A superior officer, however, had now
arrived, and Wellesley was no longer first in command. Nevertheless, so
decisive was the fight that Junot offered to leave Portugal altogether,
provided he and his troops were permitted to return unmolested to
France. This offer was accepted, greatly to the annoyance of the British
people, who were sorely disappointed that the whole French army had not
been captured.

Wellesley and his superior officer were recalled and tried for not
capturing Lisbon. The latter was deprived of his command; the former was
sent back to Portugal. And now Wellington began that long, dogged
struggle known as the Peninsular War, a six years’ contest in which he
displayed wonderful generalship, foresight, and tenacity, and finally
drove the French out of Spain and captured Toulouse. Before it was over
he had been raised to the peerage, and as Viscount Wellington was
universally regarded as Britain’s greatest soldier.

In the fourth year of Wellington’s struggle in Spain the Tsar Alexander,
tired of submitting to Napoleon’s mastery, defiantly opened his ports to
trade with Britain. Napoleon thereupon declared war on him, and marched
a vast army of 600,000 men into Russia. A miserable, crushed remnant of
20,000 men was all that struggled back to Germany. This terrible blow
led to a general rising of European powers against Napoleon. Russia,
Prussia, Austria, and Sweden allied their forces, and Napoleon found
himself beset on all sides, and with no army to meet his foes.

After the first outburst of dismay, France rallied to him as of old, and
gave him the new army for which he asked. The terrible waste of life
during the stormy years since the Revolution had pressed heavily on his
people, and now half-grown lads of seventeen were called to the
standards. They came willingly, and once more the old enthusiasm
prevailed. Within six months Napoleon had 200,000 men ready to meet the
Russians and Prussians on the Elbe. Twice he smote the allies, and
forced them to seek an armistice. Then the fortune of war abandoned him,
and at Leipzig, in what the Germans call “the battle of the nations,” he
was defeated and forced to retreat to France.

By this time success had crowned Wellington’s efforts in Spain. He had
made satisfactory soldiers of the Portuguese, and the Spaniards had
greatly improved. While Napoleon was marching into Russia, Wellington
had stormed Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and had won a great battle at
Salamanca, where he “beat 40,000 men in forty minutes.” This battle was
his masterpiece. “There was no mistake,” he said; “everything went as it
ought, and there never was an army so beaten in so short a time.”

Then Wellington took Madrid, which had been four years in the hands of
the enemy; but as the French massed their forces against him, he had to
retire towards the Portuguese border. In 1813 he attacked the French at
Vittoria, routed them, cut off their retreat, and drove them back across
the Pyrenees with the loss of every cannon and wagon which they
possessed. While the allies were swarming into France, Wellington, with
100,000 veteran troops, stood ready to fall upon her.

The end now rapidly approached. Napoleon struggled heroically with the
remnant of the army which had been defeated at Leipzig, but in vain.
Time after time he checked the invaders; but numbers triumphed at last,
and the allies entered Paris on March 31, 1814, where the fickle
populace received them with shouts of joy.

Napoleon was now sent to the little Italian island of Elba, where he
played at being king for eight or nine months. All the time he was
watching affairs in France very closely and was biding his time. In 1814
ambassadors from nearly all the Powers assembled at Vienna to settle the
affairs of Europe. There were constant wrangles, and at one time the
tension was so acute that war seemed likely to break out again.
Suddenly, on March 7, 1815, a messenger arrived with news that
immediately ended their quarrels and, in the face of a new and alarming
danger, brought them shoulder to shoulder. The Tsar said to Wellington,
who was one of the commissioners, “It is for you to save Europe.” What
had happened?

Napoleon had landed in France, and was making a triumphant progress
towards Paris. The Bourbon Government, which had been installed by the
Powers, melted away like snow before the summer sun. Everywhere
Napoleon’s old soldiers donned the cockade and flocked to his standards.
Whole regiments deserted; the wonderful fascination which the emperor
exercised upon his followers once more asserted itself. Marshal Ney, who
had promised King Lewis to bring back the invader in an iron cage, fell
a victim to the charm of his old chief as soon as he met him. Lewis and
his friends fled the country, and Napoleon once more occupied the
Tuileries. During the next hundred days he displayed all his old energy
and daring. By the 13th of June he had nearly 200,000 men available for
war.

Meanwhile the Powers had not been idle. They bound themselves to raise a
million armed men, and never to rest from their labours until Napoleon
was finally crushed. In a few months an overwhelming force of allies
would be marshalled. In the meantime, the only troops available were
those of the British and Prussian armies, now in Belgium, and commanded
by Wellington and Blücher respectively.

Now let us pay a visit to the most renowned battlefield in all the
world, the field on which the destinies of Europe were changed and the
great Emperor of the French was hurled from a throne to a prison and a
grave. We are in the village of Waterloo, eleven miles south of
Brussels, the capital of Belgium. Leaving Waterloo, we traverse a road
bordered on both sides by houses, and after having walked a couple of
miles we arrive at the village of Mont St. Jean. Here two roads meet,
both of which cross the battlefield.

Now we push on beyond the cross-roads to an obelisk in memory of the
Germans who fell in the battle. A quarter of a mile to the right rises
the mound of the Belgian Lion. It is two hundred feet in height, and was
thrown up on the spot where the Prince of Orange was wounded in the
battle. Surmounting it is a lion made out of the metal of captured
French cannon. We ascend the mound, and facing south find ourselves in
the best position to survey the battlefield. Unfortunately, the levels
of the ground have been much altered by the earth removed to form the
mound. Still from our coign of vantage we may get a good general idea of
the position occupied by both armies on June 18, 1815.

We are now on the ridge of a long chain of low hills with gentle slopes.
On this ridge Wellington extended his first line of troops. The ridge,
as you will observe, is narrow, so that the second line was enabled to
occupy a sheltered position on the sloping ground behind us. One mile
distant, across a shallow valley, is another line of hills. These were
occupied by the French. Now notice a farmhouse on the main road to our
left. This is La Haye Sainte, which was occupied by German troops, and
protected the allied centre. Follow the road across the battlefield, and
you will come to the farm of La Belle Alliance. During the greater part
of the battle Napoleon took up his station a little to the right of this
house, where a French monument now stands. Were you to push on along
this road for seven or eight miles you would come to Quatre Bras (“four
arms”), from which place two roads lead to the river Sambre.

Now look along the road to our right front and observe the chateau of
Hougoumont, which was an old ruined place even in 1815. This building,
which still bears traces of the fearful scenes that took place about it,
was on the right of the allied line, and formed the key to the position.
Hougoumont was strengthened by Wellington, and though continually
assaulted was never captured. Had Napoleon once gained possession of it,
the battle would probably have had quite a different ending. Now that we
have surveyed the chief points of interest on the field, let us turn to
the battle itself.

By the beginning of June Napoleon had concentrated one hundred and
twenty thousand men on the Sambre at Charleroi, ready to advance when he
should arrive to take command. Wellington’s army was scattered in
various places from Nivelles westward, while Blücher’s was extended from
the same place eastward. Wellington’s plan was to unite his forces with
those of Blücher at Quatre Bras, and block Napoleon’s advance. Napoleon,
however, was determined to prevent the allied generals from uniting
their forces. His plan was to fall upon them before they could
concentrate, and defeat them piecemeal.

When Blücher reached Ligny, with eighty thousand men, Napoleon met him,
and a desperate battle ensued in which the Prussian general suffered
terrible loss, but, still undefeated, retreated in good order on Wavre,
so that he might join Wellington at Waterloo, according to a previous
arrangement which he had made with Wellington. Napoleon thought that the
Prussians were retreating on the Rhine, and detached thirty-three
thousand men under Grouchy to hang on their rear. Grouchy missed the
Prussians, and his troops took no part in the great battle.

On the same day Ney, with twenty thousand men, appeared before Quatre
Bras, where only ten thousand British and an equal force of Belgians had
been able to assemble. The Belgians fled before the French cavalry, but
the British infantry kept up a dogged resistance while corps after corps
was hurried up. At the close of the day Ney saw that he was outnumbered,
and withdrew, while Wellington retreated to the line of heights upon
which we are now gazing.

Napoleon now pushed on to measure swords with Wellington in person for
the first time. On Sunday morning, the 18th of June, the two armies
faced each other. As Napoleon looked across the valley and saw the
British redcoats on the rising ground opposite, he cried, “I have them.”
He had good reason to believe that he would win. His forces numbered
between seventy and eighty thousand men, and he was superior both in
guns and in cavalry to his foes. Wellington had about sixty-seven
thousand men; but his British troops were mainly raw recruits, and the
rest of his forces were very mixed, and included the Belgians who had
already fled before the French cavalry.

The preceding night had been wet and stormy, and when morning broke
Napoleon considered the ground too heavy for cavalry. He therefore
delayed the opening of the battle until between eleven and twelve in the
forenoon. This delay was fatal. Time was most important to both
commanders. Napoleon knew well that he must beat Wellington before
Blücher could join him; Wellington, on the other hand, was determined to
hold his ground to the last man, so as to give the Prussians time to
come up in force and settle the issue of the day.

The battle began with a fierce attack on Hougoumont; but it was held
right manfully by the British Guards, and though the French won the
gardens and orchards, they could not drive the defenders from the
buildings. Then Napoleon sent his heavy columns against the British
left, but they were utterly routed. His third effort was against the
British centre, which he tried to break by heavy artillery fire and
furious cavalry charges.

The British formed square, and, though assailed for five hours, held
fast. They seemed, said an onlooker, “rooted” to the earth. Every
attempt to pierce them failed, until even the British privates saw the
uselessness of the attempt, and cried, as Napoleon’s squadrons charged
them, “Here come those fools again.” Every attempt to take the ridge was
repulsed with terrible slaughter. At last, in the thick of the fighting,
the cannon of the advancing Prussians were heard, and Napoleon made one
last desperate effort to break the British line.

La Haye Sainte was captured about six in the evening, and Napoleon’s
cannon were now so near that Wellington’s centre was in dire danger.
Blücher was rapidly drawing near, and already he was threatening the
French right and rear. Like a desperate gambler, Napoleon now staked all
on a charge of the Old Guard. A little after seven he gave the word, and
six thousand of his veterans, led by Marshal Ney, were hurled at the
long-tried British. As the French rushed up the slope, the British
Guards, who had been lying down behind the top of the ridge, sprang to
their feet and poured a volley into the enemy. Their columns wavered,
and our soldiers charged with the bayonet, hurling the enemy down the
hill in utter confusion. Soon after eight o’clock the Prussians made
their appearance on the scene, and speedily Napoleon found himself
assailed on his flank by forty thousand men.

At this juncture, “on the ridge, near the Guards, his figure standing
out amidst the smoke against the bright north-eastern sky, Wellington
was seen to raise his hat with a noble gesture—the signal for the
wasted line of heroes to sweep like a dark wave from their covered
positions, and roll out their lines and columns over the plains. With a
pealing cheer the whole line advanced just as the sun was sinking.” In
vain the French Guards rallied, only to be swept away by the fierce
British charges. When darkness fell, the whole French army was in
flight. The Prussians went in hot pursuit, and before long the proud
French army of the morning was almost annihilated. Wellington and
Blücher had lost twenty-two thousand men. The French loss will never be
known.

The battle was decisive; the long struggle was at an end; and Napoleon’s
star had set. He put spurs to his horse, and rode hard through the
midsummer night to escape capture. Fearing death at the hands of the
Prussians, he surrendered himself to the captain of the British
man-of-war _Bellerophon_. The British Government banished him to the
lonely isle of St. Helena, where he languished in captivity until his
death in 1821.

But what of the victor of Waterloo—

                   “Foremost captain of his time,
                   Rich in saving common sense,
                   And, as the greatest only are,
                   In his simplicity sublime.”

He was no callous victor, regarding his men merely as pawns in the great
game. When he learnt the death-roll of the battle he burst into tears.
Scarcely one of those who had fought side by side with him in the
Peninsula remained to share the joy of victory. To the end of his days
he was an ardent advocate of peace. “Only those who have seen it,” he
said, “can possibly know how terrible war is.” The nation’s gratitude
flowed out to him as a river; the meanest intelligence could appreciate
the overwhelming importance of the victory which he had won. Never did
such vast issues rest on a single battle; never did Britain stand so
high among the nations as after Waterloo. All possible honours were
heaped upon him. He received the thanks of both Houses of Parliament and
a vote of £200,000 wherewith to purchase the estate of Strathfieldsaye;
while foreign nations vied with each other in awarding him gifts and
titles.

He was but forty-six years of age when the crowning victory of his life
was accomplished, and for the next quarter of a century he was rightly
regarded as one of the pillars of the State. In 1828 he became Prime
Minister; but though wise, moderate, and inspired by a high sense of
duty, he did not prove himself a great statesman. At one time he was
actually the subject of the nation’s wrath; but as the years went by he
recovered all his old popularity, and that without striving in the least
to regain it.

He died in his eighty-third year, and you already know how this “last
great Englishman” was borne to his grave amidst sorrowing crowds. And
here, side by side with Nelson, we leave him—the two great captains of
the British race, who teach to all future times that the “path of duty”
is “the way to glory.”




[Illustration: =The Meeting of Wellington and Blücher after the Battle of
  Waterloo.=
 (_From the fresco by Daniel Maclise, R.A., in the Houses of
   Parliament._)]

[Illustration: =QUEEN VICTORIA IN HER CORONATION ROBES.=
 (_From the picture by Sir George Hayter in the Royal Collection._)]




[Illustration]




                              Chapter XX.
                           VICTORIA THE GOOD.


     “_Their thoughts shall be my thoughts, their aims my aim,_
       _Their free-lent loyalty my right divine;_
     _Mine will I make their triumphs, mine their fame,_
       _Their sorrows mine._”

IT is five o’clock on a June morning in the year 1837. London is not yet
awake, nevertheless four high officers of state are knocking lustily and
ringing loudly at the outer gate of Kensington Palace. They have come
straight from the deathbed of William the Fourth, and they have news of
the highest importance for the young princess who resides within. But at
this early hour of the day the whole palace is wrapped in slumber, and
the knocking and ringing have to be repeated many times before the
drowsy porter is awakened. You see him rubbing his eyes and reluctantly
throwing open the gate. Now the little party, which includes the Primate
and the Lord High Chamberlain, enters the courtyard, and another long
wait follows. At length the distinguished visitors are admitted to a
lower room of the palace, and there they seem to be quite forgotten.
They ring the bell, and when it is answered the Lord High Chamberlain
requests that the attendant of the Princess Victoria be sent to inform
her Royal Highness that high officials of state desire an audience on
business of the utmost importance.

There is another long delay, and again the bell is rung, this time with
pardonable impatience. The attendant of the princess is summoned, and
she declares that her royal charge is in such a sweet sleep that she
cannot venture to disturb her. “We are come on business of state to the
Queen,” says the Lord High Chamberlain, “and even her sleep must give
way to that.”

A few minutes later the door opens again, and a young girl of eighteen,
fresh as a newly-opened rosebud, enters the room. She has not waited to
dress. Her hair falls loose upon her shoulders; she has hurriedly thrown
a shawl round herself, and thrust her feet into slippers. There are
tears in her eyes as she learns that her uncle the king is dead and that
she is queen!

At once she turns to the archbishop, and with simple, unaffected piety
says, “Pray for me!” All kneel together, and the venerable prelate
supplicates the Most High, who ruleth over the kingdoms of men, to give
the young sovereign an understanding heart to judge so great a people.

Thus Victoria, before she is out of her teens, takes up the arduous and
exacting duties of her high office. Read the letters which she wrote in
those early days to her relatives and statesmen, and you will marvel at
the clear judgment, the strong will, and the sound common sense of the
girl-queen. Her reign opens in times of national distress and political
unrest, and below a certain social level there is no sentiment of
loyalty to the Crown. But all this will suffer a wondrous change in the
years that are to come. Prosperity hitherto undreamed of will bless the
land, and year by year freedom will slowly broaden down from precedent
to precedent; and through all the changes and chances of national life
Victoria will play her part with a courage, steadfastness, and rectitude
that will evoke universal approbation and passionate loyalty. The time
will come when she will be the idol of her people, and the richest jewel
in her crown will be a nation’s love.

                 *        *        *        *        *

                           SIXTY YEARS AFTER.

            “_And ever when mid-June’s musk roses blow_
              _Our race will celebrate Victoria’s name,_
            _And even England’s greatness gain a glow_
              _From her pure fame!_”

You are in London on the twenty-second day of June in the year 1897, and
again it is in festal array. The whole nation is making holiday to
rejoice in the completion of sixty years of peace and prosperity under
the beneficent sway of a dearly-loved queen. Ten years ago great public
thanksgivings signalized her jubilee; now that she has occupied the
throne longer than any of her predecessors, and has reigned for more
years than any other monarch known to history, the nation’s delight and
gratitude know no bounds.

You are standing in a favoured position gazing on the front of St.
Paul’s Cathedral. Afar off you hear the dull roar of cheering. The queen
is making her progress through the capital of her vast Empire. She rides
in state to-day amidst evidences of almost filial loyalty, and her eyes
are wet with tears of love and gratitude as she perceives how dear she
is to the hearts of her people. On the steps of the cathedral are the
City Fathers, the Colonial Premiers, and a white-robed throng of
bishops, priests, and choristers, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury at
their head. The noise of cheering grows louder and louder, a troop of
Household Cavalry clatters by, and you hear the loud cry, “THE QUEEN!
THE QUEEN!” Every head is bared as the state carriage with its eight
horses appears; the huzzas that go up from thousands of throats almost
deafen you.

And now the carriage halts, and the old archbishop offers simple and
fervent thanks to Almighty God for the signal mercies vouchsafed through
such long years to Victoria and her people. Then, as a climax, the whole
concourse bursts into the strains of “God save the Queen.” Never has the
National Anthem been so heartily sung, never before has it been so
little of a demonstration and so much of a prayer. There is no
lip-service here: Victoria’s throne is in the hearts of her people; she
is theirs, and they are hers.

Look at this little, old lady, whom all men, from duke to
crossing-sweeper, are to-day hailing as their pride and joy. Look at
her, and strive to realize the splendour of the great office which she
has filled so long and so worthily. She is the sovereign lady of a
dominion so wide in extent and so rich in resources that nothing like it
has ever been seen before in the history of the world. Glance at the
colonial procession which is even now wending its way through the
streets, and you will marvel at the world-wide character of her sway.
Here you see men of British race, dwellers in the most distant parts of
the earth, all come from afar to grace their queen’s pageant, and all
bearing themselves proudly in the eyes of their kinsfolk “at home.”
Here, too, you see numerous foreign subjects of the queen, men of almost
every variety of colour, creed, and language, equally proud to do her
honour, equally ready to praise her beneficent sway.

It is almost impossible for the aged monarch on this red-letter day of
her life not to reflect on the wonderful changes which have transformed
the world since that June morning sixty years ago when they waked her
out of sleep and told her that she was queen. The vast Empire, for
example, which has been so vividly brought before the minds of the
British people to-day is very largely the creation of her reign. In
extent it has nearly doubled itself since she came to the throne, and
now covers almost one-fifth of the globe. In 1837 the colonial
population was under 4,000,000. Now, excluding India, more than
18,000,000 of colonists are subject to her. India under her sway has
doubled its native population, and to-day one-fifth of all the people on
earth acknowledge her as their sovereign.

The railways which have brought tens of thousands of visitors rapidly
and cheaply to town were only in their infancy when she rode through
London to her coronation, the steamships which have carried her brave
colonials across countless leagues of sea were unknown. The electric
telegraph, which is even now flashing the news of her pageant through
thousands of miles of wire and cable to every part of the civilized
world, was then but a toy. The penny post, which to-night will convey
tens of thousands of letters to every town in the land and to most parts
of her wide Empire, did not exist. There were no omnibuses, no tramcars,
no district railways, no “twopenny tubes,” no motor cars. To-night
London will blaze with electric lights. What a contrast to the
flickering oil lamps of her childhood!

And what a vast improvement has taken place in the condition of her
people! She reflects that there is still plenty of poverty and misery in
her land, but not a tithe of that which existed when she came to the
throne. Wages are far better, food is far cheaper, housing has greatly
improved, and men are kings to what they were. The barbarous old
criminal laws have been abolished; work-people are no longer the helots
of their masters; education is universal, and as free as air and
sunlight; and every householder has a voice in the government of his
country. She casts her mind back over sixty years, and rejoices that all
things have worked together for this great good, and that the result is
a proud, self-respecting, orderly, and deeply-patriotic people.

Truly in retrospect her reign appears one long, triumphal march; yet
there have been reverses, checks, and disasters in plenty, though shame
never. War has been waged in almost every quarter of the globe, and
plentiful laurels have been won. Her thoughts revert for a moment to the
great struggle in the Crimea, which took place forty-three years ago,
and to the splendid British courage and endurance there displayed.
“Alma,” “Balaclava,” “Inkerman,” “Sevastopol”—what heroic memories
these names recall to her! And then she remembers the terrible period of
anxiety which followed, when the Sepoys rose, and India almost fell from
our grasp. “Delhi,” “Lucknow,” “Cawnpore”—what anguish and heroism
these names import! As for the rest of her wars, she rejoices to know
that they have been, for the most part, punitive expeditions against
savage neighbours and revolting tribesmen. How fervently she prays that
peace at home and abroad may ever be the lot of her people!

The great day draws to a brilliant close, and from end to end of the
Empire runs her gracious message of gratitude:—

“_From my heart I thank my beloved people. May God bless them!_”

[Illustration]




[Illustration: =Saving the Colours: An Incident of the Battle of
  Inkermann.=
 (_From the picture by Robert Gibb, R.S.A. By permission of Mr.
   Bruce-Low._)]

In the neighbourhood of the Sandbag Battery the British Guards were
surrounded by a strong Russian force, through which they cut their way,
with the colours carried high as a rallying point. The moment selected
for representation is that when the Guards are first entering their own
lines.

[Illustration: =Queen Victoria at St. Paul’s.=
 (_An Incident of the Diamond Jubilee. From a photograph._)]

[Illustration: =Jessie’s Dream.=
 (_From the picture by F. Goodall, R.A., in the Mappin Art Gallery. By
   permission of the Corporation of Sheffield._)]

[Illustration: =_Edward VII., King of Great Britain and Ireland and of
the British Dominions beyond the Seas, Emperor of India._=]




                              Chapter XXI.
                         EDWARD THE PEACEMAKER.


AND now let our pageant draw to a close with the figure of our present
gracious and genial king. Long may he reign! He has laid his subjects
under a deep debt of gratitude. Every inch a constitutional king, he has
been by no means a mere figurehead of state, but a real and potent
factor in the affairs of his land. His watchword has been Peace, and in
its service he has won notable victories. It has been his great glory to
bring the nations of Europe into closer friendship with this country
than they have ever been before.

Let us present Edward the Peacemaker in a characteristic scene. For two
years seven months and nineteen days the British nation has been engaged
in a desperate struggle with the Boers of the Transvaal Republic and
Orange Free State, and the resources of the British Empire have been
strained to the utmost. Then, one blessed May day, peace is signed at
Pretoria, and with a great sigh of relief the British nation learns that
the war is at an end.

Three of the Boer generals, Botha, De la Key, and De Wet, come to
England to meet the King. They have no knowledge of sovereigns and
courts, and they have no experience to guide them in the presence of
royalty. But their misgivings are speedily dispelled, for as they step
on the deck of the royal yacht, King Edward comes forward to greet them
with an ease and urbanity that is all his own. In simple, homely phrases
he says that he is glad to meet them; he tells them that they have been
brave enemies, and now he hopes they are to be good friends. And the
Boer generals respond no less heartily. They reply that they hope so
too; that they are happy to see him recovered from his illness; that
their people had heard of it with great regret, and are glad to know
that the Lord has given him back his health.

Then they chat frankly and freely with him and the Queen—God bless
her!—and thus he wins the hearts of these simple, brave men, who in the
years to come shall be his loyal subjects, and shall add a new pillar of
strength to the British Empire. As they leave the ship a friend asks,
“And what are you going to tell our people about the King, Oom Koos?” “I
shall tell them this: that I think that if we had sooner known the King,
and the King us, many things might have been different.”

Here is a kingly triumph indeed! We raise our hats as this royal lover
of Peace passes by, and from our grateful hearts send up the prayer:

                        “GOD SAVE THE KING!”




                           TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple
spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors
occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.

Corrections to text: —“. . . Easter Sunday in the year 1491.” was
corrected to 1471 to reflect the actual date of the Earl of Warwick’s
death in battle.

—“In the year 1788” was corrected to 1759 to reflect the year in which
Wolfe sailed for Canada, arriving in Quebec in May that same year.