1719	----	THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE By G.K. Chesterton Prefatory Note: This ballad needs no historical notes, for the simple reason that it does not profess to be historical. All of it that is not frankly fictitious, as in any prose romance about the past, is meant to emphasize tradition rather than history. King Alfred is not a legend in the sense that King Arthur may be a legend; that is, in the sense that he may possibly be a lie. But King Alfred is a legend in this broader and more human sense, that the legends are the most important things about him. The cult of Alfred was a popular cult, from the darkness of the ninth century to the deepening twilight of the twentieth. It is wholly as a popular legend that I deal with him here. I write as one ignorant of everything, except that I have found the legend of a King of Wessex still alive in the land. I will give three curt cases of what I mean. A tradition connects the ultimate victory of Alfred with the valley in Berkshire called the Vale of the White Horse. I have seen doubts of the tradition, which may be valid doubts. I do not know when or where the story started; it is enough that it started somewhere and ended with me; for I only seek to write upon a hearsay, as the old balladists did. For the second case, there is a popular tale that Alfred played the harp and sang in the Danish camp; I select it because it is a popular tale, at whatever time it arose. For the third case, there is a popular tale that Alfred came in contact with a woman and cakes; I select it because it is a popular tale, because it is a vulgar one. It has been disputed by grave historians, who were, I think, a little too grave to be good judges of it. The two chief charges against the story are that it was first recorded long after Alfred's death, and that (as Mr. Oman urges) Alfred never really wandered all alone without any thanes or soldiers. Both these objections might possibly be met. It has taken us nearly as long to learn the whole truth about Byron, and perhaps longer to learn the whole truth about Pepys, than elapsed between Alfred and the first writing of such tales. And as for the other objection, do the historians really think that Alfred after Wilton, or Napoleon after Leipsic, never walked about in a wood by himself for the matter of an hour or two? Ten minutes might be made sufficient for the essence of the story. But I am not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is enough for me to maintain two things: that they are popular traditions; and that without these popular traditions we should have bothered about Alfred about as much as we bother about Eadwig. One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the best way (that is, by national legends) solely for the same reason as Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, because he fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism. But since this work was really done by generation after generation, by the Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained, I have summarised this first crusade in a triple symbol, and given to a fictitious Roman, Celt, and Saxon, a part in the glory of Ethandune. I fancy that in fact Alfred's Wessex was of very mixed bloods; but in any case, it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while preserving the sentiment; to see all ages in a sort of splendid foreshortening. That is the use of tradition: it telescopes history. G.K.C. DEDICATION Of great limbs gone to chaos, A great face turned to night-- Why bend above a shapeless shroud Seeking in such archaic cloud Sight of strong lords and light? Where seven sunken Englands Lie buried one by one, Why should one idle spade, I wonder, Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder To smoke and choke the sun? In cloud of clay so cast to heaven What shape shall man discern? These lords may light the mystery Of mastery or victory, And these ride high in history, But these shall not return. Gored on the Norman gonfalon The Golden Dragon died: We shall not wake with ballad strings The good time of the smaller things, We shall not see the holy kings Ride down by Severn side. Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured As the broidery of Bayeux The England of that dawn remains, And this of Alfred and the Danes Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns Too English to be true. Of a good king on an island That ruled once on a time; And as he walked by an apple tree There came green devils out of the sea With sea-plants trailing heavily And tracks of opal slime. Yet Alfred is no fairy tale; His days as our days ran, He also looked forth for an hour On peopled plains and skies that lower, From those few windows in the tower That is the head of a man. But who shall look from Alfred's hood Or breathe his breath alive? His century like a small dark cloud Drifts far; it is an eyeless crowd, Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud And the dense arrows drive. Lady, by one light only We look from Alfred's eyes, We know he saw athwart the wreck The sign that hangs about your neck, Where One more than Melchizedek Is dead and never dies. Therefore I bring these rhymes to you Who brought the cross to me, Since on you flaming without flaw I saw the sign that Guthrum saw When he let break his ships of awe, And laid peace on the sea. Do you remember when we went Under a dragon moon, And 'mid volcanic tints of night Walked where they fought the unknown fight And saw black trees on the battle-height, Black thorn on Ethandune? And I thought, "I will go with you, As man with God has gone, And wander with a wandering star, The wandering heart of things that are, The fiery cross of love and war That like yourself, goes on." O go you onward; where you are Shall honour and laughter be, Past purpled forest and pearled foam, God's winged pavilion free to roam, Your face, that is a wandering home, A flying home for me. Ride through the silent earthquake lands, Wide as a waste is wide, Across these days like deserts, when Pride and a little scratching pen Have dried and split the hearts of men, Heart of the heroes, ride. Up through an empty house of stars, Being what heart you are, Up the inhuman steeps of space As on a staircase go in grace, Carrying the firelight on your face Beyond the loneliest star. Take these; in memory of the hour We strayed a space from home And saw the smoke-hued hamlets, quaint With Westland king and Westland saint, And watched the western glory faint Along the road to Frome. BOOK I. THE VISION OF THE KING Before the gods that made the gods Had seen their sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale Was cut out of the grass. Before the gods that made the gods Had drunk at dawn their fill, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale Was hoary on the hill. Age beyond age on British land, Aeons on aeons gone, Was peace and war in western hills, And the White Horse looked on. For the White Horse knew England When there was none to know; He saw the first oar break or bend, He saw heaven fall and the world end, O God, how long ago. For the end of the world was long ago, And all we dwell to-day As children of some second birth, Like a strange people left on earth After a judgment day. For the end of the world was long ago, When the ends of the world waxed free, When Rome was sunk in a waste of slaves, And the sun drowned in the sea. When Caesar's sun fell out of the sky And whoso hearkened right Could only hear the plunging Of the nations in the night. When the ends of the earth came marching in To torch and cresset gleam. And the roads of the world that lead to Rome Were filled with faces that moved like foam, Like faces in a dream. And men rode out of the eastern lands, Broad river and burning plain; Trees that are Titan flowers to see, And tiger skies, striped horribly, With tints of tropic rain. Where Ind's enamelled peaks arise Around that inmost one, Where ancient eagles on its brink, Vast as archangels, gather and drink The sacrament of the sun. And men brake out of the northern lands, Enormous lands alone, Where a spell is laid upon life and lust And the rain is changed to a silver dust And the sea to a great green stone. And a Shape that moveth murkily In mirrors of ice and night, Hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds, As death and a shock of evil words Blast a man's hair with white. And the cry of the palms and the purple moons, Or the cry of the frost and foam, Swept ever around an inmost place, And the din of distant race on race Cried and replied round Rome. And there was death on the Emperor And night upon the Pope: And Alfred, hiding in deep grass, Hardened his heart with hope. A sea-folk blinder than the sea Broke all about his land, But Alfred up against them bare And gripped the ground and grasped the air, Staggered, and strove to stand. He bent them back with spear and spade, With desperate dyke and wall, With foemen leaning on his shield And roaring on him when he reeled; And no help came at all. He broke them with a broken sword A little towards the sea, And for one hour of panting peace, Ringed with a roar that would not cease, With golden crown and girded fleece Made laws under a tree. The Northmen came about our land A Christless chivalry: Who knew not of the arch or pen, Great, beautiful half-witted men From the sunrise and the sea. Misshapen ships stood on the deep Full of strange gold and fire, And hairy men, as huge as sin With horned heads, came wading in Through the long, low sea-mire. Our towns were shaken of tall kings With scarlet beards like blood: The world turned empty where they trod, They took the kindly cross of God And cut it up for wood. Their souls were drifting as the sea, And all good towns and lands They only saw with heavy eyes, And broke with heavy hands, Their gods were sadder than the sea, Gods of a wandering will, Who cried for blood like beasts at night, Sadly, from hill to hill. They seemed as trees walking the earth, As witless and as tall, Yet they took hold upon the heavens And no help came at all. They bred like birds in English woods, They rooted like the rose, When Alfred came to Athelney To hide him from their bows There was not English armour left, Nor any English thing, When Alfred came to Athelney To be an English king. For earthquake swallowing earthquake Uprent the Wessex tree; The whirlpool of the pagan sway Had swirled his sires as sticks away When a flood smites the sea. And the great kings of Wessex Wearied and sank in gore, And even their ghosts in that great stress Grew greyer and greyer, less and less, With the lords that died in Lyonesse And the king that comes no more. And the God of the Golden Dragon Was dumb upon his throne, And the lord of the Golden Dragon Ran in the woods alone. And if ever he climbed the crest of luck And set the flag before, Returning as a wheel returns, Came ruin and the rain that burns, And all began once more. And naught was left King Alfred But shameful tears of rage, In the island in the river In the end of all his age. In the island in the river He was broken to his knee: And he read, writ with an iron pen, That God had wearied of Wessex men And given their country, field and fen, To the devils of the sea. And he saw in a little picture, Tiny and far away, His mother sitting in Egbert's hall, And a book she showed him, very small, Where a sapphire Mary sat in stall With a golden Christ at play. It was wrought in the monk's slow manner, From silver and sanguine shell, Where the scenes are little and terrible, Keyholes of heaven and hell. In the river island of Athelney, With the river running past, In colours of such simple creed All things sprang at him, sun and weed, Till the grass grew to be grass indeed And the tree was a tree at last. Fearfully plain the flowers grew, Like the child's book to read, Or like a friend's face seen in a glass; He looked; and there Our Lady was, She stood and stroked the tall live grass As a man strokes his steed. Her face was like an open word When brave men speak and choose, The very colours of her coat Were better than good news. She spoke not, nor turned not, Nor any sign she cast, Only she stood up straight and free, Between the flowers in Athelney, And the river running past. One dim ancestral jewel hung On his ruined armour grey, He rent and cast it at her feet: Where, after centuries, with slow feet, Men came from hall and school and street And found it where it lay. "Mother of God," the wanderer said, "I am but a common king, Nor will I ask what saints may ask, To see a secret thing. "The gates of heaven are fearful gates Worse than the gates of hell; Not I would break the splendours barred Or seek to know the thing they guard, Which is too good to tell. "But for this earth most pitiful, This little land I know, If that which is for ever is, Or if our hearts shall break with bliss, Seeing the stranger go? "When our last bow is broken, Queen, And our last javelin cast, Under some sad, green evening sky, Holding a ruined cross on high, Under warm westland grass to lie, Shall we come home at last?" And a voice came human but high up, Like a cottage climbed among The clouds; or a serf of hut and croft That sits by his hovel fire as oft, But hears on his old bare roof aloft A belfry burst in song. "The gates of heaven are lightly locked, We do not guard our gain, The heaviest hind may easily Come silently and suddenly Upon me in a lane. "And any little maid that walks In good thoughts apart, May break the guard of the Three Kings And see the dear and dreadful things I hid within my heart. "The meanest man in grey fields gone Behind the set of sun, Heareth between star and other star, Through the door of the darkness fallen ajar, The council, eldest of things that are, The talk of the Three in One. "The gates of heaven are lightly locked, We do not guard our gold, Men may uproot where worlds begin, Or read the name of the nameless sin; But if he fail or if he win To no good man is told. "The men of the East may spell the stars, And times and triumphs mark, But the men signed of the cross of Christ Go gaily in the dark. "The men of the East may search the scrolls For sure fates and fame, But the men that drink the blood of God Go singing to their shame. "The wise men know what wicked things Are written on the sky, They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings, Hearing the heavy purple wings, Where the forgotten seraph kings Still plot how God shall die. "The wise men know all evil things Under the twisted trees, Where the perverse in pleasure pine And men are weary of green wine And sick of crimson seas. "But you and all the kind of Christ Are ignorant and brave, And you have wars you hardly win And souls you hardly save. "I tell you naught for your comfort, Yea, naught for your desire, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher. "Night shall be thrice night over you, And heaven an iron cope. Do you have joy without a cause, Yea, faith without a hope?" Even as she spoke she was not, Nor any word said he, He only heard, still as he stood Under the old night's nodding hood, The sea-folk breaking down the wood Like a high tide from sea. He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and bleak, Singing about some cruel thing Done by a great and smiling king In daylight on a deck. He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and blind, Singing what shameful things are done Between the sunlit sea and the sun When the land is left behind. BOOK II. THE GATHERING OF THE CHIEFS Up across windy wastes and up Went Alfred over the shaws, Shaken of the joy of giants, The joy without a cause. In the slopes away to the western bays, Where blows not ever a tree, He washed his soul in the west wind And his body in the sea. And he set to rhyme his ale-measures, And he sang aloud his laws, Because of the joy of the giants, The joy without a cause. The King went gathering Wessex men, As grain out of the chaff The few that were alive to die, Laughing, as littered skulls that lie After lost battles turn to the sky An everlasting laugh. The King went gathering Christian men, As wheat out of the husk; Eldred, the Franklin by the sea, And Mark, the man from Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, From the old tribe on Usk. The rook croaked homeward heavily, The west was clear and warm, The smoke of evening food and ease Rose like a blue tree in the trees When he came to Eldred's farm. But Eldred's farm was fallen awry, Like an old cripple's bones, And Eldred's tools were red with rust, And on his well was a green crust, And purple thistles upward thrust, Between the kitchen stones. But smoke of some good feasting Went upwards evermore, And Eldred's doors stood wide apart For loitering foot or labouring cart, And Eldred's great and foolish heart Stood open like his door. A mighty man was Eldred, A bulk for casks to fill, His face a dreaming furnace, His body a walking hill. In the old wars of Wessex His sword had sunken deep, But all his friends, he signed and said, Were broken about Ethelred; And between the deep drink and the dead He had fallen upon sleep. "Come not to me, King Alfred, Save always for the ale: Why should my harmless hinds be slain Because the chiefs cry once again, As in all fights, that we shall gain, And in all fights we fail? "Your scalds still thunder and prophesy That crown that never comes; Friend, I will watch the certain things, Swine, and slow moons like silver rings, And the ripening of the plums." And Alfred answered, drinking, And gravely, without blame, "Nor bear I boast of scald or king, The thing I bear is a lesser thing, But comes in a better name. "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God, More than the doors of doom, I call the muster of Wessex men From grassy hamlet or ditch or den, To break and be broken, God knows when, But I have seen for whom. "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God Like a little word come I; For I go gathering Christian men From sunken paving and ford and fen, To die in a battle, God knows when, By God, but I know why. "And this is the word of Mary, The word of the world's desire 'No more of comfort shall ye get, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher.'" Then silence sank. And slowly Arose the sea-land lord, Like some vast beast for mystery, He filled the room and porch and sky, And from a cobwebbed nail on high Unhooked his heavy sword. Up on the shrill sea-downs and up Went Alfred all alone, Turning but once e'er the door was shut, Shouting to Eldred over his butt, That he bring all spears to the woodman's hut Hewn under Egbert's Stone. And he turned his back and broke the fern, And fought the moths of dusk, And went on his way for other friends Friends fallen of all the wide world's ends, From Rome that wrath and pardon sends And the grey tribes on Usk. He saw gigantic tracks of death And many a shape of doom, Good steadings to grey ashes gone And a monk's house white like a skeleton In the green crypt of the combe. And in many a Roman villa Earth and her ivies eat, Saw coloured pavements sink and fade In flowers, and the windy colonnade Like the spectre of a street. But the cold stars clustered Among the cold pines Ere he was half on his pilgrimage Over the western lines. And the white dawn widened Ere he came to the last pine, Where Mark, the man from Italy, Still made the Christian sign. The long farm lay on the large hill-side, Flat like a painted plan, And by the side the low white house, Where dwelt the southland man. A bronzed man, with a bird's bright eye, And a strong bird's beak and brow, His skin was brown like buried gold, And of certain of his sires was told That they came in the shining ship of old, With Caesar in the prow. His fruit trees stood like soldiers Drilled in a straight line, His strange, stiff olives did not fail, And all the kings of the earth drank ale, But he drank wine. Wide over wasted British plains Stood never an arch or dome, Only the trees to toss and reel, The tribes to bicker, the beasts to squeal; But the eyes in his head were strong like steel, And his soul remembered Rome. Then Alfred of the lonely spear Lifted his lion head; And fronted with the Italian's eye, Asking him of his whence and why, King Alfred stood and said: "I am that oft-defeated King Whose failure fills the land, Who fled before the Danes of old, Who chaffered with the Danes with gold, Who now upon the Wessex wold Hardly has feet to stand. "But out of the mouth of the Mother of God I have seen the truth like fire, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Long looked the Roman on the land; The trees as golden crowns Blazed, drenched with dawn and dew-empearled While faintlier coloured, freshlier curled, The clouds from underneath the world Stood up over the downs. "These vines be ropes that drag me hard," He said. "I go not far; Where would you meet? For you must hold Half Wiltshire and the White Horse wold, And the Thames bank to Owsenfold, If Wessex goes to war. "Guthrum sits strong on either bank And you must press his lines Inwards, and eastward drive him down; I doubt if you shall take the crown Till you have taken London town. For me, I have the vines." "If each man on the Judgment Day Meet God on a plain alone," Said Alfred, "I will speak for you As for myself, and call it true That you brought all fighting folk you knew Lined under Egbert's Stone. "Though I be in the dust ere then, I know where you will be." And shouldering suddenly his spear He faded like some elfin fear, Where the tall pines ran up, tier on tier Tree overtoppling tree. He shouldered his spear at morning And laughed to lay it on, But he leaned on his spear as on a staff, With might and little mood to laugh, Or ever he sighted chick or calf Of Colan of Caerleon. For the man dwelt in a lost land Of boulders and broken men, In a great grey cave far off to the south Where a thick green forest stopped the mouth, Giving darkness in his den. And the man was come like a shadow, From the shadow of Druid trees, Where Usk, with mighty murmurings, Past Caerleon of the fallen kings, Goes out to ghostly seas. Last of a race in ruin-- He spoke the speech of the Gaels; His kin were in holy Ireland, Or up in the crags of Wales. But his soul stood with his mother's folk, That were of the rain-wrapped isle, Where Patrick and Brandan westerly Looked out at last on a landless sea And the sun's last smile. His harp was carved and cunning, As the Celtic craftsman makes, Graven all over with twisting shapes Like many headless snakes. His harp was carved and cunning, His sword prompt and sharp, And he was gay when he held the sword, Sad when he held the harp. For the great Gaels of Ireland Are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, And all their songs are sad. He kept the Roman order, He made the Christian sign; But his eyes grew often blind and bright, And the sea that rose in the rocks at night Rose to his head like wine. He made the sign of the cross of God, He knew the Roman prayer, But he had unreason in his heart Because of the gods that were. Even they that walked on the high cliffs, High as the clouds were then, Gods of unbearable beauty, That broke the hearts of men. And whether in seat or saddle, Whether with frown or smile, Whether at feast or fight was he, He heard the noise of a nameless sea On an undiscovered isle. Lifting the great green ivy And the great spear lowering, One said, "I am Alfred of Wessex, And I am a conquered king." And the man of the cave made answer, And his eyes were stars of scorn, "And better kings were conquered Or ever your sires were born. "What goddess was your mother, What fay your breed begot, That you should not die with Uther And Arthur and Lancelot? "But when you win you brag and blow, And when you lose you rail, Army of eastland yokels Not strong enough to fail." "I bring not boast or railing," Spake Alfred not in ire, "I bring of Our Lady a lesson set, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Then Colan of the Sacred Tree Tossed his black mane on high, And cried, as rigidly he rose, "And if the sea and sky be foes, We will tame the sea and sky." Smiled Alfred, "Seek ye a fable More dizzy and more dread Than all your mad barbarian tales Where the sky stands on its head? "A tale where a man looks down on the sky That has long looked down on him; A tale where a man can swallow a sea That might swallow the seraphim. "Bring to the hut by Egbert's Stone All bills and bows ye have." And Alfred strode off rapidly, And Colan of the Sacred Tree Went slowly to his cave. BOOK III. THE HARP OF ALFRED In a tree that yawned and twisted The King's few goods were flung, A mass-book mildewed, line by line, And weapons and a skin of wine, And an old harp unstrung. By the yawning tree in the twilight The King unbound his sword, Severed the harp of all his goods, And there in the cool and soundless woods Sounded a single chord. Then laughed; and watched the finches flash, The sullen flies in swarm, And went unarmed over the hills, With the harp upon his arm, Until he came to the White Horse Vale And saw across the plains, In the twilight high and far and fell, Like the fiery terraces of hell, The camp fires of the Danes-- The fires of the Great Army That was made of iron men, Whose lights of sacrilege and scorn Ran around England red as morn, Fires over Glastonbury Thorn-- Fires out on Ely Fen. And as he went by White Horse Vale He saw lie wan and wide The old horse graven, God knows when, By gods or beasts or what things then Walked a new world instead of men And scrawled on the hill-side. And when he came to White Horse Down The great White Horse was grey, For it was ill scoured of the weed, And lichen and thorn could crawl and feed, Since the foes of settled house and creed Had swept old works away. King Alfred gazed all sorrowful At thistle and mosses grey, Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill, And, hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play. And as they went through the high green grass They roared like the great green sea; But when they came to the red camp fire They were silent suddenly. And as they went up the wastes away They went reeling to and fro; But when they came to the red camp fire They stood all in a row. For golden in the firelight, With a smile carved on his lips, And a beard curled right cunningly, Was Guthrum of the Northern Sea, The emperor of the ships-- With three great earls King Guthrum Went the rounds from fire to fire, With Harold, nephew of the King, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling, And Elf, whose gold lute had a string That sighed like all desire. The Earls of the Great Army That no men born could tire, Whose flames anear him or aloof Took hold of towers or walls of proof, Fire over Glastonbury roof And out on Ely, fire. And Guthrum heard the soldiers' tale And bade the stranger play; Not harshly, but as one on high, On a marble pillar in the sky, Who sees all folk that live and die-- Pigmy and far away. And Alfred, King of Wessex, Looked on his conqueror-- And his hands hardened; but he played, And leaving all later hates unsaid, He sang of some old British raid On the wild west march of yore. He sang of war in the warm wet shires, Where rain nor fruitage fails, Where England of the motley states Deepens like a garden to the gates In the purple walls of Wales. He sang of the seas of savage heads And the seas and seas of spears, Boiling all over Offa's Dyke, What time a Wessex club could strike The kings of the mountaineers. Till Harold laughed and snatched the harp, The kinsman of the King, A big youth, beardless like a child, Whom the new wine of war sent wild, Smote, and began to sing-- And he cried of the ships as eagles That circle fiercely and fly, And sweep the seas and strike the towns From Cyprus round to Skye. How swiftly and with peril They gather all good things, The high horns of the forest beasts, Or the secret stones of kings. "For Rome was given to rule the world, And gat of it little joy-- But we, but we shall enjoy the world, The whole huge world a toy. "Great wine like blood from Burgundy, Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre, And marble like solid moonlight, And gold like frozen fire. "Smells that a man might swill in a cup, Stones that a man might eat, And the great smooth women like ivory That the Turks sell in the street." He sang the song of the thief of the world, And the gods that love the thief; And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards, Where men go gathering grief. "Well have you sung, O stranger, Of death on the dyke in Wales, Your chief was a bracelet-giver; But the red unbroken river Of a race runs not for ever, But suddenly it fails. "Doubtless your sires were sword-swingers When they waded fresh from foam, Before they were turned to women By the god of the nails from Rome; "But since you bent to the shaven men, Who neither lust nor smite, Thunder of Thor, we hunt you A hare on the mountain height." King Guthrum smiled a little, And said, "It is enough, Nephew, let Elf retune the string; A boy must needs like bellowing, But the old ears of a careful king Are glad of songs less rough." Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel, With womanish hair and ring, Yet heavy was his hand on sword, Though light upon the string. And as he stirred the strings of the harp To notes but four or five, The heart of each man moved in him Like a babe buried alive. And they felt the land of the folk-songs Spread southward of the Dane, And they heard the good Rhine flowing In the heart of all Allemagne. They felt the land of the folk-songs, Where the gifts hang on the tree, Where the girls give ale at morning And the tears come easily. The mighty people, womanlike, That have pleasure in their pain As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens loved in vain. As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens could not save, Till the world was like a sea of tears And every soul a wave. "There is always a thing forgotten When all the world goes well; A thing forgotten, as long ago, When the gods forgot the mistletoe, And soundless as an arrow of snow The arrow of anguish fell. "The thing on the blind side of the heart, On the wrong side of the door, The green plant groweth, menacing Almighty lovers in the spring; There is always a forgotten thing, And love is not secure." And all that sat by the fire were sad, Save Ogier, who was stern, And his eyes hardened, even to stones, As he took the harp in turn; Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling Was odd to ear and sight, Old he was, but his locks were red, And jests were all the words he said Yet he was sad at board and bed And savage in the fight. "You sing of the young gods easily In the days when you are young; But I go smelling yew and sods, And I know there are gods behind the gods, Gods that are best unsung. "And a man grows ugly for women, And a man grows dull with ale, Well if he find in his soul at last Fury, that does not fail. "The wrath of the gods behind the gods Who would rend all gods and men, Well if the old man's heart hath still Wheels sped of rage and roaring will, Like cataracts to break down and kill, Well for the old man then-- "While there is one tall shrine to shake, Or one live man to rend; For the wrath of the gods behind the gods Who are weary to make an end. "There lives one moment for a man When the door at his shoulder shakes, When the taut rope parts under the pull, And the barest branch is beautiful One moment, while it breaks. "So rides my soul upon the sea That drinks the howling ships, Though in black jest it bows and nods Under the moons with silver rods, I know it is roaring at the gods, Waiting the last eclipse. "And in the last eclipse the sea Shall stand up like a tower, Above all moons made dark and riven, Hold up its foaming head in heaven, And laugh, knowing its hour. "And the high ones in the happy town Propped of the planets seven, Shall know a new light in the mind, A noise about them and behind, Shall hear an awful voice, and find Foam in the courts of heaven. "And you that sit by the fire are young, And true love waits for you; But the king and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true." And Guthrum shook his head but smiled, For he was a mighty clerk, And had read lines in the Latin books When all the north was dark. He said, "I am older than you, Ogier; Not all things would I rend, For whether life be bad or good It is best to abide the end." He took the great harp wearily, Even Guthrum of the Danes, With wide eyes bright as the one long day On the long polar plains. For he sang of a wheel returning, And the mire trod back to mire, And how red hells and golden heavens Are castles in the fire. "It is good to sit where the good tales go, To sit as our fathers sat; But the hour shall come after his youth, When a man shall know not tales but truth, And his heart fail thereat. "When he shall read what is written So plain in clouds and clods, When he shall hunger without hope Even for evil gods. "For this is a heavy matter, And the truth is cold to tell; Do we not know, have we not heard, The soul is like a lost bird, The body a broken shell. "And a man hopes, being ignorant, Till in white woods apart He finds at last the lost bird dead: And a man may still lift up his head But never more his heart. "There comes no noise but weeping Out of the ancient sky, And a tear is in the tiniest flower Because the gods must die. "The little brooks are very sweet, Like a girl's ribbons curled, But the great sea is bitter That washes all the world. "Strong are the Roman roses, Or the free flowers of the heath, But every flower, like a flower of the sea, Smelleth with the salt of death. "And the heart of the locked battle Is the happiest place for men; When shrieking souls as shafts go by And many have died and all may die; Though this word be a mystery, Death is most distant then. "Death blazes bright above the cup, And clear above the crown; But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down. "Wherefore I am a great king, And waste the world in vain, Because man hath not other power, Save that in dealing death for dower, He may forget it for an hour To remember it again." And slowly his hands and thoughtfully Fell from the lifted lyre, And the owls moaned from the mighty trees Till Alfred caught it to his knees And smote it as in ire. He heaved the head of the harp on high And swept the framework barred, And his stroke had all the rattle and spark Of horses flying hard. "When God put man in a garden He girt him with a sword, And sent him forth a free knight That might betray his lord; "He brake Him and betrayed Him, And fast and far he fell, Till you and I may stretch our necks And burn our beards in hell. "But though I lie on the floor of the world, With the seven sins for rods, I would rather fall with Adam Than rise with all your gods. "What have the strong gods given? Where have the glad gods led? When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead? "Sirs, I am but a nameless man, A rhymester without home, Yet since I come of the Wessex clay And carry the cross of Rome, "I will even answer the mighty earl That asked of Wessex men Why they be meek and monkish folk, And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke; What sign have we save blood and smoke? Here is my answer then. "That on you is fallen the shadow, And not upon the Name; That though we scatter and though we fly, And you hang over us like the sky, You are more tired of victory, Than we are tired of shame. "That though you hunt the Christian man Like a hare on the hill-side, The hare has still more heart to run Than you have heart to ride. "That though all lances split on you, All swords be heaved in vain, We have more lust again to lose Than you to win again. "Your lord sits high in the saddle, A broken-hearted king, But our king Alfred, lost from fame, Fallen among foes or bonds of shame, In I know not what mean trade or name, Has still some song to sing; "Our monks go robed in rain and snow, But the heart of flame therein, But you go clothed in feasts and flames, When all is ice within; "Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb Men wondering ceaselessly, If it be not better to fast for joy Than feast for misery. "Nor monkish order only Slides down, as field to fen, All things achieved and chosen pass, As the White Horse fades in the grass, No work of Christian men. "Ere the sad gods that made your gods Saw their sad sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale, That you have left to darken and fail, Was cut out of the grass. "Therefore your end is on you, Is on you and your kings, Not for a fire in Ely fen, Not that your gods are nine or ten, But because it is only Christian men Guard even heathen things. "For our God hath blessed creation, Calling it good. I know What spirit with whom you blindly band Hath blessed destruction with his hand; Yet by God's death the stars shall stand And the small apples grow." And the King, with harp on shoulder, Stood up and ceased his song; And the owls moaned from the mighty trees, And the Danes laughed loud and long. BOOK IV. THE WOMAN IN THE FOREST Thick thunder of the snorting swine, Enormous in the gloam, Rending among all roots that cling, And the wild horses whinnying, Were the night's noises when the King Shouldering his harp, went home. With eyes of owl and feet of fox, Full of all thoughts he went; He marked the tilt of the pagan camp, The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp, And the one great stolen altar-lamp Over Guthrum in his tent. By scrub and thorn in Ethandune That night the foe had lain; Whence ran across the heather grey The old stones of a Roman way; And in a wood not far away The pale road split in twain. He marked the wood and the cloven ways With an old captain's eyes, And he thought how many a time had he Sought to see Doom he could not see; How ruin had come and victory, And both were a surprise. Even so he had watched and wondered Under Ashdown from the plains; With Ethelred praying in his tent, Till the white hawthorn swung and bent, As Alfred rushed his spears and rent The shield-wall of the Danes. Even so he had watched and wondered, Knowing neither less nor more, Till all his lords lay dying, And axes on axes plying, Flung him, and drove him flying Like a pirate to the shore. Wise he had been before defeat, And wise before success; Wise in both hours and ignorant, Knowing neither more nor less. As he went down to the river-hut He knew a night-shade scent, Owls did as evil cherubs rise, With little wings and lantern eyes, As though he sank through the under-skies; But down and down he went. As he went down to the river-hut He went as one that fell; Seeing the high forest domes and spars. Dim green or torn with golden scars, As the proud look up at the evil stars, In the red heavens of hell. For he must meet by the river-hut Them he had bidden to arm, Mark from the towers of Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, And Eldred who beside the sea Held heavily his farm. The roof leaned gaping to the grass, As a monstrous mushroom lies; Echoing and empty seemed the place; But opened in a little space A great grey woman with scarred face And strong and humbled eyes. King Alfred was but a meagre man, Bright eyed, but lean and pale: And swordless, with his harp and rags, He seemed a beggar, such as lags Looking for crusts and ale. And the woman, with a woman's eyes Of pity at once and ire, Said, when that she had glared a span, "There is a cake for any man If he will watch the fire." And Alfred, bowing heavily, Sat down the fire to stir, And even as the woman pitied him So did he pity her. Saying, "O great heart in the night, O best cast forth for worst, Twilight shall melt and morning stir, And no kind thing shall come to her, Till God shall turn the world over And all the last are first. "And well may God with the serving-folk Cast in His dreadful lot; Is not He too a servant, And is not He forgot? "For was not God my gardener And silent like a slave; That opened oaks on the uplands Or thicket in graveyard gave? "And was not God my armourer, All patient and unpaid, That sealed my skull as a helmet, And ribs for hauberk made? "Did not a great grey servant Of all my sires and me, Build this pavilion of the pines, And herd the fowls and fill the vines, And labour and pass and leave no signs Save mercy and mystery? "For God is a great servant, And rose before the day, From some primordial slumber torn; But all we living later born Sleep on, and rise after the morn, And the Lord has gone away. "On things half sprung from sleeping, All sleepy suns have shone, They stretch stiff arms, the yawning trees, The beasts blink upon hands and knees, Man is awake and does and sees-- But Heaven has done and gone. "For who shall guess the good riddle Or speak of the Holiest, Save in faint figures and failing words, Who loves, yet laughs among the swords, Labours, and is at rest? "But some see God like Guthrum, Crowned, with a great beard curled, But I see God like a good giant, That, labouring, lifts the world. "Wherefore was God in Golgotha, Slain as a serf is slain; And hate He had of prince and peer, And love He had and made good cheer, Of them that, like this woman here, Go powerfully in pain. "But in this grey morn of man's life, Cometh sometime to the mind A little light that leaps and flies, Like a star blown on the wind. "A star of nowhere, a nameless star, A light that spins and swirls, And cries that even in hedge and hill, Even on earth, it may go ill At last with the evil earls. "A dancing sparkle, a doubtful star, On the waste wind whirled and driven; But it seems to sing of a wilder worth, A time discrowned of doom and birth, And the kingdom of the poor on earth Come, as it is in heaven. "But even though such days endure, How shall it profit her? Who shall go groaning to the grave, With many a meek and mighty slave, Field-breaker and fisher on the wave, And woodman and waggoner. "Bake ye the big world all again A cake with kinder leaven; Yet these are sorry evermore-- Unless there be a little door, A little door in heaven." And as he wept for the woman He let her business be, And like his royal oath and rash The good food fell upon the ash And blackened instantly. Screaming, the woman caught a cake Yet burning from the bar, And struck him suddenly on the face, Leaving a scarlet scar. King Alfred stood up wordless, A man dead with surprise, And torture stood and the evil things That are in the childish hearts of kings An instant in his eyes. And even as he stood and stared Drew round him in the dusk Those friends creeping from far-off farms, Marcus with all his slaves in arms, And the strange spears hung with ancient charms Of Colan of the Usk. With one whole farm marching afoot The trampled road resounds, Farm-hands and farm-beasts blundering by And jars of mead and stores of rye, Where Eldred strode above his high And thunder-throated hounds. And grey cattle and silver lowed Against the unlifted morn, And straw clung to the spear-shafts tall. And a boy went before them all Blowing a ram's horn. As mocking such rude revelry, The dim clan of the Gael Came like a bad king's burial-end, With dismal robes that drop and rend And demon pipes that wail-- In long, outlandish garments, Torn, though of antique worth, With Druid beards and Druid spears, As a resurrected race appears Out of an elder earth. And though the King had called them forth And knew them for his own, So still each eye stood like a gem, So spectral hung each broidered hem, Grey carven men he fancied them, Hewn in an age of stone. And the two wild peoples of the north Stood fronting in the gloam, And heard and knew each in its mind The third great thunder on the wind, The living walls that hedge mankind, The walking walls of Rome. Mark's were the mixed tribes of the west, Of many a hue and strain, Gurth, with rank hair like yellow grass, And the Cornish fisher, Gorlias, And Halmer, come from his first mass, Lately baptized, a Dane. But like one man in armour Those hundreds trod the field, From red Arabia to the Tyne The earth had heard that marching-line, Since the cry on the hill Capitoline, And the fall of the golden shield. And the earth shook and the King stood still Under the greenwood bough, And the smoking cake lay at his feet And the blow was on his brow. Then Alfred laughed out suddenly, Like thunder in the spring, Till shook aloud the lintel-beams, And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams, And the startled birds went up in streams, For the laughter of the King. And the beasts of the earth and the birds looked down, In a wild solemnity, On a stranger sight than a sylph or elf, On one man laughing at himself Under the greenwood tree-- The giant laughter of Christian men That roars through a thousand tales, Where greed is an ape and pride is an ass, And Jack's away with his master's lass, And the miser is banged with all his brass, The farmer with all his flails; Tales that tumble and tales that trick, Yet end not all in scorning-- Of kings and clowns in a merry plight, And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right, That the mummers sing upon Christmas night And Christmas Day in the morning. "Now here is a good warrant," Cried Alfred, "by my sword; For he that is struck for an ill servant Should be a kind lord. "He that has been a servant Knows more than priests and kings, But he that has been an ill servant, He knows all earthly things. "Pride flings frail palaces at the sky, As a man flings up sand, But the firm feet of humility Take hold of heavy land. "Pride juggles with her toppling towers, They strike the sun and cease, But the firm feet of humility They grip the ground like trees. "He that hath failed in a little thing Hath a sign upon the brow; And the Earls of the Great Army Have no such seal to show. "The red print on my forehead, Small flame for a red star, In the van of the violent marching, then When the sky is torn of the trumpets ten, And the hands of the happy howling men Fling wide the gates of war. "This blow that I return not Ten times will I return On kings and earls of all degree, And armies wide as empires be Shall slide like landslips to the sea If the red star burn. "One man shall drive a hundred, As the dead kings drave; Before me rocking hosts be riven, And battering cohorts backwards driven, For I am the first king known of Heaven That has been struck like a slave. "Up on the old white road, brothers, Up on the Roman walls! For this is the night of the drawing of swords, And the tainted tower of the heathen hordes Leans to our hammers, fires and cords, Leans a little and falls. "Follow the star that lives and leaps, Follow the sword that sings, For we go gathering heathen men, A terrible harvest, ten by ten, As the wrath of the last red autumn--then When Christ reaps down the kings. "Follow a light that leaps and spins, Follow the fire unfurled! For riseth up against realm and rod, A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod, The last lost giant, even God, Is risen against the world." Roaring they went o'er the Roman wall, And roaring up the lane, Their torches tossed a ladder of fire, Higher their hymn was heard and higher, More sweet for hate and for heart's desire, And up in the northern scrub and brier, They fell upon the Dane. BOOK V. ETHANDUNE: THE FIRST STROKE King Guthrum was a dread king, Like death out of the north; Shrines without name or number He rent and rolled as lumber, From Chester to the Humber He drove his foemen forth. The Roman villas heard him In the valley of the Thames, Come over the hills roaring Above their roofs, and pouring On spire and stair and flooring Brimstone and pitch and flames. Sheer o'er the great chalk uplands And the hill of the Horse went he, Till high on Hampshire beacons He saw the southern sea. High on the heights of Wessex He saw the southern brine, And turned him to a conquered land, And where the northern thornwoods stand, And the road parts on either hand, There came to him a sign. King Guthrum was a war-chief, A wise man in the field, And though he prospered well, and knew How Alfred's folk were sad and few, Not less with weighty care he drew Long lines for pike and shield. King Guthrum lay on the upper land, On a single road at gaze, And his foe must come with lean array, Up the left arm of the cloven way, To the meeting of the ways. And long ere the noise of armour, An hour ere the break of light, The woods awoke with crash and cry, And the birds sprang clamouring harsh and high, And the rabbits ran like an elves' army Ere Alfred came in sight. The live wood came at Guthrum, On foot and claw and wing, The nests were noisy overhead, For Alfred and the star of red, All life went forth, and the forest fled Before the face of the King. But halted in the woodways Christ's few were grim and grey, And each with a small, far, bird-like sight Saw the high folly of the fight; And though strange joys had grown in the night, Despair grew with the day. And when white dawn crawled through the wood, Like cold foam of a flood, Then weakened every warrior's mood, In hope, though not in hardihood; And each man sorrowed as he stood In the fashion of his blood. For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed For the things that had been fair; For the dear dead woman, crimson-clad, And the great feasts and the friends he had; But the Celtic prince's soul was sad For the things that never were. In the eyes Italian all things But a black laughter died; And Alfred flung his shield to earth And smote his breast and cried-- "I wronged a man to his slaying, And a woman to her shame, And once I looked on a sworn maid That was wed to the Holy Name. "And once I took my neighbour's wife, That was bound to an eastland man, In the starkness of my evil youth, Before my griefs began. "People, if you have any prayers, Say prayers for me: And lay me under a Christian stone In that lost land I thought my own, To wait till the holy horn is blown, And all poor men are free." Then Eldred of the idle farm Leaned on his ancient sword, As fell his heavy words and few; And his eyes were of such alien blue As gleams where the Northman saileth new Into an unknown fiord. "I was a fool and wasted ale-- My slaves found it sweet; I was a fool and wasted bread, And the birds had bread to eat. "The kings go up and the kings go down, And who knows who shall rule; Next night a king may starve or sleep, But men and birds and beasts shall weep At the burial of a fool. "O, drunkards in my cellar, Boys in my apple tree, The world grows stern and strange and new, And wise men shall govern you, And you shall weep for me. "But yoke me my own oxen, Down to my own farm; My own dog will whine for me, My own friends will bend the knee, And the foes I slew openly Have never wished me harm." And all were moved a little, But Colan stood apart, Having first pity, and after Hearing, like rat in rafter, That little worm of laughter That eats the Irish heart. And his grey-green eyes were cruel, And the smile of his mouth waxed hard, And he said, "And when did Britain Become your burying-yard? "Before the Romans lit the land, When schools and monks were none, We reared such stones to the sun-god As might put out the sun. "The tall trees of Britain We worshipped and were wise, But you shall raid the whole land through And never a tree shall talk to you, Though every leaf is a tongue taught true And the forest is full of eyes. "On one round hill to the seaward The trees grow tall and grey And the trees talk together When all men are away. "O'er a few round hills forgotten The trees grow tall in rings, And the trees talk together Of many pagan things. "Yet I could lie and listen With a cross upon my clay, And hear unhurt for ever What the trees of Britain say." A proud man was the Roman, His speech a single one, But his eyes were like an eagle's eyes That is staring at the sun. "Dig for me where I die," he said, "If first or last I fall-- Dead on the fell at the first charge, Or dead by Wantage wall; "Lift not my head from bloody ground, Bear not my body home, For all the earth is Roman earth And I shall die in Rome." Then Alfred, King of England, Bade blow the horns of war, And fling the Golden Dragon out, With crackle and acclaim and shout, Scrolled and aflame and far. And under the Golden Dragon Went Wessex all along, Past the sharp point of the cloven ways, Out from the black wood into the blaze Of sun and steel and song. And when they came to the open land They wheeled, deployed and stood; Midmost were Marcus and the King, And Eldred on the right-hand wing, And leftwards Colan darkling, In the last shade of the wood. But the Earls of the Great Army Lay like a long half moon, Ten poles before their palisades, With wide-winged helms and runic blades Red giants of an age of raids, In the thornland of Ethandune. Midmost the saddles rose and swayed, And a stir of horses' manes, Where Guthrum and a few rode high On horses seized in victory; But Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. Far to the King's left Elf the bard Led on the eastern wing With songs and spells that change the blood; And on the King's right Harold stood, The kinsman of the King. Young Harold, coarse, with colours gay, Smoking with oil and musk, And the pleasant violence of the young, Pushed through his people, giving tongue Foewards, where, grey as cobwebs hung, The banners of the Usk. But as he came before his line A little space along, His beardless face broke into mirth, And he cried: "What broken bits of earth Are here? For what their clothes are worth I would sell them for a song." For Colan was hung with raiment Tattered like autumn leaves, And his men were all as thin as saints, And all as poor as thieves. No bows nor slings nor bolts they bore, But bills and pikes ill-made; And none but Colan bore a sword, And rusty was its blade. And Colan's eyes with mystery And iron laughter stirred, And he spoke aloud, but lightly Not labouring to be heard. "Oh, truly we be broken hearts, For that cause, it is said, We light our candles to that Lord That broke Himself for bread. "But though we hold but bitterly What land the Saxon leaves, Though Ireland be but a land of saints, And Wales a land of thieves, "I say you yet shall weary Of the working of your word, That stricken spirits never strike Nor lean hands hold a sword. "And if ever ye ride in Ireland, The jest may yet be said, There is the land of broken hearts, And the land of broken heads." Not less barbarian laughter Choked Harold like a flood, "And shall I fight with scarecrows That am of Guthrum's blood? "Meeting may be of war-men, Where the best war-man wins; But all this carrion a man shoots Before the fight begins." And stopping in his onward strides, He snatched a bow in scorn From some mean slave, and bent it on Colan, whose doom grew dark; and shone Stars evil over Caerleon, In the place where he was born. For Colan had not bow nor sling, On a lonely sword leaned he, Like Arthur on Excalibur In the battle by the sea. To his great gold ear-ring Harold Tugged back the feathered tail, And swift had sprung the arrow, But swifter sprang the Gael. Whirling the one sword round his head, A great wheel in the sun, He sent it splendid through the sky, Flying before the shaft could fly-- It smote Earl Harold over the eye, And blood began to run. Colan stood bare and weaponless, Earl Harold, as in pain, Strove for a smile, put hand to head, Stumbled and suddenly fell dead; And the small white daisies all waxed red With blood out of his brain. And all at that marvel of the sword, Cast like a stone to slay, Cried out. Said Alfred: "Who would see Signs, must give all things. Verily Man shall not taste of victory Till he throws his sword away." Then Alfred, prince of England, And all the Christian earls, Unhooked their swords and held them up, Each offered to Colan, like a cup Of chrysolite and pearls. And the King said, "Do thou take my sword Who have done this deed of fire, For this is the manner of Christian men, Whether of steel or priestly pen, That they cast their hearts out of their ken To get their heart's desire. "And whether ye swear a hive of monks, Or one fair wife to friend, This is the manner of Christian men, That their oath endures the end. "For love, our Lord, at the end of the world, Sits a red horse like a throne, With a brazen helm and an iron bow, But one arrow alone. "Love with the shield of the Broken Heart Ever his bow doth bend, With a single shaft for a single prize, And the ultimate bolt that parts and flies Comes with a thunder of split skies, And a sound of souls that rend. "So shall you earn a king's sword, Who cast your sword away." And the King took, with a random eye, A rude axe from a hind hard by And turned him to the fray. For the swords of the Earls of Daneland Flamed round the fallen lord. The first blood woke the trumpet-tune, As in monk's rhyme or wizard's rune, Beginneth the battle of Ethandune With the throwing of the sword. BOOK VI. ETHANDUNE: THE SLAYING OF THE CHIEFS As the sea flooding the flat sands Flew on the sea-born horde, The two hosts shocked with dust and din, Left of the Latian paladin, Clanged all Prince Harold's howling kin On Colan and the sword. Crashed in the midst on Marcus, Ogier with Guthrum by, And eastward of such central stir, Far to the right and faintlier, The house of Elf the harp-player, Struck Eldred's with a cry. The centre swat for weariness, Stemming the screaming horde, And wearily went Colan's hands That swung King Alfred's sword. But like a cloud of morning To eastward easily, Tall Eldred broke the sea of spears As a tall ship breaks the sea. His face like a sanguine sunset, His shoulder a Wessex down, His hand like a windy hammer-stroke; Men could not count the crests he broke, So fast the crests went down. As the tall white devil of the Plague Moves out of Asian skies, With his foot on a waste of cities And his head in a cloud of flies; Or purple and peacock skies grow dark With a moving locust-tower; Or tawny sand-winds tall and dry, Like hell's red banners beat and fly, When death comes out of Araby, Was Eldred in his hour. But while he moved like a massacre He murmured as in sleep, And his words were all of low hedges And little fields and sheep. Even as he strode like a pestilence, That strides from Rhine to Rome, He thought how tall his beans might be If ever he went home. Spoke some stiff piece of childish prayer, Dull as the distant chimes, That thanked our God for good eating And corn and quiet times-- Till on the helm of a high chief Fell shatteringly his brand, And the helm broke and the bone broke And the sword broke in his hand. Then from the yelling Northmen Driven splintering on him ran Full seven spears, and the seventh Was never made by man. Seven spears, and the seventh Was wrought as the faerie blades, And given to Elf the minstrel By the monstrous water-maids; By them that dwell where luridly Lost waters of the Rhine Move among roots of nations, Being sunken for a sign. Under all graves they murmur, They murmur and rebel, Down to the buried kingdoms creep, And like a lost rain roar and weep O'er the red heavens of hell. Thrice drowned was Elf the minstrel, And washed as dead on sand; And the third time men found him The spear was in his hand. Seven spears went about Eldred, Like stays about a mast; But there was sorrow by the sea For the driving of the last. Six spears thrust upon Eldred Were splintered while he laughed; One spear thrust into Eldred, Three feet of blade and shaft. And from the great heart grievously Came forth the shaft and blade, And he stood with the face of a dead man, Stood a little, and swayed-- Then fell, as falls a battle-tower, On smashed and struggling spears. Cast down from some unconquered town That, rushing earthward, carries down Loads of live men of all renown-- Archers and engineers. And a great clamour of Christian men Went up in agony, Crying, "Fallen is the tower of Wessex That stood beside the sea." Centre and right the Wessex guard Grew pale for doubt and fear, And the flank failed at the advance, For the death-light on the wizard lance-- The star of the evil spear. "Stand like an oak," cried Marcus, "Stand like a Roman wall! Eldred the Good is fallen-- Are you too good to fall? "When we were wan and bloodless He gave you ale enow; The pirates deal with him as dung, God! are you bloodless now?" "Grip, Wulf and Gorlias, grip the ash! Slaves, and I make you free! Stamp, Hildred hard in English land, Stand Gurth, stand Gorlias, Gawen stand! Hold, Halfgar, with the other hand, Halmer, hold up on knee! "The lamps are dying in your homes, The fruits upon your bough; Even now your old thatch smoulders, Gurth, Now is the judgment of the earth, Now is the death-grip, now!" For thunder of the captain, Not less the Wessex line, Leaned back and reeled a space to rear As Elf charged with the Rhine maids' spear, And roaring like the Rhine. For the men were borne by the waving walls Of woods and clouds that pass, By dizzy plains and drifting sea, And they mixed God with glamoury, God with the gods of the burning tree And the wizard's tower and glass. But Mark was come of the glittering towns Where hot white details show, Where men can number and expound, And his faith grew in a hard ground Of doubt and reason and falsehood found, Where no faith else could grow. Belief that grew of all beliefs One moment back was blown And belief that stood on unbelief Stood up iron and alone. The Wessex crescent backwards Crushed, as with bloody spear Went Elf roaring and routing, And Mark against Elf yet shouting, Shocked, in his mid-career. Right on the Roman shield and sword Did spear of the Rhine maids run; But the shield shifted never, The sword rang down to sever, The great Rhine sang for ever, And the songs of Elf were done. And a great thunder of Christian men Went up against the sky, Saying, "God hath broken the evil spear Ere the good man's blood was dry." "Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain. "Death on the gods of death! Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth God that is a craftsman good, And gold and iron, earth and wood, Loveth and laboureth. "The fruits leap up in all your farms, The lamps in each abode; God of all good things done on earth, All wheels or webs of any worth, The God that makes the roof, Gurth, The God that makes the road. "The God that heweth kings in oak Writeth songs on vellum, God of gold and flaming glass, Confregit potentias Acrcuum, scutum, Gorlias, Gladium et bellum." Steel and lightning broke about him, Battle-bays and palm, All the sea-kings swayed among Woods of the Wessex arms upflung, The trumpet of the Roman tongue, The thunder of the psalm. And midmost of that rolling field Ran Ogier ragingly, Lashing at Mark, who turned his blow, And brake the helm about his brow, And broke him to his knee. Then Ogier heaved over his head His huge round shield of proof; But Mark set one foot on the shield, One on some sundered rock upheeled, And towered above the tossing field, A statue on a roof. Dealing far blows about the fight, Like thunder-bolts a-roam, Like birds about the battle-field, While Ogier writhed under his shield Like a tortoise in his dome. But hate in the buried Ogier Was strong as pain in hell, With bare brute hand from the inside He burst the shield of brass and hide, And a death-stroke to the Roman's side Sent suddenly and well. Then the great statue on the shield Looked his last look around With level and imperial eye; And Mark, the man from Italy, Fell in the sea of agony, And died without a sound. And Ogier, leaping up alive, Hurled his huge shield away Flying, as when a juggler flings A whizzing plate in play. And held two arms up rigidly, And roared to all the Danes: "Fallen is Rome, yea, fallen The city of the plains! "Shall no man born remember, That breaketh wood or weald, How long she stood on the roof of the world As he stood on my shield. "The new wild world forgetteth her As foam fades on the sea, How long she stood with her foot on Man As he with his foot on me. "No more shall the brown men of the south Move like the ants in lines, To quiet men with olives Or madden men with vines. "No more shall the white towns of the south, Where Tiber and Nilus run, Sitting around a secret sea Worship a secret sun. "The blind gods roar for Rome fallen, And forum and garland gone, For the ice of the north is broken, And the sea of the north comes on. "The blind gods roar and rave and dream Of all cities under the sea, For the heart of the north is broken, And the blood of the north is free. "Down from the dome of the world we come, Rivers on rivers down, Under us swirl the sects and hordes And the high dooms we drown. "Down from the dome of the world and down, Struck flying as a skiff On a river in spate is spun and swirled Until we come to the end of the world That breaks short, like a cliff. "And when we come to the end of the world For me, I count it fit To take the leap like a good river, Shot shrieking over it. "But whatso hap at the end of the world, Where Nothing is struck and sounds, It is not, by Thor, these monkish men These humbled Wessex hounds-- "Not this pale line of Christian hinds, This one white string of men, Shall keep us back from the end of the world, And the things that happen then. "It is not Alfred's dwarfish sword, Nor Egbert's pigmy crown, Shall stay us now that descend in thunder, Rending the realms and the realms thereunder, Down through the world and down." There was that in the wild men back of him, There was that in his own wild song, A dizzy throbbing, a drunkard smoke, That dazed to death all Wessex folk, And swept their spears along. Vainly the sword of Colan And the axe of Alfred plied-- The Danes poured in like a brainless plague, And knew not when they died. Prince Colan slew a score of them, And was stricken to his knee; King Alfred slew a score and seven And was borne back on a tree. Back to the black gate of the woods, Back up the single way, Back by the place of the parting ways Christ's knights were whirled away. And when they came to the parting ways Doom's heaviest hammer fell, For the King was beaten, blind, at bay, Down the right lane with his array, But Colan swept the other way, Where he smote great strokes and fell. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand sharp and thick as spears, By night and furze and forest-harms Far sundered were the friends in arms; The loud lost blows, the last alarms, Came not to Alfred's ears. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand stiff as spikes in mail; As to the Haut King came at morn Dead Roland on a doubtful horn, Seemed unto Alfred lightly borne The last cry of the Gael. BOOK VII. ETHANDUNE: THE LAST CHARGE Away in the waste of White Horse Down An idle child alone Played some small game through hours that pass, And patiently would pluck the grass, Patiently push the stone. On the lean, green edge for ever, Where the blank chalk touched the turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land. Through the long infant hours like days He built one tower in vain-- Piled up small stones to make a town, And evermore the stones fell down, And he piled them up again. And crimson kings on battle-towers, And saints on Gothic spires, And hermits on their peaks of snow, And heroes on their pyres, And patriots riding royally, That rush the rocking town, Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day. For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home; And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome. And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay; But Alfred fought as gravely As a good child at play. He saw wheels break and work run back And all things as they were; And his heart was orbed like victory And simple like despair. Therefore is Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave; And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave. Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale or tomb; And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom. Because in the forest of all fears Like a strange fresh gust from sea, Struck him that ancient innocence That is more than mastery. And as a child whose bricks fall down Re-piles them o'er and o'er, Came ruin and the rain that burns, Returning as a wheel returns, And crouching in the furze and ferns He began his life once more. He took his ivory horn unslung And smiled, but not in scorn: "Endeth the Battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn." On a dark horse at the double way He saw great Guthrum ride, Heard roar of brass and ring of steel, The laughter and the trumpet peal, The pagan in his pride. And Ogier's red and hated head Moved in some talk or task; But the men seemed scattered in the brier, And some of them had lit a fire, And one had broached a cask. And waggons one or two stood up, Like tall ships in sight, As if an outpost were encamped At the cloven ways for night. And joyous of the sudden stay Of Alfred's routed few, Sat one upon a stone to sigh, And some slipped up the road to fly, Till Alfred in the fern hard by Set horn to mouth and blew. And they all abode like statues-- One sitting on the stone, One half-way through the thorn hedge tall, One with a leg across a wall, And one looked backwards, very small, Far up the road, alone. Grey twilight and a yellow star Hung over thorn and hill; Two spears and a cloven war-shield lay Loose on the road as cast away, The horn died faint in the forest grey, And the fleeing men stood still. "Brothers at arms," said Alfred, "On this side lies the foe; Are slavery and starvation flowers, That you should pluck them so? "For whether is it better To be prodded with Danish poles, Having hewn a chamber in a ditch, And hounded like a howling witch, Or smoked to death in holes? "Or that before the red cock crow All we, a thousand strong, Go down the dark road to God's house, Singing a Wessex song? "To sweat a slave to a race of slaves, To drink up infamy? No, brothers, by your leave, I think Death is a better ale to drink, And by all the stars of Christ that sink, The Danes shall drink with me. "To grow old cowed in a conquered land, With the sun itself discrowned, To see trees crouch and cattle slink-- Death is a better ale to drink, And by high Death on the fell brink That flagon shall go round. "Though dead are all the paladins Whom glory had in ken, Though all your thunder-sworded thanes With proud hearts died among the Danes, While a man remains, great war remains: Now is a war of men. "The men that tear the furrows, The men that fell the trees, When all their lords be lost and dead The bondsmen of the earth shall tread The tyrants of the seas. "The wheel of the roaring stillness Of all labours under the sun, Speed the wild work as well at least As the whole world's work is done. "Let Hildred hack the shield-wall Clean as he hacks the hedge; Let Gurth the fowler stand as cool As he stands on the chasm's edge; "Let Gorlias ride the sea-kings As Gorlias rides the sea, Then let all hell and Denmark drive, Yelling to all its fiends alive, And not a rag care we." When Alfred's word was ended Stood firm that feeble line, Each in his place with club or spear, And fury deeper than deep fear, And smiles as sour as brine. And the King held up the horn and said, "See ye my father's horn, That Egbert blew in his empery, Once, when he rode out commonly, Twice when he rode for venery, And thrice on the battle-morn. "But heavier fates have fallen The horn of the Wessex kings, And I blew once, the riding sign, To call you to the fighting line And glory and all good things. "And now two blasts, the hunting sign, Because we turn to bay; But I will not blow the three blasts, Till we be lost or they. "And now I blow the hunting sign, Charge some by rule and rod; But when I blow the battle sign, Charge all and go to God." Wild stared the Danes at the double ways Where they loitered, all at large, As that dark line for the last time Doubled the knee to charge-- And caught their weapons clumsily, And marvelled how and why-- In such degree, by rule and rod, The people of the peace of God Went roaring down to die. And when the last arrow Was fitted and was flown, When the broken shield hung on the breast, And the hopeless lance was laid in rest, And the hopeless horn blown, The King looked up, and what he saw Was a great light like death, For Our Lady stood on the standards rent, As lonely and as innocent As when between white walls she went And the lilies of Nazareth. One instant in a still light He saw Our Lady then, Her dress was soft as western sky, And she was a queen most womanly-- But she was a queen of men. Over the iron forest He saw Our Lady stand, Her eyes were sad withouten art, And seven swords were in her heart-- But one was in her hand. Then the last charge went blindly, And all too lost for fear: The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, And twenty clubs rose o'er the King, Four Danes hewed at him, halloing, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling Drove at him with a spear. But the Danes were wild with laughter, And the great spear swung wide, The point stuck to a straggling tree, And either host cried suddenly, As Alfred leapt aside. Short time had shaggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rushing through the sky, He cowered beneath it with a cry-- It split him to the spine: And Alfred sprang over him dead, And blew the battle sign. Then bursting all and blasting Came Christendom like death, Kicked of such catapults of will, The staves shiver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath. Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great shields groan like a gong-- Horses like horns of nightmare Neigh horribly and long. Horses ramp high and rock and boil And break their golden reins, And slide on carnage clamorously, Down where the bitter blood doth lie, Where Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. "The high tide!" King Alfred cried. "The high tide and the turn! As a tide turns on the tall grey seas, See how they waver in the trees, How stray their spears, how knock their knees, How wild their watchfires burn! "The Mother of God goes over them, Walking on wind and flame, And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale, And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale, And we all shall yet drink Christian ale In the village of our name. "The Mother of God goes over them, On dreadful cherubs borne; And the psalm is roaring above the rune, And the Cross goes over the sun and moon, Endeth the battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn." For back indeed disorderly The Danes went clamouring, Too worn to take anew the tale, Or dazed with insolence and ale, Or stunned of heaven, or stricken pale Before the face of the King. For dire was Alfred in his hour The pale scribe witnesseth, More mighty in defeat was he Than all men else in victory, And behind, his men came murderously, Dry-throated, drinking death. And Edgar of the Golden Ship He slew with his own hand, Took Ludwig from his lady's bower, And smote down Harmar in his hour, And vain and lonely stood the tower-- The tower in Guelderland. And Torr out of his tiny boat, Whose eyes beheld the Nile, Wulf with his war-cry on his lips, And Harco born in the eclipse, Who blocked the Seine with battleships Round Paris on the Isle. And Hacon of the Harvest-Song, And Dirck from the Elbe he slew, And Cnut that melted Durham bell And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell, And Goderic and Sigael, And Uriel of the Yew. And highest sang the slaughter, And fastest fell the slain, When from the wood-road's blackening throat A crowning and crashing wonder smote The rear-guard of the Dane. For the dregs of Colan's company-- Lost down the other road-- Had gathered and grown and heard the din, And with wild yells came pouring in, Naked as their old British kin, And bright with blood for woad. And bare and bloody and aloft They bore before their band The body of the mighty lord, Colan of Caerleon and its horde, That bore King Alfred's battle-sword Broken in his left hand. And a strange music went with him, Loud and yet strangely far; The wild pipes of the western land, Too keen for the ear to understand, Sang high and deathly on each hand When the dead man went to war. Blocked between ghost and buccaneer, Brave men have dropped and died; And the wild sea-lords well might quail As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael Called to the horns of White Horse Vale, And all the horns replied. And Hildred the poor hedger Cut down four captains dead, And Halmar laid three others low, And the great earls wavered to and fro For the living and the dead. And Gorlias grasped the great flag, The Raven of Odin, torn; And the eyes of Guthrum altered, For the first time since morn. As a turn of the wheel of tempest Tilts up the whole sky tall, And cliffs of wan cloud luminous Lean out like great walls over us, As if the heavens might fall. As such a tall and tilted sky Sends certain snow or light, So did the eyes of Guthrum change, And the turn was more certain and more strange Than a thousand men in flight. For not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees, Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he. He set his horse in the battle-breech Even Guthrum of the Dane, And as ever had fallen fell his brand, A falling tower o'er many a land, But Gurth the fowler laid one hand Upon this bridle rein. King Guthrum was a great lord, And higher than his gods-- He put the popes to laughter, He chid the saints with rods, He took this hollow world of ours For a cup to hold his wine; In the parting of the woodways There came to him a sign. In Wessex in the forest, In the breaking of the spears, We set a sign on Guthrum To blaze a thousand years. Where the high saddles jostle And the horse-tails toss, There rose to the birds flying A roar of dead and dying; In deafness and strong crying We signed him with the cross. Far out to the winding river The blood ran down for days, When we put the cross on Guthrum In the parting of the ways. BOOK VIII. THE SCOURING OF THE HORSE In the years of the peace of Wessex, When the good King sat at home; Years following on that bloody boon When she that stands above the moon Stood above death at Ethandune And saw his kingdom come-- When the pagan people of the sea Fled to their palisades, Nailed there with javelins to cling And wonder smote the pirate king, And brought him to his christening And the end of all his raids. (For not till the night's blue slate is wiped Of its last star utterly, And fierce new signs writ there to read, Shall eyes with such amazement heed, As when a great man knows indeed A greater thing than he.) And there came to his chrism-loosing Lords of all lands afar, And a line was drawn north-westerly That set King Egbert's empire free, Giving all lands by the northern sea To the sons of the northern star. In the days of the rest of Alfred, When all these things were done, And Wessex lay in a patch of peace, Like a dog in a patch of sun-- The King sat in his orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom And the sunshine on his head. And he gathered the songs of simple men That swing with helm and hod, And the alms he gave as a Christian Like a river alive with fishes ran; And he made gifts to a beggar man As to a wandering god. And he gat good laws of the ancient kings, Like treasure out of the tombs; And many a thief in thorny nook, Or noble in sea-stained turret shook, For the opening of his iron book, And the gathering of the dooms. Then men would come from the ends of the earth, Whom the King sat welcoming, And men would go to the ends of the earth Because of the word of the King. For folk came in to Alfred's face Whose javelins had been hurled On monsters that make boil the sea, Crakens and coils of mystery. Or thrust in ancient snows that be The white hair of the world. And some had knocked at the northern gates Of the ultimate icy floor, Where the fish freeze and the foam turns black, And the wide world narrows to a track, And the other sea at the world's back Cries through a closed door. And men went forth from Alfred's face, Even great gift-bearing lords, Not to Rome only, but more bold, Out to the high hot courts of old, Of negroes clad in cloth of gold, Silence, and crooked swords, Scrawled screens and secret gardens And insect-laden skies-- Where fiery plains stretch on and on To the purple country of Prester John And the walls of Paradise. And he knew the might of the Terre Majeure, Where kings began to reign; Where in a night-rout, without name, Of gloomy Goths and Gauls there came White, above candles all aflame, Like a vision, Charlemagne. And men, seeing such embassies, Spake with the King and said: "The steel that sang so sweet a tune On Ashdown and on Ethandune, Why hangs it scabbarded so soon, All heavily like lead? "Why dwell the Danes in North England, And up to the river ride? Three more such marches like thine own Would end them; and the Pict should own Our sway; and our feet climb the throne In the mountains of Strathclyde." And Alfred in the orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom, Looked at green leaves and said: "When all philosophies shall fail, This word alone shall fit; That a sage feels too small for life, And a fool too large for it. "Asia and all imperial plains Are too little for a fool; But for one man whose eyes can see The little island of Athelney Is too large a land to rule. "Haply it had been better When I built my fortress there, Out in the reedy waters wide, I had stood on my mud wall and cried: 'Take England all, from tide to tide-- Be Athelney my share.' "Those madmen of the throne-scramble-- Oppressors and oppressed-- Had lined the banks by Athelney, And waved and wailed unceasingly, Where the river turned to the broad sea, By an island of the blest. "An island like a little book Full of a hundred tales, Like the gilt page the good monks pen, That is all smaller than a wren, Yet hath high towns, meteors, and men, And suns and spouting whales; "A land having a light on it In the river dark and fast, An isle with utter clearness lit, Because a saint had stood in it; Where flowers are flowers indeed and fit, And trees are trees at last. "So were the island of a saint; But I am a common king, And I will make my fences tough From Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing." And it fell in the days of Alfred, In the days of his repose, That as old customs in his sight Were a straight road and a steady light, He bade them keep the White Horse white As the first plume of the snows. And right to the red torchlight, From the trouble of morning grey, They stripped the White Horse of the grass As they strip it to this day. And under the red torchlight He went dreaming as though dull, Of his old companions slain like kings, And the rich irrevocable things Of a heart that hath not openings, But is shut fast, being full. And the torchlight touched the pale hair Where silver clouded gold, And the frame of his face was made of cords, And a young lord turned among the lords And said: "The King is old." And even as he said it A post ran in amain, Crying: "Arm, Lord King, the hamlets arm, In the horror and the shade of harm, They have burnt Brand of Aynger's farm-- The Danes are come again! "Danes drive the white East Angles In six fights on the plains, Danes waste the world about the Thames, Danes to the eastward--Danes!" And as he stumbled on one knee, The thanes broke out in ire, Crying: "Ill the watchmen watch, and ill The sheriffs keep the shire." But the young earl said: "Ill the saints, The saints of England, guard The land wherein we pledge them gold; The dykes decay, the King grows old, And surely this is hard, "That we be never quit of them; That when his head is hoar He cannot say to them he smote, And spared with a hand hard at the throat, 'Go, and return no more.'" Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power. But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berkshire breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour. "Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door? Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more? "So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free; Treason and shame shall come to pass While one weed flowers in a morass; And like the stillness of stiff grass The stillness of tyranny. "Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of grass, And sadder than their sigh. "And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am; But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of grass grows here; Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram. "And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew. "One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell; But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on God's great bell And grass in the streets of God." Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's. Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of God Burns over Glastonbury. Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky. But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said, "Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and lustier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of God Between Thames side and the sea, "I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return. "They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands. "Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star. "They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men. "The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk. "But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing-- Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king; "By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord. "Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire. "What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark; "By all men bond to Nothing, Being slaves without a lord, By one blind idiot world obeyed, Too blind to be abhorred; "By terror and the cruel tales Of curse in bone and kin, By weird and weakness winning, Accursed from the beginning, By detail of the sinning, And denial of the sin; "By thought a crawling ruin, By life a leaping mire, By a broken heart in the breast of the world, And the end of the world's desire; "By God and man dishonoured, By death and life made vain, Know ye the old barbarian, The barbarian come again-- "When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea. "In what wise men shall smite him, Or the Cross stand up again, Or charity or chivalry, My vision saith not; and I see No more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain." And the grass-edge of the great down Was cut clean as a lawn, While the levies thronged from near and far, From the warm woods of the western star, And the King went out to his last war On a tall grey horse at dawn. And news of his far-off fighting Came slowly and brokenly From the land of the East Saxons, From the sunrise and the sea. From the plains of the white sunrise, And sad St. Edmund's crown, Where the pools of Essex pale and gleam Out beyond London Town-- In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars, Climbed the old hills of his renown, Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars. But away in the eastern places The wind of death walked high, And a raid was driven athwart the raid, The sky reddened and the smoke swayed, And the tall grey horse went by. The gates of the great river Were breached as with a barge, The walls sank crowded, say the scribes, And high towers populous with tribes Seemed leaning from the charge. Smoke like rebellious heavens rolled Curled over coloured flames, Mirrored in monstrous purple dreams In the mighty pools of Thames. Loud was the war on London wall, And loud in London gates, And loud the sea-kings in the cloud Broke through their dreaming gods, and loud Cried on their dreadful Fates. And all the while on White Horse Hill The horse lay long and wan, The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man. With velvet finger, velvet foot, The fierce soft mosses then Crept on the large white commonweal All folk had striven to strip and peel, And the grass, like a great green witch's wheel, Unwound the toils of men. And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be-- That away on the widening river, In the eastern plains for crown Stood up in the pale purple sky One turret of smoke like ivory; And the smoke changed and the wind went by, And the King took London Town. 
21315	----	The King's Sons, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ This is a very short book, and it does not contain any of the usual nail-biting Fenn-style situations. But it is very good at what it does, which is to tell a story about King Ethelwulf of Wessex and his four sons, each of whom in turn became King. The story concentrates on the youngest of the sons, Alfred, who became known as Alfred the Great during his reign. The four boys have a tutor, Father Swythe, but only Alfred is interested in what the monk has to teach. At this point we get a very interesting lesson on how the great illustrated manuscripts were made, how the ink and the colours were made, and how the pens and brushes were made. Father Swythe later became Bishop of Winchester, and was known as Swithun. He was canonised, and somehow there has grown a legend that if it rains on Saint Swithun's day it will rain for forty days after that. He is portrayed as rather a portly monk in this story, but his effigy in Winchester Cathedral shows him as a very slight man. There is another story about him which makes him out to be rather a small man, who couldn't reach the key-hole of the cathedral, which obligingly slid down for him. Anyway, the story is a good one, and you will enjoy it. This website is called Athelstane, after Alfred's grandson, so we were interested to transcribe this story. NH ________________________________________________________________________ THE KING'S SONS, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. SONS OF THE KING. The sun shone down hotly on the hill-side, and that hill was one of a range of smooth rolling downs that ought to have been called ups and downs, from the way they seemed to rise and fall like the sea on a fine calm day. Not quite, for at such a time the sea looks as blue as the sky above it, while here on this particular hot day, though the sky was as blue as a sapphire stone, the hills were of a beautiful soft green, the grass being short and soft, and as velvety as if Nature had been all over it regularly with her own particular mowing-machine. But the only mowing that had been done to that grass was by the cropping teeth of the many flocks of sheep whose fleeces dotted the downs with soft white where they nibbled away, watched by the shepherds in their long smock frocks with turn-down collars and pleatings and gatherings on breast and back, and slit up at the sides from the bottom so as to give the men's legs room to move freely when they ran after a restive sheep to hook him with the long crook they carried and bring him kicking and struggling by hook or by crook to the grass. It was just over a thousand years ago, and, in spite of all the changes fashion has made, plenty of shepherds and farm labourers still wear the simple old Saxon dress then worn by King Ethelwulf's serfs, though without the girdle worn then. There were four boys on the steepest slope of that hill-side--four fair-haired, sun-browned, hearty-looking boys--and they wore smock frocks, belted in at the waist, of fine, soft, woollen material, woven out of the fleeces of the sheep; for they were King's sons, the sons of the King whose flocks were feeding on the hill-side in Berkshire, where he had his Court. It was as peaceful there as it was soft and beautiful; for though news came from time to time of the cruel acts of the fierce Norsemen who had come across the sea in their great row and sailing galleys full of fighting-men, they were far away from the King's home, so that Queen Osburga felt no anxiety about her boys being out on the downs at play, enjoying themselves and growing strong. This she loved to see; though, being a very learned woman herself in days when noble people thought no shame to have to say: "I cannot read or write," she sighed to find how very little her four sons cared for such things as gave her delight. They all loved to be out in the open air along with Cerda, the Saxon jarl, one of the King's chief fighting-men, who urged them to learn how to use the broadsword. After setting one of the men to make swords for the boys--not of hard cutting steel, but of good tough ash-wood--and then matching them two against two, he would sit and roar with laughter at the blows they gave and took. "Well done! At him again!" he cried. "Another wound; but it will not bleed." It was Cerda, too, who had bows and arrows made for the boys, whilst King Ethelwulf would look on, sometimes smiling and sometimes sighing, for he cared nothing for these things. "But we must have fighting-men, Swythe," he said, to a little plump, rosy-looking monk in a long gown held tightly to his waist by a knotted rope, which cut in a good way, for the monk was very fat. "Oh, but fighting's bad, sir, very bad," said the monk, passing one of his hands round and round over his shining, closely-shaven crown. "Very bad," said King Ethelwulf. "I hate it; but you know what the Danes have done to so many of your holy house--killing, burning, and carrying off everything that is good." The monk screwed up his face, shook his head, and sighed, while the rosy little man looked so droll that the King smiled. "Look here, Swythe," he said, "suppose a horde of the savage wretches came up here to plunder my pleasant home, what would you do?" "Hah!" said the monk. "I am a man of peace, sir; I should run away." "And leave the Queen and my boys and me to be killed or taken prisoners?" "Hah! No," said the monk. "I couldn't do that. I'm afraid I should take the biggest staff I could lift--or a sword--or an axe--and--and if either of the wretches tried to touch our good Queen or either of my dear boys I should hit him as hard as ever I could." "With the club?" said the King. "No; I should strike him down with the axe, sir." "But you might kill him, Swythe." "And if I did, sir," said the little monk fiercely, "it would be a good thing too; for these Norsemen are wicked pagans, come to kill and slay." "You see, we must have fighting-men, Swythe," said the King; and then he turned to the Queen, who was listening to what they said. "Hah! yes, sir," said the monk, with a sigh. "I suppose we must; and it does my heart good to see how clever the young Princes are with sword and bow; but they spend too much time learning to fight. If they would only spend half the time learning with me!" "Yes, it would be good," said Queen Osburga sadly. "But they don't," continued the monk. "There's only young Alured-- Alfred, as you call him--who will learn at all, and he is nearly as idle as his brothers." "You cannot say that they are idle," said the Queen, smiling gently. "Well, perhaps not idle, my daughter," said the monk, shaking his head, "because they do work hard to learn what Jarl Cerda teaches them." "Yes," said King Ethelwulf, "they are apt to learn how to fight; but you must make them learned, as kings should be, so as to rule wisely and well when the Danes have killed me and they are called upon to reign." "The Danes never shall kill you, sir," cried the little monk fiercely, "so long as I can stand in their way." The little group now separated, for the King and Queen had many duties to perform in connection with state affairs, and the little monk had to prepare the lessons for the boys. And that's how matters were on that bright sunny day when King Ethelwulf's sons lay out on the steep hill-side--Bald, Bert, Red, and Fred--four as crisp and tongue-tripping names as four bright Saxon English boys could own, but each with the addition of Athel or Ethel before, except the youngest, in whose name it shortened into Al; and these were their titles, because each was a Prince. CHAPTER TWO. "BOYS WILL BE BOYS." One of the boys' amusements had been for one to shoot an arrow as high up as he could, and for his brothers to follow and try and hit the first one sent. Fine practice this in marksmanship, but unsatisfactory and tiring after a few tries, for the arrows flew far, and this time they had brought no young serfs' sons to retrieve the arrows, one of which took a long time to find. But it was found at last, just as the head of a man appeared above the distant ridge; and the boys stopped to look, the head being followed by the shoulders and breast of the man, while behind him there was a fringe of something bright and shimmering in the sunshine. The next minute the boys began to run, for they saw that the object first seen was a mounted man, and what followed the heads of spears borne by a party of quite a hundred men, whose leader had been seen first owing to his being mounted upon an active little horse. "Where's Cerda going?" shouted one of the boys. "There's a fight somewhere," said another. And the other two joined in, crying together: "Let's go and see." So, in a state of wild excitement and wonder that they had not heard the news of danger before, the boys raced to head off the body of armed men, the first up being greeted by the big bluff leader with a cheery shout. "What now? What now?" he cried. "Have you boys come to tell us that we are too late, and that the enemy are all slain? Who was it found the Norsemen's ship?" "Then the Danes have landed?" cried the eldest boy excitedly. "Yes," cried his brother. "I knew that was it." "Yes, that's it, boy," said the leader, dragging at his horse's head, for the animal was impatient to go on. "Where are they?" cried the youngest boy, with his cheeks flushing and eyes sparkling. "A day's journey away, my boy. The people over Farringdon way have asked for help, and the King sends me." "That's right," cried the boy who had last spoken. "We'll go with you." The leader smiled and shook his head, and the band of fine-looking, picked men indulged in a hearty laugh. "What are you mocking and gibing at?" cried the youngest boy fiercely. "Do you think that because I and my brothers are young we cannot fight?" "Yes," cried the eldest brother; "we can shoot an arrow with any of you. Pick out your four best men, Jarl Cerda, and we'll shoot against them." "Yes," said another. "You know we can shoot well." "Do I not?" said the jarl; "for I taught you." "Yes, yes; they can all shoot well," came in concert. "Oh, yes, they can shoot," said the leader; "but I have no time to prove it." "Of course not," cried Alfred. "Never mind that. Lead on." "I'm afraid we should never catch the Danes if you boys came," said the jarl solemnly. "Why?" cried Bald, the eldest. "Yes, why shouldn't we?" cried Ethelred. "Don't ask him," said Alfred, frowning. "Why?" "Look at his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He's laughing at us." The big jarl's shoulders began to shake, and his lids half-closed in his mirth, while the eyes of all four boys flashed in their anger. "Why, of course I'm laughing, my boys," he said; "but it's not out of a desire to mock at you. I know you, my brave little fellows, and I hope to come back safe, and to see you all grow up to stark men who will deal well with the Norsemen. But you must wait a bit." "No, no," cried Alfred. "We can stand back and shoot." "So can the Danes, my boy; and their arrows are sharp." "But we can shoot sharper and quicker than they," said Ethelred. "Oh, do take us, Jarl Cerda." "No, my boy," said the stout Saxon noble firmly; "I cannot take you. The King stood by and picked out my men, and he said I was to take these and no more. Would you have me give pain to our good Queen Osburga by breaking the King's commands?" "No," said Alfred, with a quick, old-fashioned look. "We cannot do that, boys." "Come, that's bravely spoken, Alfred, boy; I like that," said the jarl, leaning down from his horse to pat the youngest boy on the shoulder. "Look here, if I come back safely after beating the Danes I'll bring you one of their winged helmets for a prize." "You will?" cried Alfred. "I promise you I will, my boy," cried the big Saxon noble, "and trophies for your brothers too.--There, we must go on. Good-bye, my brave boys. Give them a shout, my lads." The men waved sword and spear in the air as they marched off and Alfred and his brothers stood watching them till the last twinkling spear had disappeared in the distance, and then the boys turned away with a sigh. "Oh, I wish I was a man!" said Alfred sadly. "No use to wish," said the next brother. "Here, let's go on down the stream to get some fish." The disappointment was soon forgotten, and the boys dashed off downhill as hard as they could go, neither of them hearing a shout, nor seeing the little monk come panting up, to stand gazing ruefully after them and wiping the great drops of perspiration off his face and head. "Oh, dear!" he said; "it's a fine thing to be young and strong, and--" He paused for a few moments to look down at his plump proportions. "--And light," he added sadly. "I can't run as they do." He stood perfectly still as he spoke, watching the deep crease in the valley, whose bottom was hidden by clumps of willow and beds of reeds with their dark purply waving blooms. "I suppose I must go after them," he sighed. "What can they want down there?" The little monk sighed again and then started off to follow the boys, trying hard to walk slowly and steadily; but it was all in vain. The hill-side sloped very steeply to the broad bed of willows and reeds far below, making the way very bad for so heavy and inactive a man. Worse still: walking over the short grass in the hot sun had made the bottoms of the monk's sandals as slippery as glass, and so it was that before he had gone far down the slope he began to talk to himself, at first slowly--then quickly--then in a loud excited way--and lastly he uttered a shout and a cry for help. "Here," he said, at first, "I want to go down slowly. It's too hot to walk fast. Steady! Why, I am going faster!" Then there was a minute's pause, and the monk cried excitedly: "I don't want to run." Then: "Oh, dear me, however am I to stop myself?" And directly after: "Oh, do stop me, somebody, or I shall be broken all to bits." And lastly: "Here, help, help, help!" Then there was a loud crashing sound, some water flew up, the monk uttered a final "Oh!" and lay perfectly still, listening, for all at once a familiar voice cried: "Oh, come here, quick! A sheep has gone plosh into the pool." Boys were as much boys then as they are now, for directly after these words were uttered Alfred--the Little then--came hurrying as fast as the water would let him wade--splash, splash, splash!--from where he and his brothers had been busily making a dam across the little stream to turn the rushing water aside into another channel so as to leave the unfortunate trout helpless and ready for capture, and as soon as he caught sight of his teacher lying perfectly still he burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "Come and look! Come and look!" he shouted. His brothers wanted no further telling, but came splashing up out of the stream to the open shallow muddy bed where the reeds grew, and as soon as they saw the monk's condition they began to indulge in a bare-legged triumphal war-dance, shrieking with laughter the while. "Bad boys; bad, thoughtless, wicked boys!" grunted Father Swythe; but he lay perfectly still with arms and legs spread apart as far as they would go. "Why don't you stand up and walk out?" cried Fred, at last, taking compassion on his tutor's awkward plight. "Because I'm so heavy, boy: I should sink." "Oh, no. It isn't deep there. I've often waded about there to look for moorhens' nests." "Yes, my boy; but you're young and light. I'm very heavy." "Yes," cried one of the others, in high delight; "there's an arrow depth of water where you are, and quite a bow length of thick mud under that." "Oh, dear!" groaned the monk; "don't laugh at me, my boys. Can't you help me out?" "Yes, I'll get you out," cried Alfred, and he waded towards his unfortunate tutor, trampling the reeds down with his bare feet, but sinking in up to his knees at every step. "Mind you don't get into a hole, Fred!" cried Bald. "Mind the big luces!" shouted Bert. "There's a monster lives among those reeds." "Oh, they all swam away when Father Swythe fell in," cried Red. "You have got to mind your toes. The big eels are down amongst the mud." The monk groaned at this, and raised his dripping hands above the water, to grasp with each a handful of reeds. "The eels will go deeper into the mud," said Alfred sturdily. "Now then, catch hold of my hands, and I'll pull you out." The monk raised one hand very cautiously, and Alfred seized it tightly and began to back, pulling with all his might; but he pulled in vain, for he did not move his tutor an inch. "Here, I know," cried Alfred. "You two come and join hands and pull." "I'm afraid I'm too heavy," said Father Swythe. "I shan't help," said Bald maliciously. "Let him stop where he is." The monk groaned again, and the three boys outside the reeds laughed with malicious glee. "If we pull him out he'll only take us back and begin to teach us to read." "Yes, yes, yes," sighed Father Swythe; "I came to fetch you in. The Queen sent me." "Then we won't help you," said Bert; laughing. "Let's go and finish getting our fish, and then go back. When they ask where he is we'll tell them, and then some of the shepherds can come with wattle hurdles and get him out." "Oh, dear!" groaned the monk. "After all my teaching, for you boys to be as bad as this! Why, if you leave me I shall be drowned!" "Oh, no," said Red merrily. "You've only to keep holding your face up." "Yes," said Bert; "and that will send your legs down till you'll be standing up in the mud and water." "And all the big flies and things will come and buzz about and settle on your crown. Come along, Fred, and finish the dam." "If we finish the dam," said Alfred seriously, "all the water will run in here and make it deeper." "Well, then he can swim out. You can swim, can't you?" "No, no, no," said the monk sadly. "I never learned." "What a pity!" said Red, laughing. "You ought to have learned to swim instead of learning so much Latin," cried Bert. "There isn't time to learn everything, my boys," said the monk sadly. "I'm obliged to try and teach you all: the King and Queen sent for me that I might. Please help me out." "We're not going to," cried Bald. "Come along, boys. He ought to have learned to swim." Bald began to move away, and the monk groaned again. "Come along, Fred," cried Bert, and the monk turned his head sidewise so as to look piteously at the youngest boy. "No, I'm not coming. I'm going to stop and help Father Swythe." "Hah!" sighed the monk, and he squeezed Alfred's hand. "No, you're not," cried Bald fiercely; "you're coming with us. Come along. He will not sink." "I shan't come!" said Alfred sturdily. "What? Here, boys, let's fetch him out." There was a rush made towards where the boy stood knee-deep, and he snatched his hand free from the monk's grasp, turned half-round, stooped a little, and as his eldest brother came wading in among the reeds he scooped up the water and saluted him with a heavy shower right in the face, drenching him so that he turned tail and hurried back, the other two laughingly backing out of reach. "Oh, you!" shouted. Bald. "Come out, or I'll hold you right under the water till you can't breathe." "Come along then," cried Alfred boldly, and he sent another shower of water after his brother, wetting him behind now. "You'll be just as wet as I shall first." "You come out!" "I shan't! You come here, if you dare!" "Come and help me, boys," cried Bald; but the others only laughed. "Come yourself, if you dare! Father Swythe will help me, and we'll duck you." "Urrr!" growled Bald, stamping with rage. Then: "Never mind, boys: let them stop together. Give him a Latin lesson, Father Swythe." "You stop a moment, all three of you," cried Alfred sharply. "You're not going away to leave Father Swythe like this. Go and fetch the big fir-pole that we laid across to begin the dam. If that's laid down here Father Swythe can pull himself out." "Fetch it yourself!" cried Bald angrily. "We're not your serfs." "I'm going to stop with Father Swythe," cried Alfred. "Good boy! good boy!" whispered the monk. "And look here," cried Alfred angrily: "it's cruel and wicked not to help him, and if you don't go I shall tell mother, and father will have you all punished severely." "Tell, if you dare!" cried Bald, wringing out some of the water from the front of his tunic-like gown. "Come along, boys, and we'll get the fish without him." Bald started off back to the stream, and the others followed him, the monk watching with piteous eyes till they were out of sight, when he turned his doleful, wrinkled face to his young companion, to tell him what he already knew. "They're gone," he said sadly. "Yes," said Alfred, laughing; "but only to fetch the fir-pole." "Do you think so?" sighed the monk. "Yes; they're afraid of my telling mother and making her angry. She doesn't like us to do cruel things: she'd tell us we were like the Danes. They'll come back soon with the pole, and then if you hold one end we can pull the other and draw you out. But I say, Father Swythe, you're big and strong. Don't you think if you were to try, you could get out on to the grass? Try and struggle out before they come back." "But if I began to sink--" "Then I should run and shout to the shepherds to come and pull you out." "But I shouldn't like you to leave me to sink alone, my boy." "It would be a long, long time before you were regularly mired," said the boy. "Now, you try! Give me both hands." Father Swythe did as he was told, and, while his young companion threw himself back and dragged, the monk kicked and struggled bravely, and with such good effect that, to the surprise of both, he glided slowly through the reeds, and in less than a minute he sat up panting on the short grass, with the water streaming from the front of his gown. "That was very brave and nice of you, my boy," he said, as he rose to his feet, "and I shall never forget it." "Oh, it was easy enough!" said Fred, laughing. "There, let's go over the hill, and when the boys come back they'll begin poking the pole about down among the reeds, and think we're both smothered. No: here they come. Look, they're bringing the pole." Surely enough they were; but the monk did not stop. He began trudging up hill through the hot sunshine so as to get back to take off his wet cassock and put on an old one that was dry, Fred choosing to stay with him and to talk about the bees and birds and flowers they passed, of which the monk could talk in an interesting way, even though it was a thousand years ago. As for the three others, they threw down the pole as soon as they saw that the monk was safe, and then followed at a distance to the big castle-like house--the palace in which the King dwelt; but there was very little reading that afternoon; for there was too much to say about the fresh attack made by the Danes, who had come up the river and landed, to ravage the country. Ethelwulf, who was not a very warlike King, was very anxious as to the result of the fight, and was busy getting more men together by means of his jarls or chiefs, so as to go to the help of those who had already set out. In fact, instead of studying Latin and learning to write, the boys stood about learning something of the art of war, and what was to be done to defend their country when an invading enemy was ravaging the land. CHAPTER THREE. FRED IS LEFT BEHIND. Time went on, and King Ethelwulf gathered and led off to the assistance of Jarl Cerda all the fighting-men he could assemble, as a wounded messenger had arrived from that noble, asking the King for more help, for he was sore pressed by the enemy. The Danes, he sent word, were in great force, and more and more of their war-galleys kept coming up the river, the occupants slaying and destroying wherever they landed. It was an anxious time for Queen Osburga, whose eyes often looked red as if she had been weeping, while her cheeks grew white and thin, and she shut herself up a great deal, so that no one should see her. The men-folk had nearly all departed from the place, and there was no one to exercise authority, so, as soon as the four boys had recovered from their disappointment at not being allowed to go with the little army their father led, they began to look upon it as a free and jovial time in which they could do whatever pleased them most, and this they did to such an extent that poor Swythe's face became full of lines, and after trying in vain to make his pupils continue their studies, and putting up with a great amount of disobedience on their part, he began to reproach them in his mild way. He was one of the gentlest and most amiable of men, but the wilfulness of the boys had at length compelled him to protest. "It seems so shocking," he said, rather piteously. "I only beg and pray of you all, now that the King is at the war and our dear lady the Queen in such sorrow and trouble, to try your best to get on with your lessons, so that the King may feel proud of his sons when he returns. Ethelbald laughs and mocks at me; Ethelbert says he will not study; Ethelred follows his example; and Alfred, of whom I expected better things, has just told me he does not mind a bit what I say, and that he will do just as he likes." "And so he shall!" said Bald boldly. "That is, he shall do as I like. Father has gone to fight the Danes, and while he's away, as I am the eldest, I shall act in his place, and shall expect everyone to obey me as if I were King." "Oh, no, no, no," cried Swythe, looking shocked. "Our dear lady Osburga is Queen, and everyone must obey her." "Do not speak of that to me!" cried Ethelbald. "She is only a woman, and cannot manage the men. Why, if father should be killed--" "Which Heaven forbid!" cried Swythe, with a look of horror on his face. "Oh, dear me, Ethelbald, what a thing for you to say! Shocking, my dear boy." "I don't want him to be killed," cried Bald. "Of course not. But if he should be killed I shall become King directly, and I shall order everybody to do what I like, and no one will dare to say a word. The first thing I shall do," he continued, with a laugh, "will be to send old Swythe away, so that there will be no more learning Latin, boys, and no crabbing fingers up to hold tens." The three brothers said something with a shout which in those days answered to "Hooray!" and then Alfred, who had shouted the loudest, being the youngest and ready to think brother Bald's words very brave and fine, suddenly began to feel uncomfortable; for he had a certain amount of fear of the monk his master, and felt a kind of shrinking from rebelling against his authority. He glanced sidewise at Father Swythe and saw that his eyes glimmered in a peculiar way as if water was rising in them. Directly afterwards his heart felt a little sore, and a sense of shame began to trouble him, for there was no mistake: Father Swythe's eyes were wet and his voice sounded hoarse and strange as he said sadly: "You would not send me away, Ethelbald? I have always tried to do my duty to the young sons of my lord the King and have tried to make them grow into scholarly princes fit to rule the land." "Bah! We do not want to be scholarly!" cried Bald scornfully. "We want to learn to be brave soldiers, so that we can go forth and beat the Danes." "Yes," said the monk sadly; "but, my boys, the warrior who's a scholar as well is more brave and noble and merciful, and his name is one that lives longer in the land. Ah, well, you have made me very sad. I had hoped that I had done something to make the sons of my dear lady the Queen love me; but if they do not it would be better perhaps that I should go back to my cell at the old abbey, where I could be happy with my parchments and my pens." The old monk sighed and turned away; he appeared to have received a shock which had broken his heart. The three elder boys were laughing and joking about the matter, and suddenly Ethelbald cried out: "Come along, boys! Bows and arrows. I saw a roebuck feeding outside the oak wood. Here, we'll take spears with us too to-day. Let old Swythe teach the swineherds' boys to read Latin instead of minding the little pigs hunting for acorns." "No spears left!" said Bert. "The men took them all when they went away!" said Red. "Then let's go without!" said Bald. Alfred said nothing; he was watching the monk going slowly and sadly away, and somehow the little figure did not look comic to him then, even if it was short and plump and round. "Where's Fred?" cried Bald the next minute, when the boys were getting their bows and quivers. His brothers could not tell him where Alfred was; so after a few moments pause, Ethelbald said: "Never mind: let's go without him. Hers too young and weak to do what we do. Let him stay behind and learn Latin with old Swythe." "He did go out after him," said Bert. "Yes, I saw him. I remember now," cried Red. His last words were almost smothered by his eldest brother, who raised to his lips a curling cow-horn tipped with a copper mouthpiece and strengthened with a ring at the head end. He proceeded to blow into it, but failed to produce anything more huntsman-like than a kind of bray such as might be uttered by a jackass suffering from a sore-throat. But it was good enough to send all the dogs about the place frantic, and away the three boys went, followed by a pack of hounds, some of which would have been as ready to tackle wolf or boar as to dash after the lordly stag or the big-eyed, prong-horned, graceful roes of which there were many about the forest lands which surrounded the King's home. Alfred, from one of the upper windows, saw them go away in triumph and longed to join them; but he did not do so, for there was sorrow in his heart, and for the first time in his young life he had begun to think deeply about the words spoken by his brother and those uttered so sadly and reproachfully by the simple-hearted, gentle monk. CHAPTER FOUR. A BEE IN HIS CELL. It was in the afternoon of that same day that young Alfred loitered about the place feeling very lonely and miserable and, truth to tell, repentant because he had not joined his brothers in the glorious chase they must be having. Taken altogether, he felt very miserable. But he was not alone in that, for, going to the window, he saw Father Swythe walking slowly down the garden amongst the Queen's flower and herb beds, with his head bowed down and his hands behind him, looking unhappy in the extreme. Alfred turned away, feeling guilty, and went into another room, when, to his surprise, he came suddenly upon Osburga, his mother, seated alone by her embroidery-frame, her needle and silk in her hands, but not at work. She was sitting back thinking, with the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks. Alfred felt that this was a most miserable day, and, with his heart feeling more sore than ever, he crept softly behind his mother's chair and, quite unobserved, sank down upon his knees to lay his brown and ruddy cheek against her hand. The Queen started slightly, and then, raising her hand, she laid it upon Alfred's fair, curly locks and began to smoothe them. "Why are you crying, mother?" whispered the boy at last, as he felt that he must say something, although he knew perfectly well the reason of his mother's sorrow. "I am crying, Fred," she said, in a deep sad voice, "because the days go by and no messenger comes to tell me how the King your father fares; and more tears came, my boy, because now that I am in such pain and sorrow I find that my sons, instead of trying to be wise and thoughtful of their duties, grow more wild and wilful every day." Alfred drew a deep catching breath which was first cousin to a sob, and the Queen went on: "I want them to grow up wise and good, and I find that not only do they think of nothing except their own selfish ends, but they behave ill to one of the gentlest, kindest, and best of men--one who is as wise and learned as he is modest and womanly at heart. It makes mine sore, my son, at such a time as this, for there is nothing better nor greater than wisdom, my boy, and he who possesses it leads a double life whose pleasures are without end. But I am in no mood to scold and reproach you, Fred. You are the youngest and least to blame. Still, I had looked for better things of you all than that I should hear that you openly defy Father Swythe, and have made him come to me to say that he can do no more, and to ask to be dismissed. There, Fred, leave me now. I will talk to your brothers when they return from the chase." Alfred's lips were apart, ready to utter words of repentance; but they seemed to stick on the way, leaving him dumb. Feeling more miserable than ever, he stole out, looking guilty and wretched, and went straight into the garden for a reason of his own. But it was not to pick flowers or to gather fruit. He wanted to see the gentle old monk; for he felt as if he could say to him what he could not utter to the Queen. But there was another disappointment awaiting him. Swythe was not there, and the boy stamped his foot angrily. "Oh," he said, half aloud and angrily, "how unlucky I am!" Just then there came as if out of one of the low windows looking upon the garden a deep-toned sound such as might have been made by a very big and musical bee, and the boy's face brightened as he turned and made for the door, crossed the hall, and then went down a stone passage, to stop at a door, whose latch he lifted gently, and looked in, letting out at once the full deep tones he had heard in the garden floating out of the open window. There was Swythe sitting at a low table beneath the window with his back to him, singing a portion of a chant whose sweet deep tones seemed to chain the boy to the spot, as he listened with a very pleasurable sensation, and watched the monk busily turning a big flattened pebble stone round and round as if grinding something black upon a square of smoothly-polished slab. Alfred watched eagerly, and his eyes wandered about the cell-like room devoted to Swythe--a very plain and homely place, with a stool or two and a large table beneath the window, while one side was taken up by the simple pallet upon which the monk slept. All at once the chanting ceased, the grinding came to an end, and, as if conscious of someone being in the room, the monk turned his head, saw Alfred watching him, and smiled sadly. "Ah, my son," he said; "back from the chase so soon?" "No," said Alfred huskily. "I did not go." "Not go?" said the monk, in surprise. "How was that? Ah! I see," he continued, for the boy was silent, "you and Ethelbald have quarrelled." "No, indeed," cried Alfred, and then he stopped. The monk went on without looking, passing the pebble slowly round and round upon the slab, grinding up what looked like thin glistening black paste. "Then why did you stay behind?" said the monk gravely. "Because--because--because--oh, don't ask me!" cried the boy passionately. Swythe fixed his eyes gently and kindly upon the boy, and left off grinding. "Tell me why, Fred, my son," he said softly. "Because of what Bald said and what you said; and then I went in and saw my mother, and she is so unhappy; and--and--" Then, with a wild and passionate outburst, the boy made a dash at the old man and caught him by the shoulder, as he cried: "Oh, Father Swythe, I do want to learn to read and to write, and be what you said. Please forgive me and help me, and I will try so hard--so very, very hard!" "My son!" cried the monk, in a choking voice, and, as the boy was drawn tightly to the old man's breast and he hid his face so that his tears should not be seen, something fell pat upon the back of his head, making him look up quickly, to see that he need not feel ashamed of his own, for his tutor's tears were falling slowly, though there was a contented look in the old man's face. "Yes," he said, smiling, "you have made me cry, my boy; but it is because you have made me happy. You have taught me that I have touched your young heart and opened the bright well-spring of the true and good that is in your nature. Fred, my boy," he continued, "you are too young to know it, so I will tell you: my son, you have just done something that is very brave and true." "I?" cried the boy passionately, as he turned away his head. "I have behaved ill to you who have always been so kind and good, and made my mother weep for me when she is in such dreadful trouble without." "And then, my boy, you have come straight to me, your teacher--the poor, weak, humble servant of his master, who has always striven to lead you in the right way--and thrown yourself upon my breast and owned your fault. That is what I mean by saying you have done a very brave thing, my boy. There, and so you will try now?" The last words came with a bright and cheerful ring, as Swythe released the boy and sat back smiling at him and looking proudly into his eyes. "And so you want to learn to read and write and grow into a wise man who may some day rule over this land?" "Oh, I want to learn!" cried the boy, dashing away his last tears. "I want to be wise and great; but oh, no: I don't want to rule and be King. I want father to live till I am quite an old man." "I hope he will!" said Swythe, smiling, and nodding his head pleasantly, as the boy hurriedly turned the conversation by asking: "What are you doing there?" "Making some fresh ink, my boy," was the reply. "Ink? How?" "Hah!" cried the monk, chuckling pleasantly; "now the vessel is opened and eager for the knowledge to be poured in. Question away, Fred, my son, and mine shall be the task to pour the wisdom in--as far as I have it," he added, with a sigh. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Alfred stood at the great entrance late that afternoon when the loud barking of the dogs told of the young hunters' return, and as soon as they came in sight Red cried: "There, I told you so; Fred's along with old Swythe." For the monk was standing by the boy's side, waiting to see what success the young hunters had achieved. They looked to see their brother disappointed and ready to upbraid them with going and leaving him behind; but they were surprised, for the boy saluted them with: "Well, where's the fat buck?" "Oh," said Bald shortly, "we had a splendid run, but the dogs were so stupid that he managed to get away. But you ought to have been there: it was grand." "Was it?" said Alfred coolly. The news did not seem to trouble him in the least. He noticed, though, that the three boys were so tired out that not one of them seemed to care for his supper, and directly after they went off to bed. CHAPTER FIVE. BEGINNING TO BE GREAT. The boys had some fresh plan for the next day, and when Alfred went up to bed they were all whispering eagerly; but as soon as their brother entered the room they pretended to be asleep. Alfred said nothing till he was undressed and about to get into his bed, and then he only wished them good night. There was no reply, and the boy felt hurt; but just then he recollected something which made him clap his right hand first to his cheek and then to his forehead, as if he fully expected to find both places still wet and warm. They felt still as if his mother's lips had but just left them. From that moment Alfred lay quite still in the darkness, feeling very happy and contented, till all at once a long-drawn restful sigh escaped his lips, and he was just dropping off to sleep when he awoke again and lay listening, for his three brothers, believing that he had gone off to sleep, began talking again in an eager whisper, but what about he could not tell, till all at once Red said something about "otters." They were going to have a grand otter hunt up the little Wantage stream with the dogs; and for a few moments a feeling of bitter disappointment came over the boy, for he had looked forward to the day when that hunt would take place. He felt better when he recalled the Queen's words as he wished her good night. They were: "I am so glad, Fred, my boy. You have made me feel very happy." "Father Swythe must have told her what I said," thought Alfred, and in another minute he was asleep. The next morning after breakfast the boy did not feel half so brave, and he was thinking of how he could get away to the monk's quiet cell-like room without his brothers seeing him; but he was spared from all trouble in that way, for the monk came up to him smiling. "I'm going to speak to your brothers, Fred," he said. "I told the Queen that you had promised to try very hard, and she said she was very glad, but she would be so much happier if your brothers came too; so I am going to ask them to come. Do you know where they are?" "Out in the broad courtyard," said Alfred quickly; but Father Swythe shook his head. "No," he said; "I came across just now, and they were not there." At that moment the distant barking of a dog was heard; followed by a yelping chorus which made the boy run to the window and look out, to catch sight of three figures and some half-dozen dogs disappearing over the hill slope. "I think they have gone after the otters with the dogs," said Alfred sadly. "Oh, I see," said the monk; "and you feel dull because you are not with them?" Alfred was too honest to deny it. "Never mind, boy," said the little monk cheerily; "come to my room, and we'll finish making the ink, and then you can learn to read the letters as I make them, while I write out a poem for the Queen; and then I'll get out the red and blue and yellow, and the thin leaves of gold, and we'll try and make a beautiful big letter like those in the Queen's book, and finish it off with some gold." "But you can't do that?" cried Alfred, interested at once. "Perhaps not so well as in the Queen's beautiful book; but come and see." The boy eagerly took hold of the monk's hand, and they were soon seated at the little table in Swythe's room, with the light shining full upon the slate slab, the pebble grinder, and the black patch. "You said that was ink yesterday," said the boy, as Swythe gave the pebble a few turns round, and then looked to see if the ink was of the right thickness, which it was not, so a feather was dipped in a water-jug, and a few drops allowed to fall upon the black patch. "There," said Swythe, "a good writer makes all his own ink. Now you grind that up till it is well mixed. Gently," cried Swythe; "that ink is too precious to be spread all over the slab. Grind it round and round. That's the way! That will do!" As he spoke, Swythe took a thin-bladed knife and a good-sized, nicely-cleaned fresh-water mussel-shell, and let the boy carefully scrape up all the ink from the slab and place it in the shell. "That's well done!" he said. "Now we'll write a line of letters." "Yes," cried the boy; "let me write them." "I wish you could, Fred, my boy," said the monk, smiling; "but you must first learn." "That's what I want to do," cried the boy eagerly. "But how am I to learn?" "By watching me. Now see." Swythe rose from the table and opened a box, out of which he took a crisp clean piece of nearly transparent sheepskin and a couple of quill pens, sat down again, and then from another box he drew out a piece of lead and a flat ruler--not a lead-pencil such as is now used, but a little pointed piece of ordinary lead--with which he deftly made a few straight lines across the parchment, and then very carefully drew a beautiful capital A, which he finished off with scrolls and turns and tiny vine-leaves with a running stalk and half-a-dozen tendrils. "But you have put no grapes," cried Alfred. "Give me time," said Swythe good-humouredly, and directly after he faintly sketched in a bunch of grapes, broad at the top and growing narrower till it ended in one grape alone. "Oh, I wish I could do that!" cried Alfred eagerly. "But I could never do it so well!" "I'm going to persevere till I make you do it better," said Swythe. "Now we'll leave that for a bit and begin a Latin lesson." Alfred sighed and looked longingly at the faint initial letter. But his interest was taken up directly, for Swythe took up one of his quill pens, examined it, and then, after giving the ink a stir, dipped in his pen and tried it. The next minute, while the boy sat resting his chin upon his hands, it seemed as if beautifully-formed tiny letters kept on growing out of the pen, running off at the point, and standing one after another in a row, almost exactly the same size, till four words stood out clearly upon the cream-coloured parchment. As he formed the letters with his clever white fingers, Swythe repeated the name of each, pausing a little to give finish and effect as well as sound to the words he formed, till he had, after beginning some little distance in, made so many words upon one of the faintly-drawn lines and reaching right across the parchment. "It's wonderful!" cried Alfred. "I could never do that!" "It is not wonderful, and you soon will be able to do it," said Swythe; "but let's say all those words over again letter by letter, and then the words." "They are Latin?" asked the boy. "Yes," said Swythe, "and you are going to learn them so as to know them next time you see them." Alfred shook his head, but he managed to repeat the Latin words straightforward, and after a while pick them out when asked. Then the monk proceeded to get out his colours so as to ornament the big initial letter of what Alfred had learned in Latin as well as in English was "The History of the Good King Almon." Then came the most interesting part of the lesson, for, after Swythe had placed his colours ready--red, yellow, and blue--all in powders ground up so fine that it was necessary to shut out the breeze which came in at the window, Alfred learned how the monk made his brushes, by taking a tuft of badger's hair and tying up one end carefully with a very fine thread of flax. "Now watch me," said the old man, and Alfred looked closely while Swythe took a duck's quill out of a bunch, cut off the hollow part, and then lightly cut off the end where it had grown from the duck's wing. Then the tuft of badger's hair was held by its tied end and passed through the monk's lips so as to bring the hairs together to a point, which was carefully pushed into the most open part of the quill and screwed round till the whole of the tuft was inside. Then a thrust with a thin piece of wood sent the hairs right through, all but the tied-up ends; and Swythe held his work up in triumph--a complete little paint-brush. "How clever!" cried the boy eagerly; "but how did you get that badger's hair?" "Saved," said Swythe, "when the dogs killed that badger last year." "And the ducks' quills?" "I picked them up when the ducks were plucked by the scullion." "You did not tell me how you made that black paint." "By holding a piece of slate over the burning wick of the lamp till there was plenty of soot to be scraped off and mixed up with gum water made from plum-tree gum, the same as I am going to use to mix up these colours, you see." As he spoke Swythe took a clean mussel-shell and placed in it a tiny portion of scarlet powder. "That's a pretty colour!" said the boy. "What is it?" "The colour made by burning some quicksilver and brimstone together in a very hot fire till it is red, and afterwards I grind it up into fine dust. Now," he said, "I'm going to mix this up with gum; and then we'll paint all the back of the parchment behind the big letter red." Alfred watched the monk's clever touches with the point of his little brush till there was a great square patch upon which the letter seemed to stand. "Beautiful!" cried Alfred. "Now it's done!" "Oh, no," said Swythe; "that's the beginning! Now we'll paint the scroll." "Why do you say _we_" said the boy. "It is you." "It's we, because you are helping me," said the monk. "Very soon you will be doing letters like this, and then I shall help you." Alfred sighed. "Are you going to paint that scroll red too?" "No: purple," was the reply, and Swythe took up another little packet, which he opened slowly. "Why, that's blue," cried Alfred. "Wait a moment!" said Swythe, taking up another clean mussel-shell, into which he put a tiny patch of the bright blue dust. "Now you shall see it turn purple." Taking up the brush, whose hairs were thickly covered with red paint, he poured a few drops of gum water into the shell amongst the blue powder, mixed all together with the red brush, and to the boy's great delight a beautiful purple was the result. Then the leaves that had been sketched in had to be done, and while the boy wondered another shell was taken, the brush carefully washed, and a little of the blue dust was mixed with some yellow, when there was a brilliant green, which the monk made brighter or darker by adding more yellow or more blue. The big ornamental letter was now becoming very bright and gay, Alfred looking upon it as finished; but Swythe went on. "It's very wonderful!" said the boy. "You seem as if you can make any colours out of red, yellow, and blue." "So will you soon!" said Swythe, smiling, and still painting away, till at the end of a couple of hours, which seemed to have passed away like magic, the monk began to carefully clean his brush with water. "That's done now!" cried Alfred, with a sigh of as much sorrow as pleasure, for he felt it to be a pity that the task was finished. "But do you know, Father Swythe," he continued, as he held his head on one side and looked critically at the staring white letter with its beautiful ornamentation, "I think if I could paint and painted that letter I shouldn't have left it all white like that." "What would you have done, then?" "I should have painted it deep yellow like a buttercup--a good sunny yellow, to look like gold." "Well done!" cried the monk. "Why, that's exactly what it is going to be. It isn't finished, but I'm not going to paint it yellow. I'm going to paint it red first." "I don't think I shall like that," said the boy, shaking his head. "Wait and see!" said the monk, and once more mixing up a little red with gum he carefully painted the white letter scarlet, and held it up. "There!" cried the boy triumphantly; "it looks now almost like the back patch, and you've spoiled it all." "Umph!" grunted the monk, re-opening the window and laying his work in the sun to dry. "Wait a bit." "Yes, I'll wait," said the boy, watching the shiny wet paint turn more and more dull; "but I don't like it." Swythe washed his brush carefully again, and as soon as the paint was dry went carefully over the letter part with gum, so delicately that the red colour was not disturbed nor the background smeared. "Yes," said the boy, still watching; "that looks a little better, because it looks shiny, but it was better white. Do paint it yellow now." "I told you I'm going to make it yellow," said Swythe, laying his work well out in the sunshine to get thoroughly dry. Then, taking it from the window-sill and shutting out the breeze again, Swythe placed his work ready and took out, from a snug corner, a tiny book made by sewing together about half-a-dozen leaves of parchment, and upon opening this very carefully Alfred saw within a piece of brilliant shining gold. "Oh, how beautiful!" cried Alfred, making a dart at it with his hand. But, as if he expected this, Swythe put out his own hand and caught his pupil's just in time, creating such a breeze, though, that the very thin gold leaf rose up at the corner and fell over, doubling nearly in half. "There, you see how fine it is!" cried Swythe. "I'm very sorry--I did not know," said the boy sadly; and then he looked on in wonder, for the monk bent down, gave a gentle puff with his breath, and the gold was blown up, to fall back into its place. "Why, I thought it would be quite hard and heavy," said Alfred. "And it's twenty times as thin as the parchment!" said Swythe. "Now then, suppose we make the letter of gold." Alfred did not speak, but watched with breathless interest while the monk took his knife and carefully cut a long strip off one edge of the gold leaf, and then, dividing it in four, took it up bit by bit on the blade, and laid the pieces along the letter, cutting off edges and scraps that were not wanted, and covering up bare places so carefully and with such great pains that at last there was not a trace left of the gummed letter, a rough, rugged gold one being left in its place. "There!" cried Swythe, when he had covered the last speck, and all was gold leaf; but Alfred shook his head. "It looks very beautiful," he said; "but I don't like it. The edges are all rugged and rough." "So they are!" replied Swythe, and, taking now a clean dry brush, he began to smoothe and dab and press gently till there was not a trace left of where the scraps of gold joined or lay one over the other, all becoming strong and perfect excepting the edges, where the gold lay loose, till, quite satisfied with his work, the monk passed his brush briskly over the letter, carrying off every scrap of gold outside the gummed letter, and leaving this clean, smooth, and glistening. "Oh, Father Swythe," cried Alfred, clapping his hands, "you are clever! It's beautiful!" "You like it, then, my boy?" said the old man gravely. "You shall soon be able to do that with your light fingers." The boy looked down at his hands and then took up the pen the monk had laid down, dipped it in the ink, and tried to make a letter. "Well done," said Swythe, smiling; "that is something like O. Now make another, and try if you can make it worse than the last." The boy looked up at him sharply. "You are laughing at me!" he said. "Well, if I am, it is only to make you try and do better. Go on again!" The boy hesitated before looking hard at the letter he had tried to imitate, and then tried once more. "Ever so much better!" cried the monk. "Come to me every day, and try like that, and in a very short time you will be able to read and write." CHAPTER SIX. THE GREAT WHITE HORSE. Encouraged by these words of the monk and the smiles and praises of the Queen, Alfred made rapid progress, which, oddly enough, grew quicker still from the way in which Bald and his brothers ridiculed him and laughed at his attempts, for their gibes angered him, but only made him work the harder, and with results which Swythe told the Queen were wonderful. Six long weary weeks had passed away since Ethelwulf had gone with his little army against the Danes, and only once had news been received, so that Queen Osburga's face grew whiter, thinner, and more sad day by day, till one evening when, after a long hard day's work with the monk, the pair went up to the top of the highest hill near to watch for the appearance of a messenger. Swythe could see no sign of anything. "There is no news," he said sadly. "Let us go back. The Queen is waiting to hear what we have found." "There is news," cried the boy excitedly. "I can see the points of spears right away there in the valley. Look, the sun shines upon them and makes them glitter." "Yes, I see now," cried Swythe excitedly. "Quick, let's try and run, boy. The Danes! The Danes! We must get the Queen away into the woods so as to be safe." "Why not stop in the big house, and shut up every window and door? We must fight. You can fight, Father Swythe?" "I, my boy?" said the monk sadly. "Yes, with my tongue. No, I am only a man of peace. All we can do is to fly for our lives. There are not twenty strong fighting-men, Fred, my son, and those who are coming against us must, from the spears and shining iron caps with wings like the Norsemen wear, be quite a thousand. Quick! You can go faster than I. Run on first and warn the good Queen that it is time to fly!" Alfred nodded his head quickly and started off to run; but at that moment it struck him that it would be foolish to run and give the alarm without being sure. The monk had declared the force to be the enemy, but the boy wished to see for himself, and, darting sidewise, he ran down the hill, bearing to his right, till by stooping he could keep under cover of the gorse-bushes and approach quite near to the coming army. It was a daring thing to do, for it might have ended in being made a prisoner without the chance of giving the alarm; but the brave act turned out to be quite wise, for when at last the boy had drawn near to the great body of armed men and crouched lower till he found a place through which he could peer cautiously, he sprang to his feet with a shout of joy. For there in front rode his father, King Ethelwulf, mounted upon a sturdy horse, but so changed that he hardly knew him, for he was wearing a Danish helmet ornamented with a pair of grey gull's wings, half-opened and pointed back, while in his left hand he carried a Danish shield painted with a black raven, and in his right was a shining double battle-axe. Alfred's cry was answered by a shout from the men, and Ethelwulf rode forward to meet his son, who grasped his extended hands and sprang up to sit in front of him upon the horse. "Your mother--Osburga?" said the King hoarsely. "Ill, father, because you do not come," cried the boy excitedly. "Hah! Then she will soon be well," said the King, with a sigh of content. "Yonder is plump little Swythe coming to welcome me, I see," he continued; "but where are your brothers?" "I don't know, father," replied the boy, innocently enough. "They have not come back from hunting, I think." King Ethelwulf frowned, but said no more then, contenting himself with pressing forward to give his hand to Swythe, who had followed the boy as soon as he saw him change his course; and soon after the King's heart was gladdened by seeing Osburga with her train of women and serfs coming to meet them, answering the Saxon soldiers' cheers. But Bald, Bert, and Red had even then not come back from the chase. That night the King told of the great victory which he had at last gained over the Danish invaders, who had been defeated with great slaughter near Farringdon, and it was in memory of that victory that the King returned to the battlefield with his men on a peaceful errand, and that was to use the spade instead of the battle-axe and sword, while they cut down through the green turf on one hill-side, right down to the clean, white, glistening chalk, after the lines had been marked out and the shape cleverly designed, working for weeks and weeks till there, on the slope they had carved out a huge white horse over a hundred yards in length--the Great White Horse of the Berkshire downs, which has remained as if galloping along until this day. Year after year the scouring of that horse, as it is called, takes place, when men go and clear out the brown earth that has crumbled through frost and rain into the ditch-like lines which mark the horse's shape on the green hill-side, and make it stand out white and clear as ever. No one will think it strange after what has been told that the youngest of those four boys grew up under Swythe's teaching wise and learned, and as brave as, or braver than, either of his three brothers, who, when at last King Ethelwulf died, succeeded in turn to be King of England. They each sat on the throne--Ethelbald, Ethelbert, and Ethelred; but their reigns were short, for in twenty years they too had passed away, to be succeeded by the strong, brave, and learned man who drove the Danish' invaders finally from the shores of England, or forced them to become peaceful workers of the soil. He was the brave warrior who never knew what it was to be conquered, but tried again and again till the enemy fled before him and his gallant men. Old chronicles tell many stories of his deeds--stories that have grown old and old--and they tell too that the studious boy's teacher Swythe became Bishop of Winchester and was called a saint, while old writers have worked up a legend about the rain christening the apples on Saint Swithin's Day, and when it does, keeping on sprinkling them for forty days more; but, like many other stories, that one is not at all true, as any young reader may find out by watching the weather year by year. But that does not matter to us, who have to deal with Alfred the Little, and who willingly agree that as he grew up he was worthily given the name of Alfred the Great. 
16545	----	[Illustration: ALFRED THE GREAT] MAKERS of HISTORY KING ALFRED OF ENGLAND BY JACOB ABBOTT ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year one thousand eight hundred and forty-nine, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New York. PREFACE. It is the object of this series of histories to present a clear, distinct, and connected narrative of the lives of those great personages who have in various ages of the world made themselves celebrated as leaders among mankind, and, by the part they have taken in the public affairs of great nations, have exerted the widest influence on the history of the human race. The end which the author has had in view is twofold: first, to communicate such information in respect to the subjects of his narratives as is important for the general reader to possess; and, secondly, to draw such moral lessons from the events described and the characters delineated as they may legitimately teach to the people of the present age. Though written in a direct and simple style, they are intended for, and addressed to, minds possessed of some considerable degree of maturity, for such minds only can fully appreciate the character and action which exhibits itself, as nearly all that is described in these volumes does, in close combination with the conduct and policy of governments, and the great events of international history. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE BRITONS II. THE ANGLO-SAXONS III. THE DANES IV. ALFRED'S EARLY YEARS V. THE STATE OF ENGLAND VI. ALFRED'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE VII. REVERSES VIII. THE SECLUSION IX. REASSEMBLING OF THE ARMY X. THE VICTORY OVER THE DANES XI. THE REIGN XII. THE CLOSE OF LIFE ILLUSTRATIONS WALL OF SEVERUS SAXON MILITARY CHIEF THE SEA KINGS LOTHBROC AND HIS FALCON ANCIENT CORONATION CHAIR THE FIRST BRITISH FLEET ALFRED WATCHING THE CAKES PORTRAIT OF ALFRED HASTINGS BESIEGED IN THE CHURCH ALFRED THE GREAT CHAPTER I. THE BRITONS. Alfred the Great figures in history as the founder, in some sense, of the British monarchy. Of that long succession of sovereigns who have held the scepter of that monarchy, and whose government has exerted so vast an influence on the condition and welfare of mankind, he was not, indeed, actually the first. There were several lines of insignificant princes before him, who governed such portions of the kingdom as they individually possessed, more like semi-savage chieftains than English kings. Alfred followed these by the principle of hereditary right, and spent his life in laying broad and deep the foundations on which the enormous superstructure of the British empire has since been reared. If the tales respecting his character and deeds which have come down to us are at all worthy of belief, he was an honest, conscientious, disinterested, and far-seeing statesman. If the system of hereditary succession would always furnish such sovereigns for mankind, the principle of loyalty would have held its place much longer in the world than it is now likely to do, and great nations, now republican, would have been saved a vast deal of trouble and toil expended in the election of their rulers. Although the period of King Alfred's reign seems a very remote one as we look back toward it from the present day, it was still eight hundred years after the Christian era that he ascended his throne. Tolerable authentic history of the British realm mounts up through these eight hundred years to the time of Julius Cæsar. Beyond this the ground is covered by a series of romantic and fabulous tales, pretending to be history, which extend back eight hundred years further to the days of Solomon; so that a much longer portion of the story of that extraordinary island comes before than since the days of Alfred. In respect, however to all that pertains to the interest and importance of the narrative, the exploits and the arrangements of Alfred are the beginning. The histories, in fact, of all nations, ancient and modern, run back always into misty regions of romance and fable. Before arts and letters arrived at such a state of progress as that public events could be recorded in writing, tradition was the only means of handing down the memory of events from generation to generation; and tradition, among semi-savages, changes every thing it touches into romantic and marvelous fiction. The stories connected with the earliest discovery and settlement of Great Britain afford very good illustrations of the nature of these fabulous tales. The following may serve as a specimen: At the close of the Trojan war,[1] Æneas retired with a company of Trojans, who escaped from the city with him, and, after a great variety of adventures, which Virgil has related, he landed and settled in Italy. Here, in process of time, he had a grandson named Silvius, who had a son named Brutus, Brutus being thus Æneas's great-grandson. One day, while Brutus was hunting in the forests, he accidentally killed his father with an arrow. His father was at that time King of Alba--a region of Italy near the spot on which Rome was subsequently built--and the accident brought Brutus under such suspicions, and exposed him to such dangers, that he fled from the country. After various wanderings he at last reached Greece, where he collected a number of Trojan followers, whom he found roaming about the country, and formed them into an army. With this half-savage force he attacked a king of the country named Pandrasus. Brutus was successful in the war, and Pandrasus was taken prisoner. This compelled Pandrasus to sue for peace, and peace was concluded on the following very extraordinary terms: Pandrasus was to give Brutus his daughter Imogena for a wife, and a fleet of ships as her dowry. Brutus, on the other hand, was to take his wife and all his followers on board of his fleet, and sail away and seek a home in some other quarter of the globe. This plan of a monarch's purchasing his own ransom and peace for his realm from a band of roaming robbers, by offering the leader of them his daughter for a wife, however strange to our ideas, was very characteristic of the times. Imogena must have found it a hard alternative to choose between such a husband and such a father. Brutus, with his fleet and his bride, betook themselves to sea, and within a short time landed on a deserted island, where they found the ruins of a city. Here there was an ancient temple of Diana, and an image of the goddess, which image was endued with the power of uttering oracular responses to those who consulted it with proper ceremonies and forms. Brutus consulted this oracle on the question in what land he should find a place of final settlement. His address to it was in ancient verse, which some chronicler has turned into English rhyme as follows: "Goddess of shades and huntress, who at will Walk'st on the rolling sphere, and through the deep, On thy _third_ reign, the earth, look now and tell What land, what seat of rest thou bidd'st me seek?" To which the oracle returned the following answer: "Far to the west, in the ocean wide, Beyond the realm of Gaul a land there lies-- Sea-girt it lies--where giants dwelt of old. Now void, it fits thy people; thither bend Thy course; there shalt thou find a lasting home." It is scarcely necessary to say that this meant Britain. Brutus, following the directions which the oracle had given him, set sail from the island, and proceeded to the westward through the Mediterranean Sea. He arrived at the Pillars of Hercules. This was the name by which the Rock of Gibraltar and the corresponding promontory on the opposite coast, across the straits, were called in those days; these cliffs having been built, according to ancient tales, by Hercules, as monuments set up to mark the extreme limits of his western wanderings. Brutus passed through the strait, and then, turning northward, coasted along the shores of Spain. At length, after enduring great privations and suffering, and encountering the extreme dangers to which their frail barks were necessarily exposed from the surges which roll in perpetually from the broad Atlantic Ocean upon the coast of Spain and into the Bay of Biscay, they arrived safely on the shores of Britain. They landed and explored the interior. They found the island robed in the richest drapery of fruitfulness and verdure, but it was unoccupied by any thing human. There were wild beasts roaming in the forests, and the remains of a race of giants in dens and caves--monsters as diverse from humanity as the wolves. Brutus and his followers attacked all these occupants of the land. They drove the wild beasts into the mountains of Scotland and Wales, and killed the giants. The chief of them, whose name was Gogmagog, was hurled by one of Brutus's followers from the summit of one of the chalky cliffs which bound the island into the sea. The island of Great Britain is in the latitude of Labrador, which on our side of the continent is the synonym for almost perpetual ice and snow; still these wandering Trojans found it a region of inexhaustible verdure, fruitfulness, and beauty; and as to its extent, though often, in modern times, called a little island, they found its green fields and luxuriant forests extending very far and wide over the sea. A length of nearly six hundred miles would seem almost to merit the name of continent, and the dimensions of this detached outpost of the habitable surface of the earth would never have been deemed inconsiderable, had it not been that the people, by the greatness of their exploits, of which the whole world has been the theater, have made the physical dimensions of their territory appear so small and insignificant in comparison. To Brutus and his companions the land appeared a world. It was nearly four hundred miles in breadth at the place where they landed, and, wandering northward, they found it extending, in almost undiminished beauty and fruitfulness, further than they had the disposition to explore it. They might have gone northward until the twilight scarcely disappeared in the summer nights, and have found the same verdure and beauty continuing to the end. There were broad and undulating plains in the southern regions of the island, and in the northern, green mountains and romantic glens; but all, plains, valleys, and mountains, were fertile and beautiful, and teeming with abundant sustenance for flocks, for herds, and for man. Brutus accordingly established himself upon the island with all his followers, and founded a kingdom there, over which he reigned as the founder of a dynasty. Endless tales are told of the lives, and exploits, and quarrels of his successors down to the time of Cæsar. Conflicting claimants arose continually to dispute with each other for the possession of power; wars were made by one tribe upon another; cities, as they were called--though probably, in fact, they were only rude collections of hovels--were built, fortresses were founded, and rivers were named from princes or princesses drowned in them, in accidental journeys, or by the violence of rival claimants to their thrones. The pretended records contain a vast number of legends, of very little interest or value, as the reader will readily admit when we tell him that the famous story of King Lear is the most entertaining one in the whole collection. It is this: There was a king in the line named Lear. He founded the city now called Leicester. He had three daughters, whose names were Gonilla, Regana, and Cordiella. Cordiella was her father's favorite child. He was, however, jealous of the affections of them all, and one day he called them to him, and asked them for some assurance of their love. The two eldest responded by making the most extravagant protestations. They loved their father a thousand times better than their own souls. They could not express, they said, the ardor and strength of their attachment, and called Heaven and earth to witness that these protestations were sincere. Cordiella, all this time, stood meekly and silently by, and when her father asked her how it was with her, she replied, "Father, my love toward you is as my duty bids. What can a father ask, or a daughter promise more? They who pretend beyond this only flatter." The king, who was old and childish, was much pleased with the manifestation of love offered by Gonilla and Regana, and thought that the honest Cordiella was heartless and cold. He treated her with greater and greater neglect and finally decided to leave her without any portion whatever, while he divided his kingdom between the other two, having previously married them to princes of high rank. Cordiella was, however, at last made choice of for a wife by a French prince, who, it seems, knew better than the old king how much more to be relied upon was unpretending and honest truth than empty and extravagant profession. He married the portionless Cordiella, and took her with him to the Continent. The old king now having given up his kingdom to his eldest daughters, they managed, by artifice and maneuvering, to get every thing else away from him, so that he became wholly dependent upon them, and had to live with them by turns. This was not all; for, at the instigation of their husbands, they put so many indignities and affronts upon him, that his life at length became an intolerable burden, and finally he was compelled to leave the realm altogether, and in his destitution and distress he went for refuge and protection to his rejected daughter Cordiella. She received her father with the greatest alacrity and affection. She raised an army to restore him to his rights, and went in person with him to England to assist him in recovering them. She was successful. The old king took possession of his throne again, and reigned in peace for the remainder of his days. The story is of itself nothing very remarkable, though Shakspeare has immortalized it by making it the subject of one of his tragedies. Centuries passed away, and at length the great Julius Cæsar, who was extending the Roman power in every direction, made his way across the Channel, and landed in England. The particulars of this invasion are described in our history of Julius Cæsar. The Romans retained possession of the island, in a greater or less degree, for four hundred years. They did not, however, hold it in peace all this time. They became continually involved in difficulties and contests with the native Britons, who could ill brook the oppressions of such merciless masters as Roman generals always proved in the provinces which they pretended to govern. One of the most formidable rebellions that the Romans had to encounter during their disturbed and troubled sway in Britain was led on by a woman. Her name was Boadicea. Boadicea, like almost all other heroines, was coarse and repulsive in appearance. She was tall and masculine in form. The tones of her voice were harsh, and she had the countenance of a savage. Her hair was yellow. It might have been beautiful if it had been neatly arranged, and had shaded a face which possessed the gentle expression that belongs properly to woman. It would then have been called golden. As it was, hanging loosely below her waist and streaming in the wind, it made the wearer only look the more frightful. Still, Boadicea was not by any means indifferent to the appearance she made in the eyes of beholders. She evinced her desire to make a favorable impression upon others, in her own peculiar way, it is true, but in one which must have been effective, considering what sort of beholders they were in whose eyes she figured. She was dressed in a gaudy coat, wrought of various colors, with a sort of mantle buttoned over it. She wore a great gold chain about her neck, and held an ornamented spear in her hand. Thus equipped, she appeared at the head of an army of a hundred thousand men, and gathering them around her, she ascended a mound of earth and harangued them--that is, as many as could stand within reach of her voice--arousing them to sentiments of revenge against their hated oppressors, and urging them to the highest pitch of determination and courage for the approaching struggle. Boadicea had reason to deem the Romans her implacable foes. They had robbed her of her treasures, deprived her of her kingdom, imprisoned her, scourged her, and inflicted the worst possible injuries upon her daughters. These things had driven the wretched mother to a perfect phrensy of hate, and aroused her to this desperate struggle for redress and revenge. But all was in vain. In encountering the spears of Roman soldiery, she was encountering the very hardest and sharpest steel that a cruel world could furnish. Her army was conquered, and she killed herself by taking poison in her despair. By struggles such as these the contest between the Romans and the Britons was carried on for many generations; the Romans conquering at every trial, until, at length, the Britons learned to submit without further resistance to their sway. In fact, there gradually came upon the stage, during the progress of these centuries, a new power, acting as an enemy to both the Picts and Scots; hordes of lawless barbarians, who inhabited the mountains and morasses of Scotland and Ireland. These terrible savages made continual irruptions into the southern country for plunder, burning and destroying, as they retired, whatever they could not carry away. They lived in impregnable and almost inaccessible fastnesses, among dark glens and precipitous mountains, and upon gloomy islands surrounded by iron-bound coasts and stormy seas. The Roman legions made repeated attempts to hunt them out of these retreats, but with very little success. At length a line of fortified posts was established across the island, near where the boundary line now lies between England and Scotland; and by guarding this line, the Roman generals who had charge of Britain attempted to protect the inhabitants of the southern country, who had learned at length to submit peaceably to their sway. One of the most memorable events which occurred during the time that the Romans held possession of the island of Britain was the visit of one of the emperors to this northern extremity of his dominions. The name of this emperor was Severus. He was powerful and prosperous at home, but his life was embittered by one great calamity, the dissolute character and the perpetual quarrels of his sons. To remove them from Rome, where they disgraced both themselves and their father by their vicious lives, and the ferocious rivalry and hatred they bore to each other, Severus planned an excursion to Britain, taking them with him, in the hope of turning their minds into new channels of thought, and awakening in them some new and nobler ambition. At the time when Severus undertook this expedition, he was advanced in age and very infirm. He suffered much from the gout, so that he was unable to travel by any ordinary conveyance, and was borne, accordingly, almost all the way upon a litter. He crossed the Channel with his army, and, leaving one of his sons in command in the south part of the island, he advanced with the other, at the head of an enormous force, determined to push boldly forward into the heart of Scotland, and to bring the war with the Picts and Scots to an effectual end. He met, however, with very partial success. His soldiers became entangled in bogs and morasses; they fell into ambuscades; they suffered every degree of privation and hardship for want of water and of food, and were continually entrapped by their enemies in situations where they had to fight in small numbers and at a great disadvantage. Then, too, the aged and feeble general was kept in a continual fever of anxiety and trouble by Bassianus, the son whom he had brought with him to the north. The dissoluteness and violence of his character were not changed by the change of scene. He formed plots and conspiracies against his father's authority; he raised mutinies in the army; he headed riots; and he was finally detected in a plan for actually assassinating his father. Severus, when he discovered this last enormity of wickedness, sent for his son to come to his imperial tent. He laid a naked sword before him, and then, after bitterly reproaching him with his undutiful and ungrateful conduct, he said, "If you wish to kill me, do it now. Here I stand, old, infirm, and helpless. You are young and strong, and can do it easily. I am ready. Strike the blow." Of course Bassianus shrunk from his father's reproaches, and went away without committing the crime to which he was thus reproachfully invited; but his character remained unchanged; and this constant trouble, added to all the other difficulties which Severus encountered, prevented his accomplishing his object of thoroughly conquering his northern foes. He made a sort of peace with them, and retiring south to the line of fortified posts which had been previously established, he determined to make it a fixed and certain boundary by building upon it a permanent wall. He put the whole force of his army upon the work, and in one or two years, as is said, he completed the structure. It is known in history as the Wall of Severus; and so solid, substantial, and permanent was the work, that the traces of it have not entirely disappeared to the present day. The wall extended across the island, from the mouth of the Tyne, on the German Ocean, to the Solway Frith--nearly seventy miles. It was twelve feet high, and eight feet wide. It was faced with substantial masonry on both sides, the intermediate space being likewise filled in with stone. When it crossed bays or morasses, piles were driven to serve as a foundation. Of course, such a wall as this, by itself, would be no defense. It was to be garrisoned by soldiers, being intended, in fact, only as a means to enable a smaller number of troops than would otherwise be necessary to guard the line. For these soldiers there were built great fortresses at intervals along the wall, wherever a situation was found favorable for such structures. These were called _stations_. The stations were occupied by garrisons of troops, and small towns of artificers and laborers soon sprung up around them. Between the stations, at smaller intervals, were other smaller fortresses called castles, intended as places of defense, and rallying points in case of an attack, but not for garrisons of any considerable number of men. Then, between the castles, at smaller intervals still, were turrets, used as watch-towers and posts for sentinels. Thus the whole line of the wall was every where defended by armed men. The whole number thus employed in the defense of this extraordinary rampart was said to be ten thousand. There was a broad, deep, and continuous ditch on the northern side of the wall, to make the impediment still greater for the enemy, and a spacious and well-constructed military road on the southern side, on which troops, stores, wagons, and baggage of every kind could be readily transported along the line, from one end to the other. [Illustration: WALL OF SEVERUS] The wall was a good defense as long as Roman soldiers remained to guard it. But in process of time--about two centuries after Severus's day--the Roman empire itself began to decline, even in the very seat and center of its power; and then, to preserve their own capital from destruction, the government were obliged to call their distant armies home. The wall was left to the Britons; but they could not defend it. The Picts and Scots, finding out the change, renewed their assaults. They battered down the castles; they made breaches here and there in the wall; they built vessels, and, passing round by sea across the mouth of the Solway Frith and of the River Tyne, they renewed their old incursions for plunder and destruction. The Britons, in extreme distress, sent again and again to recall the Romans to their aid, and they did, in fact, receive from them some occasional and temporary succor. At length, however, all hope of help from this quarter failed, and the Britons, finding their condition desperate, were compelled to resort to a desperate remedy, the nature of which will be explained in the next chapter. [Footnote 1: For some account of the circumstances connected with this war see our history of Alexander, chapter vi.] CHAPTER II. THE ANGLO-SAXONS Any one who will look around upon the families of his acquaintance will observe that family characteristics and resemblances prevail not only in respect to stature, form, expression of countenance, and other outward and bodily tokens, but also in regard to the constitutional temperaments and capacities of the soul. Sometimes we find a group in which high intellectual powers and great energy of action prevail for many successive generations, and in all the branches into which the original stock divides; in other cases, the hereditary tendency is to gentleness and harmlessness of character, with a full development of all the feelings and sensibilities of the soul. Others, again, exhibit congenital tendencies to great physical strength and hardihood, and to powers of muscular exertion and endurance. These differences, notwithstanding all the exceptions and irregularities connected with them, are obviously, where they exist, deeply seated and permanent. They depend very slightly upon any mere external causes. They have, on the contrary, their foundation in some hidden principles connected with the origin of life, and with the mode of its transmission from parent to offspring, which the researches of philosophers have never yet been able to explore. These same constitutional and congenital peculiarities which we see developing themselves all around us in families, mark, on a greater scale, the characteristics of the different nations of the earth, and in a degree much higher still, the several great and distinct races into which the whole human family seems to be divided. Physiologists consider that there are five of these great races, whose characteristics, mental as well as bodily, are distinctly, strongly, and permanently marked. These characteristics descend by hereditary succession from father to son, and though education and outward influences may modify them, they can not essentially change them. Compare, for example, the Indian and the African races, each of which has occupied for a thousand years a continent of its own, where they have been exposed to the same variety of climates, and as far as possible to the same general outward influences. How entirely diverse from each other they are, not only in form, color, and other physical marks, but in all the tendencies and characteristics of the soul! One can no more be changed into the other, than a wolf, by being tamed and domesticated, can be made a dog, or a dog, by being driven into the forests, be transformed into a tiger. The difference is still greater between either of these races and the Caucasian race. This race might probably be called the European race, were it not that some Asiatic and some African nations have sprung from it, as the Persians, the Ph[oe]nicians, the Egyptians, the Carthaginians, and, in modern times, the Turks. All the nations of this race, whether European or African, have been distinguished by the same physical marks in the conformation of the head and the color of the skin, and still more by those traits of character--the intellect, the energy, the spirit of determination and pride--which, far from owing their existence to outward circumstances, have always, in all ages, made all outward circumstances bend to them. That there have been some great and noble specimens of humanity among the African race, for example, no one can deny; but that there is a marked, and fixed, and permanent constitutional difference between them and the Caucasian race seems evident from this fact, that for two thousand years each has held its own continent, undisturbed, in a great degree, by the rest of mankind; and while, during all this time, no nation of the one race has risen, so far as is known, above the very lowest stage of civilization, there have been more than fifty entirely distinct and independent civilizations originated and fully developed in the other. For three thousand years the Caucasian race have continued, under all circumstances, and in every variety of situation, to exhibit the same traits and the same indomitable prowess. No calamities, however great--no desolating wars, no destructive pestilence, no wasting famine, no night of darkness, however universal and gloomy--has ever been able to keep them long in degradation or barbarism. There is not now a barbarous people to be found in the whole race, and there has not been one for a thousand years. Nearly all the great exploits, and achievements too, which have signalized the history of the world, have been performed by this branch of the human family. They have given celebrity to every age in which they have lived, and to every country that they have ever possessed, by some great deed, or discovery, or achievement, which their intellectual energies have accomplished. As Egyptians, they built the Pyramids, and reared enormous monoliths, which remain as perfect now as they were when first completed, thirty centuries ago. As Ph[oe]nicians, they constructed ships, perfected navigation, and explored, without compass or chart, every known sea. As Greeks, they modeled architectural embellishments, and cut sculptures in marble, and wrote poems and history, which have been ever since the admiration of the world. As Romans, they carried a complete and perfect military organization over fifty nations and a hundred millions of people, with one supreme mistress over all, the ruins of whose splendid palaces and monuments have not yet passed away. Thus has this race gone on, always distinguishing itself, by energy, activity, and intellectual power, wherever it has dwelt, whatever language it has spoken, and in whatever period of the world it has lived. It has invented printing, and filled every country that it occupies with permanent records of the past, accessible to all. It has explored the heavens, and reduced to precise and exact calculations all the complicated motions there. It has ransacked the earth, systematized, arranged, and classified the vast melange of plants, and animals, and mineral products to be found upon its surface. It makes steam and falling water do more than half the work necessary for feeding and clothing the human race; and the howling winds of the ocean, the very emblems of resistless destruction and terror, it steadily employs in interchanging the products of the world, and bearing the means of comfort and plenty to every clime. The Caucasian race has thus, in all ages, and in all the varieties of condition in which the different branches of it have been placed, evinced the same great characteristics, marking the existence of some innate and constant constitutional superiority; and yet, in the different branches, subordinate differences appear, which are to be accounted for, perhaps, partly by difference of circumstances, and partly, perhaps, by similar constitutional diversities--diversities by which one branch is distinguished from other branches, as the whole race is from the other races with which we have compared them. Among these branches, we, Anglo-Saxons ourselves, claim for the Anglo-Saxons the superiority over all the others. The Anglo-Saxons commenced their career as pirates and robbers, and as pirates and robbers of the most desperate and dangerous description. In fact, the character which the Anglo-Saxons have obtained in modern times for energy and enterprise, and for desperate daring in their conflicts with foes, is no recent fame. The progenitors of the present race were celebrated every where, and every where feared and dreaded, not only in the days of Alfred, but several centuries before. All the historians of those days that speak of them at all, describe them as universally distinguished above their neighbors for their energy and vehemence of character, their mental and physical superiority, and for the wild and daring expeditions to which their spirit of enterprise and activity were continually impelling them. They built vessels, in which they boldly put forth on the waters of the German Ocean or of the Baltic Sea on excursions for conquest or plunder. Like their present posterity on the British isles and on the shores of the Atlantic, they cared not, in these voyages, whether it was summer or winter, calm or storm. In fact, they sailed often in tempests and storms by choice, so as to come upon their enemies the more unexpectedly. [Illustration: SAXON MILITARY CHIEF] They would build small vessels, or rather boats, of osiers, covering them with skins, and in fleets of these frail floats they would sally forth among the howling winds and foaming surges of the German Ocean. On these expeditions, they all embarked as in a common cause, and felt a common interest. The leaders shared in all the toils and exposures of the men, and the men took part in the counsels and plans of the leaders. Their intelligence and activity, and their resistless courage and ardor, combined with their cool and calculating sagacity, made them successful in every attempt. If they fought, they conquered; if they pursued their enemies, they were sure to overtake them; if they retreated, they were sure to make their escape. They were clothed in a loose and flowing dress, and wore their hair long and hanging about their shoulders; and they had the art, as their descendants have now, of contriving and fabricating arms of such superior construction and workmanship, as to give them, on this account alone, a great advantage over all cotemporary nations. There were two other points in which there was a remarkable similarity between this parent stock in its rude, early form, and the extended social progeny which represents it at the present day. One was the extreme strictness of their ideas of conjugal fidelity, and the stern and rigid severity with which all violations of female virtue were judged. The woman who violated her marriage vows was compelled to hang herself. Her body was then burned in public, and the accomplice of her crime was executed over the ashes. The other point of resemblance between the ancient Anglo-Saxons and their modern descendants was their indomitable pride. They could never endure any thing like _submission_. Though sometimes overpowered, they were never conquered. Though taken prisoners and carried captive, the indomitable spirit which animated them could never be really subdued. The Romans used sometimes to compel their prisoners to fight as gladiators, to make spectacles for the amusement of the people of the city. On one occasion, thirty Anglo-Saxons, who had been taken captive and were reserved for this fate, strangled themselves rather than submit to this indignity. The whole nation manifested on all occasions a very unbending and unsubmissive will, encountering every possible danger and braving every conceivable ill rather than succumb or submit to any power except such as they had themselves created for their own ends; and their descendants, whether in England or America, evince much the same spirit still. It was the landing of a few boat-loads of these determined and ferocious barbarians on a small island near the mouth of the Thames, which constitutes the great event of the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons in England, which is so celebrated in English history as the epoch which marks the real and true beginning of British greatness and power. It is true that the history of England goes back beyond this period to narrate, as we have done, the events connected with the contests of the Romans and the aboriginal Britons, and the incursions and maraudings of the Picts and Scots; but all these aborigines passed gradually--after the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons--off the stage. The old stock was wholly displaced. The present monarchy has sprung entirely from its Anglo-Saxon original; so that all which precedes the arrival of this new race is introductory and preliminary, like the history, in this country, of the native American tribes before the coming of the English Pilgrims. As, therefore, the landing of the Pilgrims on the Plymouth Rock marks the true commencement of the history of the American Republic, so that of the Anglo-Saxon adventurers on the island of Thanet represents and marks the origin of the British monarchy. The event therefore, stands as a great and conspicuous landmark, though now dim and distant in the remote antiquity in which it occurred. And yet the event, though so wide-reaching and grand in its bearings and relations, and in the vast consequences which have flowed and which still continue to flow from it, was apparently a minute and unimportant circumstance at the time when it occurred. There were only three vessels at the first arrival. Of their size and character the accounts vary. Some of these accounts say they contained three hundred men; others seem to state that the number which arrived at the first landing was three thousand. This, however, would seem impossible, as no three vessels built in those days could convey so large a number. We must suppose, therefore, that that number is meant to include those who came at several of the earlier expeditions, and which were grouped by the historian together, or else that several other vessels or transports accompanied the three, which history has specially commemorated as the first arriving. In fact, very little can now be known in respect to the form and capacity of the vessels in which these half-barbarous navigators roamed, in those days, over the British seas. Their name, indeed, has come down to us, and that is nearly all. They were called _cyules_; though the name is sometimes spelled, in the ancient chronicles, _ceols_, and in other ways. They were obviously vessels of considerable capacity and were of such construction and such strength as to stand the roughest marine exposures. They were accustomed to brave fearlessly every commotion and to encounter every danger raised either by winter tempests or summer gales in the restless waters of the German Ocean. The names of the commanders who headed the expedition which first landed have been preserved, and they have acquired, as might have been expected, a very wide celebrity. They were Hengist and Horsa. Hengist and Horsa were brothers. The place where they landed was the island of Thanet. Thanet is a tract of land at the mouth of the Thames, on the southern side; a sort of promontory extending into the sea, and forming the cape at the south side of the estuary made by the mouth of the river. The extreme point of land is called the North Foreland which, as it is the point that thousands of vessels, coming out of the Thames, have to round in proceeding southward on voyages to France, to the Mediterranean, to the Indies, and to America, is very familiarly known to navigators throughout the world. The island of Thanet, of which this North Foreland is the extreme point, ought scarcely to be called an island, since it forms, in fact, a portion of the main land, being separated from it only by a narrow creek or stream, which in former ages indeed, was wide and navigable, but is now nearly choked up and obliterated by the sands and the sediment, which, after being brought down by the Thames, are driven into the creek by the surges of the sea. In the time of Hengist and Horsa the creek was so considerable that its mouth furnished a sufficient harbor for their vessels. They landed at a town called Ebbs-fleet, which is now, however, at some distance inland. There is some uncertainty in respect to the motive which led Hengist and Horsa to make their first descent upon the English coast. Whether they came on one of their customary piratical expeditions, or were driven on the coast accidentally by stress of weather, or were invited to come by the British king, can not now be accurately ascertained. Such parties of Anglo-Saxons had undoubtedly often landed before under somewhat similar circumstances, and then, after brief incursions into the interior, had re-embarked on board their ships and sailed away. In this case, however, there was a certain peculiar and extraordinary state of things in the political condition of the country in which they had landed, which resulted in first protracting their stay, and finally in establishing them so fixedly and permanently in the land, that they and their followers and descendants soon became the entire masters of it, and have remained in possession to the present day. These circumstances were as follows: The name of the king of Britain at this period was Vortigern. At the time when the Anglo-Saxons arrived, he and his government were nearly overwhelmed with the pressure of difficulty and danger arising from the incursions of the Picts and Scots; and Vortigern, instead of being aroused to redoubled vigilance and energy by the imminence of the danger, as Alfred afterward was in similar circumstances, sank down, as weak minds always do, in despair, and gave himself up to dissipation and vice--endeavoring, like depraved seamen on a wreck, to drown his mental distress in animal sensations of pleasure. Such men are ready to seek relief or rescue from their danger from any quarter and at any price. Vortigern, instead of looking upon the Anglo-Saxon intruders as new enemies, conceived the idea of appealing to them for succor. He offered to convey to them a large tract of territory in the part of the island where they had landed, on condition of their aiding him in his contests with his other foes. Hengist and Horsa acceded to this proposal. They marched their followers into battle, and defeated Vortigern's enemies. They sent across the sea to their native land, and invited new adventurers to join them. Vortigern was greatly pleased with the success of his expedient. The Picts and Scots were driven back to their fastnesses in the remote mountains of the north, and the Britons once more possessed their land in peace, by means of the protection and the aid which their new confederates afforded them. In the mean time the Anglo-Saxons were establishing and strengthening themselves very rapidly in the part of the island which Vortigern had assigned them--which was, as the reader will understand from what has already been said in respect to the place of their landing, the southeastern part--a region which now constitutes the county of Kent. In addition, too, to the natural increase of their power from the increase of their numbers and their military force, Hengist contrived, if the story is true, to swell his own personal influence by means of a matrimonial alliance which he had the adroitness to effect. He had a daughter named Rowena. She was very beautiful and accomplished. Hengist sent for her to come to England. When she had arrived he made a sumptuous entertainment for King Vortigern, inviting also to it, of course, many other distinguished guests. In the midst of the feast, when the king was in the state of high excitement produced on such temperaments by wine and convivial pleasure, Rowena came in to offer him more wine. Vortigern was powerfully struck, as Hengist had anticipated, with her grace and beauty. Learning that she was Hengist's daughter, he demanded her hand. Hengist at first declined, but, after sufficiently stimulating the monarch's eagerness by his pretended opposition, he yielded, and the king became the general's son-in-law. This is the story which some of the old chroniclers tell. Modern historians are divided in respect to believing it. Some think it is fact, others fable. At all events, the power of Hengist and Horsa gradually increased, as years passed on, until the Britons began to be alarmed at their growing strength and multiplying numbers, and to fear lest these new friends should prove, in the end, more formidable than the terrible enemies whom they had come to expel. Contentions and then open quarrels began to occur, and at length both parties prepared for war. The contest which soon ensued was a terrible struggle, or rather series of struggles, which continued for two centuries, during which the Anglo-Saxons were continually gaining ground and the Britons losing; the mental and physical superiority of the Anglo-Saxon race giving them with very few exceptions, every where and always the victory. There were, occasionally, intervals of peace, and partial and temporary friendliness. They accuse Hengist of great treachery on one of these occasions. He invited his son-in-law, King Vortigern, to a feast, with three hundred of his officers, and then fomenting a quarrel at the entertainment, the Britons were all killed in the affray by means of the superior Saxon force which had been provided for the emergency. Vortigern himself was taken prisoner, and held a captive until he ransomed himself by ceding three whole provinces to his captor. Hengist justified this demand by throwing the responsibility of the feud upon his guests; and it is not, in fact, at all improbable that they deserved their share of the condemnation. The famous King Arthur, whose Knights of the Round Table have been so celebrated in ballads and tales, lived and flourished during these wars between the Saxons and the Britons. He was a king of the Britons, and performed wonderful exploits of strength and valor. He was of prodigious size and muscular power, and of undaunted bravery. He slew giants, destroyed the most ferocious wild beasts, gained very splendid victories in the battles that he fought, made long expeditions into foreign countries, having once gone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem to obtain the Holy Cross. His wife was a beautiful lady, the daughter of a chieftain of Cornwall. Her name was Guenever.[1] On his return from one of his distant expeditions, he found that his nephew, Medrawd, had won her affections while he was gone, and a combat ensued in consequence between him and Medrawd. The combat took place on the coast of Cornwall. Both parties fell. Arthur was mortally wounded. They took him from the field into a boat, and carried him along the coast till they came to a river. They ascended the river till they came to the town of Glastonbury. They committed the still breathing body to the care of faithful friends there; but the mortal blow had been given. The great hero died, and they buried his body in the Glastonbury churchyard, very deep beneath the surface of the ground, in order to place it as effectually as possible beyond the reach of Saxon rage and vengeance. Arthur had been a deadly and implacable foe to the Saxons. He had fought twelve great pitched battles with them, in every one of which he had gained the victory. In one of these battles he had slain, according to the traditional tale, four hundred and seventy men, in one day, with his own hand. Five hundred years after his death, King Henry the Second, having heard from an ancient British bard that Arthur's body lay interred in the Abbey of Glastonbury, and that the spot was marked by some small pyramids erected near it, and that the body would be found in a rude coffin made of a hollowed oak, ordered search to be made. The ballads and tales which had been then, for several centuries, circulating throughout England, narrating and praising King Arthur's exploits, had given him so wide a fame, that great interest was felt in the recovery and the identification of his remains. The searchers found the pyramids in the cemetery of the abbey. They dug between them, and came at length to a stone. Beneath this stone was a leaden cross, with the inscription in Latin, "HERE LIES BURIED THE BODY OF GREAT KING ARTHUR." Going down still below this, they came at length, at the depth of sixteen feet from the surface, to a great coffin, made of the trunk of an oak tree, and within it was a human skeleton of unusual size. The skull was very large, and showed marks of ten wounds. Nine of them were closed by concretions of the bone, indicating that the wounds by which those contusions or fractures had been made had been healed while life continued. The tenth fracture remained in a condition which showed that that had been the mortal wound. The bones of Arthur's wife were found near those of her husband. The hair was apparently perfect when found, having all the freshness and beauty of life; but a monk of the abbey, who was present at the disinterment, touched it and it crumbled to dust. Such are the tales which the old chronicles tell of the good King Arthur, the last and greatest representative of the power of the ancient British aborigines. It is a curious illustration of the uncertainty which attends all the early records of national history, that, notwithstanding all the above particularity respecting the life and death of Arthur, it is a serious matter of dispute among the learned in modern times whether any such person ever lived. [Footnote 1: Spelled sometimes Gwenlyfar and Ginevra.] CHAPTER III. THE DANES. The landing of Hengist and Horsa, the first of the Anglo-Saxons, took place in the year 449, according to the commonly received chronology. It was more than two hundred years after this before the Britons were entirely subdued, and the Saxon authority established throughout the island, unquestioned and supreme. One or two centuries more passed away, and then the Anglo-Saxons had, in their turn, to resist a new horde of invaders, who came, as they themselves had done, across the German Ocean. These new invaders were the Danes. The Saxons were not united under one general government when they came finally to get settled in their civil polity. The English territory was divided, on the contrary, into seven or eight separate kingdoms. These kingdoms were ruled by as many separate dynasties, or lines of kings. They were connected with each other by friendly relations and alliances, more or less intimate, the whole system being known in history by the name of the Saxon Heptarchy. The princes of these various dynasties showed in their dealings with one another, and in their relations with foreign powers, the same characteristics of boldness and energy as had always marked the action of the race. Even the queens and princesses evinced, by their courage and decision, that Anglo-Saxon blood lost nothing of its inherent qualities by flowing in female veins. For example, a very extraordinary story is told of one of these Saxon princesses. A certain king upon the Continent, whose dominions lay between the Rhine and the German Ocean, had proposed for her hand in behalf of his son, whose name was Radiger. The consent of the princess was given, and the contract closed. The king himself soon afterward died, but before he died he changed his mind in respect to the marriage of his son. It seems that he had himself married a second wife, the daughter of a king of the Franks, a powerful continental people; and as, in consequence of his own approaching death, his son would come unexpectedly into possession of the throne, and would need immediately all the support which a powerful alliance could give him, he recommended to him to give up the Saxon princess, and connect himself, instead, with the Franks, as he himself had done. The prince entered into these views; his father died, and he immediately afterward married his father's youthful widow--his own step-mother--a union which, however monstrous it would be regarded in our day, seems not to have been considered any thing very extraordinary then. The Anglo-Saxon princess was very indignant at this violation of his plighted faith on the part of her suitor. She raised an army and equipped a fleet, and set sail with the force which she had thus assembled across the German Ocean, to call the faithless Radiger to account. Her fleet entered the mouth of the Rhine, and her troops landed, herself at the head of them. She then divided her army into two portions, keeping one division as a guard for herself at her own encampment, which she established near the place of her landing, while she sent the other portion to seek and attack Radiger, who was, in the mean time, assembling his forces, in a state of great alarm at this sudden and unexpected danger. In due time this division returned, reporting that they had met and encountered Radiger, and had entirely defeated him. They came back triumphing in their victory, considering evidently, that the faithless lover had been well punished for his offense. The princess, however, instead of sharing in their satisfaction, ordered them to make a new incursion into the interior, and not to return without bringing Radiger with them as their prisoner. They did so; and after hunting the defeated and distressed king from place to place, they succeeded, at last, in seizing him in a wood, and brought him in to the princess's encampment. He began to plead for his life, and to make excuses for the violation of his contract by urging the necessities of his situation and his father's dying commands. The princess said she was ready to forgive him if he would now dismiss her rival and fulfill his obligations to her. Radiger yielded to this demand; he repudiated his Frank wife, and married the Anglo-Saxon lady in her stead. Though the Anglo-Saxon race continued thus to evince in all their transactions the same extraordinary spirit and energy, and met generally with the same success that had characterized them at the beginning, they seemed at length to find their equals in the Danes. These Danes, however, though generally designated by that appellation in history, were not exclusively the natives of Denmark. They came from all the shores of the Northern and Baltic Seas. In fact, they inhabited the sea rather than the land. They were a race of bold and fierce naval adventurers, as the Anglo-Saxons themselves had been two centuries before. Most extraordinary accounts are given of their hardihood, and of their fierce and predatory habits. They haunted the bays along the coasts of Sweden and Norway, and the islands which encumber the entrance to the Baltic Sea. They were banded together in great hordes, each ruled by a chieftain, who was called a _sea king_, because his dominions scarcely extended at all to the land. His possessions, his power, his subjects pertained all to the sea. It is true they built or bought their vessels on the shore, and they sought shelter among the islands and in the bays in tempests and storms; but they prided themselves in never dwelling in houses, or sharing, in any way, the comforts or enjoyments of the land. They made excursions every where for conquest and plunder, and were proud of their successful deeds of violence and wrong. It was honorable to enter into their service. Chieftains and nobles who dwelt upon the land sent their sons to acquire greatness, and wealth, and fame by joining these piratical gangs, just as high-minded military or naval officers, in modern times, would enter into the service of an honorable government abroad. Besides the great leaders of the most powerful of these bands, there was an infinite number of petty chieftains, who commanded single ships or small detached squadrons. These were generally the younger sons of sovereigns or chieftains who lived upon the land, the elder brothers remaining at home to inherit the throne or the paternal inheritance. It was discreditable then, as it is now in Europe, for any branches of families of the higher class to engage in any pursuit of honorable industry. They could plunder and kill without dishonor, but they could not toil. To rob and murder was glory; to do good or to be useful in any way was disgrace. These younger sons went to sea at a very early age too. They were sent often at twelve, that they might become early habituated to the exposures and dangers of their dreadful combats, and of the wintery storms, and inured to the athletic exertions which the sea rigorously exacts of all who venture within her dominion. When they returned they were received with consideration and honor, or with neglect and disgrace, according as they were more or less laden with booty and spoil. In the summer months the land kings themselves would organize and equip naval armaments for similar expeditions. They would cruise along the coasts of the sea, to land where they found an unguarded point, and sack a town or burn a castle, seize treasures, capture men and make them slaves, kidnap women, and sometimes destroy helpless children with their spears in a manner too barbarous and horrid to be described. On returning to their homes, they would perhaps find their own castles burned and their own dwellings roofless, from the visit of some similar horde. Thus the seas of western Europe were covered in those days, as they are now, with fleets of shipping; though, instead of being engaged as now, in the quiet and peaceful pursuits of commerce, freighted with merchandise, manned with harmless seamen, and welcome wherever they come, they were then loaded only with ammunition and arms, and crowded with fierce and reckless robbers, the objects of universal detestation and terror. One of the first of these sea kings who acquired sufficient individual distinction to be personally remembered in history has given a sort of immortality, by his exploits, to the very rude name of Ragnar Lodbrog, and his character was as rude as his name. [Illustration: THE SEA KINGS] Ragnar's father was a prince of Norway. He married, however, a Danish princess, and thus Ragnar acquired a sort of hereditary right to a Danish kingdom--the territory including various islands and promontories at the entrance of the Baltic Sea. There was, however, a competitor for this power, named Harald. The Franks made common cause with Harald. Ragnar was defeated and driven away from the land. Though defeated, however, he was not subdued. He organized a naval force, and made himself a sea king. His operations on the stormy element of the seas were conducted with so much decision and energy, and at the same time with so much system and plan, that his power rapidly extended. He brought the other sea kings under his control, and established quite a maritime empire. He made more and more distant excursions, and at last, in order to avenge himself upon the Franks for their interposition in behalf of his enemy at home, he passed through the Straits of Dover, and thence down the English Channel to the mouth of the Seine. He ascended this river to Rouen, and there landed, spreading throughout the country the utmost terror and dismay. From Rouen he marched to Paris, finding no force able to resist him on his way, or to defend the capital. His troops destroyed the monastery of St. Germain's, near the city, and then the King of the Franks, finding himself at their mercy, bought them off by paying a large sum of money. With this money and the other booty which they had acquired, Ragnar and his horde now returned to their ships at Rouen, and sailed away again toward their usual haunts among the bays and islands of the Baltic Sea. This exploit, of course, gave Ragnar Lodbrog's barbarous name a very wide celebrity. It tended, too, greatly to increase and establish his power. He afterward made similar incursions into Spain, and finally grew bold enough to brave the Anglo-Saxons themselves on the green island of Britain, as the Anglo-Saxons had themselves braved the aboriginal inhabitants two or three centuries before. But Ragnar seems to have found the Anglo-Saxon swords and spears which he advanced to encounter on landing in England much more formidable than those which were raised against him on the southern side of the Channel. He was destroyed in the contest. The circumstances were as follows: In making his preparations for a descent upon the English coast, he prepared for a very determined contest, knowing well the character of the foes with whom he would have now to deal. He built two enormous ships, much larger than those of the ordinary size, and armed and equipped them in the most perfect manner. He filled them with selected men, and sailing down along the coast of Scotland, he watched for a place and an opportunity to land. Winds and storms are almost always raging among the dark and gloomy mountains and islands of Scotland. Ragnar's ships were caught on one of these gales and driven on shore. The ships were lost, but the men escaped to the land. Ragnar, nothing daunted, organized and marshaled them as an army, and marched into the interior to attack any force which might appear against them. His course led him to Northumbria, the most northerly Saxon kingdom. Here he soon encountered a very large and superior force, under the command of Ella, the king; but, with the reckless desperation which so strongly marked his character, he advanced to attack them. Three times, it is said, he pierced the enemy's lines, cutting his way entirely through them with his little column. He was, however, at length overpowered. His men were cut to pieces, and he was himself taken prisoner. We regret to have to add that our cruel ancestors put their captive to death in a very barbarous manner. They filled a den with poisonous snakes, and then drove the wretched Ragnar into it. The horrid reptiles killed him with their stings. It was Ella, the king of Northumbria, who ordered and directed this punishment. The expedition of Ragnar thus ended without leading to any permanent results in Anglo-Saxon history. It is, however, memorable as the first of a series of invasions from the Danes--or Northmen, as they are sometimes called, since they came from all the coasts of the Baltic and German Seas--which, in the end, gave the Anglo-Saxons infinite trouble. At one time, in fact, the conquests of the Danes threatened to root out and destroy the Anglo-Saxon power from the island altogether. They would probably have actually effected this, had the nation not been saved by the prudence, the courage, the sagacity, and the consummate skill of the subject of this history, as will fully appear to the reader in the course of future chapters. Ragnar was not the only one of these Northmen who made attempts to land in England and to plunder the Anglo-Saxons, even in his own day. Although there were no very regular historical records kept in those early times, still a great number of legends, and ballads, and ancient chronicles have come down to us, narrating the various transactions which occurred, and it appears by these that the sea kings generally were beginning, at this time, to harass the English coasts, as well as all the other shores to which they could gain access. Some of these invasions would seem to have been of a very formidable character. At first these excursions were made in the summer season only, and, after collecting their plunder, the marauders would return in the autumn to their own shores, and winter in the bays and among the islands there. At length, however, they grew more bold. A large band of them landed, in the autumn of 851, on the island of Thanet where the Saxons themselves had landed four centuries before, and began very coolly to establish their winter quarters on English ground. They succeeded in maintaining their stay during the winter, and in the spring were prepared for bolder undertakings still. They formed a grand confederation, and collected a fleet of three hundred and fifty ships, galleys, and boats, and advanced boldly up the Thames. They plundered London, and then marched south to Canterbury, which they plundered too. They went thence into one of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms called Mercia, the inhabitants of the country not being able to oppose any effectual obstacle to their marauding march. Finally, a great Anglo-Saxon force was organized and brought out to meet them. The battle was fought in a forest of oaks, and the Danes were defeated. The victory, however, afforded the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms only a temporary relief. New hordes were continually arriving and landing, growing more and more bold if they met with success, and but little daunted or discouraged by temporary failures. The most formidable of all these expeditions was one organized and commanded by the sons and relatives of Ragnar, whom, it will be recollected, the Saxons had cruelly killed by poisonous serpents in a dungeon or den. The relatives of the unhappy chieftain thus barbarously executed were animated in their enterprise by the double stimulus of love of plunder and a ferocious thirst for revenge. A considerable time was spent in collecting a large fleet, and in combining, for this purpose, as many chieftains as could be induced to share in the enterprise. The story of their fellow-countryman expiring under the stings of adders and scorpions, while his tormentors were exulting around him over the cruel agonies which their ingenuity had devised, aroused them to a phrensy of hatred and revenge. They proceeded, however, very deliberately in their plans. They did nothing hastily. They allowed ample time for the assembling and organizing of the confederation. When all was ready, they found that there were eight kings and twenty earls in the alliance, generally the relatives and comrades of Ragnar. The two most prominent of these commanders were Guthrum and Hubba. Hubba was one of Ragnar's sons. At length, toward the close of the summer, the formidable expedition set sail. They approached the English coast, and landed without meeting with any resistance. The Saxons seemed appalled and paralyzed at the greatness of the danger. The several kingdoms of the Heptarchy, though they had been imperfectly united, some years before, under Egbert, were still more or less distinct, and each hoped that the one first invaded would be the only one which would suffer; and as these kingdoms were rivals, and often hostile to each other, no general league was formed against what soon proved to be the common enemy. The Danes, accordingly, quietly encamped, and made calm and deliberate arrangements for spending the winter in their new quarters, as if they were at home. During all this time, notwithstanding the coolness and deliberation with which these avengers of their murdered countryman acted, the fires of their resentment and revenge were slowly but steadily burning, and as soon as the spring opened, they put themselves in battle array, and marched into the dominions of Ella. Ella did all that it was possible to do to meet and oppose them, but the spirit of retaliation and rage which his cruelties had evoked was too strong to be resisted. His country was ravaged, his army was defeated, he was taken prisoner, and the dying terrors and agonies of Ragnar among the serpents were expiated by tenfold worse tortures which they inflicted upon Ella's mutilated body, by a process too horrible to be described. After thus successfully accomplishing the great object of their expedition, it was to have been hoped that they would leave the island and return to their Danish homes. But they evinced no disposition to do this. On the contrary, they commenced a course of ravage and conquest in all parts of England, which continued for several years. The parts of the country which attempted to oppose them they destroyed by fire and sword. They seized cities, garrisoned and occupied them, and settled in them as if to make them their permanent homes. One kingdom after another was subdued. The kingdom of Wessex seemed alone to remain, and that was the subject of contest. Ethelred was the king. The Danes advanced into his dominions to attack him. In the battle that ensued, Ethelred was killed. The successor to his throne was his brother Alfred, the subject of this history, who thus found himself suddenly and unexpectedly called upon to assume the responsibilities and powers of supreme command, in as dark and trying a crisis of national calamity and danger as can well be conceived. The manner in which Alfred acted in the emergency, rescuing his country from her perils, and laying the foundations, as he did, of all the greatness and glory which has since accrued to her, has caused his memory to be held in the highest estimation among all nations, and has immortalized his name. CHAPTER IV ALFRED'S EARLY YEARS. Before commencing the narrative of Alfred's administration of the public affairs of his realm, it is necessary to go back a little, in order to give some account of the more private occurrences of his early life. Alfred, like Washington, was distinguished for a very extraordinary combination of qualities which exhibited itself in his character, viz., the combination of great military energy and skill on the one hand, with a very high degree, on the other, of moral and religious principle, and conscientious devotion to the obligations of duty. This combination, so rarely found in the distinguished personages which have figured among mankind, is, in a great measure, explained and accounted for, in Alfred's case, by the peculiar circumstances of his early history. It was his brother Ethelred, as has already been stated, whom Alfred immediately succeeded. His father's name was Ethelwolf; and it seems highly probable that the peculiar turn which Alfred's mind seemed to take in after years, was the consequence, in some considerable degree, of this parent's situation and character. Ethelwolf was a younger son, and was brought up in a monastery at Winchester. The monasteries of those days were the seats both of learning and piety, that is, of such learning and piety as then prevailed. The ideas of religious faith and duty which were entertained a thousand years ago were certainly very different from those which are received now; still, there was then, mingled with much superstition, a great deal of honest and conscientious devotion to the principles of Christian duty, and of sincere and earnest desire to live for the honor of God and religion, and for the highest and best welfare of mankind. Monastic establishments existed every where, defended by the sacredness which invested them from the storms of violence and war which swept over every thing which the cross did not protect. To these the thoughtful, the serious, and the intellectual retired, leaving the restless, the rude, and the turbulent to distract and terrify the earth with their endless quarrels. Here they studied, they wrote, they read; they transcribed books, they kept records, they arranged exercises of devotion, they educated youth, and, in a word, performed, in the inclosed and secluded retreats in which they sought shelter, those intellectual functions of civil life which now can all be performed in open exposure, but which in those days, if there had been no monastic retreats to shelter them, could not have been performed at all. For the learning and piety of the present age, whether Catholic or Protestant, to malign the monasteries of Anglo-Saxon times is for the oak to traduce the acorn from which it sprung. Ethelwolf was a younger son, and, consequently, did not expect to reign. He went to the monastery at Winchester, and took the vows. His father had no objection to this plan, satisfied with having his oldest son expect and prepare for the throne. As, however, he advanced toward manhood, the thought of the probability that he might be called to the throne in the event of his brother's death led all parties to desire that he might be released from his monastic vows. They applied, accordingly, to the pope for a dispensation. The dispensation was granted, and Ethelwolf became a general in the army. In the end his brother died, and he became king. He continued, however, during his reign, to manifest the peaceful, quiet, and serious character which had led him to enter the monastery, and which had probably been strengthened and confirmed by the influences and habits to which he had been accustomed there. He had, however, a very able, energetic, and warlike minister, who managed his affairs with great ability and success for a long course of years. Ethelwolf, in the mean time, leaving public affairs to his minister, continued to devote himself to the pursuits to which his predilections inclined him. He visited monasteries; he cultivated learning; he endowed the Church; he made journeys to Rome. All this time, his kingdom, which had before almost swallowed up the other kingdoms of the Heptarchy, became more and more firmly established, until, at length, the Danes came in, as is described in the last chapter, and brought the whole land into the most extreme and imminent danger. The case did not, however, become absolutely desperate until after Ethelwolf's death, as will be hereafter explained. Ethelwolf married a lady whose gentle, quiet, and serious character corresponded with his own. Alfred was the youngest, and, as is often the case with the youngest, the favorite child. He was kept near to his father and mother, and closely under their influence, until his mother died, which event, however, took place when he was quite young. After this, Ethelwolf sent Alfred to Rome. Rome was still more the great center then than it is now of religion and learning. There were schools there, maintained by the various nations of Europe respectively, for the education of the sons of the nobility. Alfred, however, did not go for this purpose. It was only to make the journey, to see the city, to be introduced to the pope, and to be presented, by means of the fame of the expedition, to the notice of Europe, as the future sovereign of England; for it was Ethelwolf's intention, at this time, to pass over his older sons, and make this Benjamin his successor on the throne. The journey was made with great pomp and parade. A large train of nobles and ecclesiastics accompanied the young prince, and a splendid reception was given to him in the various towns in France which he passed through on his way. He was but five years old; but his position and his prospects made him, though so young, a personage of great distinction. After spending a short time at Rome, he returned again to England. Two years after this, Ethelwolf, Alfred's father, determined to go to Rome himself. His wife had died, his older sons had grown up, and his own natural aversion to the cares and toils of government seems to have been increased by the alarms and dangers produced by the incursions of the Danes, and by his own advancing years. Having accordingly arranged the affairs of the kingdom by placing his oldest sons in command, he took the youngest, Alfred, who was now seven years old, with him, and, crossing the Channel, landed on the Continent, on his way to Rome. All the arrangements for this journey were conducted on a scale of great magnificence and splendor. It is true that it was a rude and semi-barbarous age, and very little progress had been made in respect to the peaceful and industrial arts of life; but, in respect to the arts connected with war, to every thing that related to the march of armies, the pomp and parade of royal progresses, the caparison of horses, the armor and military dresses of men, and the parade and pageantry of military spectacles, a very considerable degree of advancement had been attained. King Ethelwolf availed himself of all the resources that he could command to give eclat to his journey. He had a numerous train of attendants and followers, and he carried with him a number of rich and valuable presents for the pope. He was received with great distinction by King Charles of France, through whose dominions he had to pass on his way to Italy. Charles had a daughter, Judith, a young girl with whom Ethelwolf, though now himself quite advanced in life, fell deeply in love. Ethelwolf, after a short stay in France, went on to Rome. His arrival and his visit here attracted great attention. As King of England he was a personage of very considerable consequence, and then he came with a large retinue and in magnificent state. His religious predilections, too, inspired him with a very strong interest in the ecclesiastical authorities and institutions of Rome, and awakened, reciprocally, in these authorities, a strong interest in him. He made costly presents to the pope, some of which were peculiarly splendid. One was a crown of pure gold, which weighed, it is said, four pounds. Another was a sword, richly mounted in gold. There were also several utensils and vessels of Saxon form and construction, some of gold and others of silver gilt, and also a considerable number of dresses, all very richly adorned. King Ethelwolf also made a distribution in money to all the inhabitants of Rome: gold to the nobles and to the clergy, and silver to the people. How far his munificence on this occasion may have been exaggerated by the Saxon chroniclers, who, of course, like other early historians, were fond of magnifying all the exploits, and swelling, in every way, the fame of the heroes of their stories, we can not now know. There is no doubt, however, that all the circumstances of Ethelwolf's visit to the great capital were such as to attract universal attention to the event, and to make the little Alfred, on whose account the journey was in a great measure performed, an object of very general interest and attention. In fact, there is every reason to believe that the Saxon nations had, at that time, made such progress in wealth, population, and power as to afford to such a prince as Ethelwolf the means of making a great display, if he chose to do so, on such an occasion as that of a royal progress through France and a visit to the great city of Rome. The Saxons had been in possession of England, at this time, many hundred years; and though, during all this period, they had been involved in various wars, both with one another and with the neighboring nations, they had been all the time steadily increasing in wealth, and making constant improvements in all the arts and refinements of life. Ethelwolf reigned, therefore, over a people of considerable wealth and power, and he moved across the Continent on his way to Rome, and figured while there, as a personage of no ordinary distinction. Rome was at this time, as we have said, the great center of education, as well as of religious and ecclesiastical influence. In fact, education and religion went hand in hand in those days, there being scarcely any instruction in books excepting for the purposes of the Church. Separate schools had been established at Rome by the leading nations of Europe, where their youth could be taught, each at an institution in which his own language was spoken. Ethelwolf remained a year at Rome, to give Alfred the benefit of the advantages which the city afforded. The boy was of a reflective and thoughtful turn of mind, and applied himself diligently to the performance of his duties. His mind was rapidly expanded, his powers were developed, and stores of such knowledge as was adapted to the circumstances and wants of the times were laid up. The religious and intellectual influences thus brought to bear upon the young Alfred's mind produced strong and decided effects in the formation of his character--effects which were very strikingly visible in his subsequent career. Ethelwolf found, when he arrived at Rome, that the Saxon seminary had been burned the preceding year. It had been founded by a former Saxon king. Ethelwolf rebuilt it, and placed the institution on a new and firmer foundation than before. He also obtained some edicts from the papal government to secure and confirm certain rights of his Saxon subjects residing in the city, which rights had, it seems, been in some degree infringed upon, and he thus saved his subjects from oppressions to which they had been exposed. In a word, Ethelwolf's visit not only afforded an imposing spectacle to those who witnessed the pageantry and the ceremonies which marked it, but it was attended with permanent and substantial benefits to many classes, who became, in consequence of it, the objects of the pious monarch's benevolent regard. At length, when the year had expired, Ethelwolf set out on his return. He went back through France, as he came, and during his stay in that country on the way home, an event occurred which was of no inconsiderable consequence to Alfred himself, and which changed or modified Ethelwolf's whole destiny. The event was that, having, as before stated, become enamored with the young Princess Judith, the daughter of the King of France, Ethelwolf demanded her in marriage. We have no means of knowing how the proposal affected the princess herself; marriages in that rank and station in life were then, as they are now in fact, wholly determined and controlled by great political considerations, or by the personal predilections of powerful _men_, with very little regard for the opinions or desires of the party whose happiness was most to be affected by the result. At all events, whatever may have been Judith's opinion, the marriage was decided upon and consummated, and the venerable king returned to England with his youthful bride. The historians of the day say, what would seem almost incredible, that she was but about twelve years old. Judith's Saxon name was Leotheta. She made an excellent mother to the young Alfred, though she innocently and indirectly caused her husband much trouble in his realm. Alfred's older brothers were wild and turbulent men, and one of them, Ethelbald, was disposed to retain a portion of the power with which he had been invested during his father's absence, instead of giving it up peaceably on his return. He organized a rebellion against his father, making the king's course of conduct in respect to his youthful bride the pretext. Ethelwolf was very fond of his young wife, and seemed disposed to elevate her to a position of great political consideration and honor. Ethelbald complained of this. The father, loving peace rather than war, compromised the question with him, and relinquished to him a part of his kingdom. Two years after this he died, leaving Ethelbald the entire possession of the throne. Ethelbald, as if to complete and consummate his unnatural conduct toward his father, persuaded the beautiful Judith, his father's widow, to become his wife, in violation not only of all laws human and divine, but also of those universal instincts of propriety which no lapse of time and no changes of condition can eradicate from the human soul. This second union throws some light on the question of Judith's action. Since she was willing to marry her husband's son to _preserve_ the position of a queen, we may well suppose that she did not object to uniting herself to the father in order to attain it. Perhaps, however, we ought to consider that no responsibility whatever, in transactions of this character, should attach to such a mere child. During all this time Alfred was passing from his eighth to his twelfth year. He was a very intelligent and observing boy, and had acquired much knowledge of the world and a great deal of general information in the journeys which he had taken with his father, both about England and also on the Continent, in France and Italy. Judith had taken a great interest in his progress. She talked with him, she encouraged his inquiries, she explained to him what he did not understand, and endeavored in every way to develop and strengthen his mental powers. Alfred was a favorite, and, as such, was always very much indulged; but there was a certain conscientiousness and gentleness of spirit which marked his character even in these early years, and seemed to defend him from the injurious influences which indulgence and extreme attention and care often produce. Alfred was considerate, quiet, and reflective; he improved the privileges which he enjoyed, and did not abuse the kindness and the favors which every one by whom he was known lavished upon him. Alfred was very fond of the Anglo-Saxon poetry which abounded in those days. The poems were legends, ballads, and tales, which described the exploits of heroes, and the adventures of pilgrims and wanderers of all kinds. These poems were to Alfred what Homer's poems were to Alexander. He loved to listen to them, to hear them recited, and to commit them to memory. In committing them to memory, he was obliged to depend upon hearing the poems repeated by others, for he himself could not read. And yet he was now twelve years old. It may surprise the reader, perhaps, to be thus told, after all that has been said of the attention paid to Alfred's education, and of the progress which he had made, that he could not even read. But reading, far from being then considered, as it is now, an essential attainment for all, and one which we are sure of finding possessed by all who have received any instruction whatever, was regarded in those days a sort of technical art, learned only by those who were to make some professional use of the acquisition. Monks and clerks could always read, but generals, gentlemen, and kings very seldom. And as they could not read, neither could they write. They made a rude cross at the end of the writings which they wished to authenticate instead of signing their names--a mode which remains to the present day, though it has descended to the very lowest and humblest classes of society. In fact, even the upper classes of society could not generally learn to read in those days, for there were no books. Every thing recorded was in manuscripts, the characters being written with great labor and care, usually on parchment, the captions and leading letters being often splendidly illuminated and adorned by gilded miniatures of heads, or figures, or landscapes, which enveloped or surrounded them. Judith had such a manuscript of some Saxon poems. She had learned the language while in France. One day Alfred was looking at the book, and admiring the character in which it was written, particularly the ornamented letters at the headings. Some of his brothers were in the room, they, of course, being much older than he. Judith said that either of them might have the book who would first learn to read it. The older brothers paid little attention to this proposal, but Alfred's interest was strongly awakened. He immediately sought and found some one to teach him, and before long he read the volume to Judith, and claimed it as his own. She rejoiced at his success, and fulfilled her promise with the greatest pleasure. Alfred soon acquired, by his Anglo-Saxon studies, a great taste for books, and had next a strong desire to study the Latin language. The scholars of the various nations of Europe formed at that time, as, in fact, they do now, one community, linked together by many ties. They wrote and spoke the Latin language, that being the only language which could be understood by them all. In fact, the works which were most highly valued then by the educated men of all nations, were the poems and the histories, and other writings produced by the classic authors of the Roman commonwealth. There were also many works on theology, on ecclesiastical polity, and on law, of great authority and in high repute, all written in the Latin tongue. Copies of these works were made by the monks, in their retreats in abbeys and monasteries, and learned men spent their lives in perusing them. To explore this field was not properly a duty incumbent upon a young prince destined to take a seat upon a throne, but Alfred felt a great desire to undertake the work. He did not do it, however, for the reason, as he afterward stated, that there was no one at court at the time who was qualified to teach him. Alfred, though he had thus the thoughtful and reflective habits of a student, was also active, and graceful, and strong in his bodily development. He excelled in all the athletic recreations of the time, and was especially famous for his skill, and courage, and power as a hunter. He gave every indication, in a word, at this early age, of possessing that uncommon combination of mental and personal qualities which fits those who possess it to secure and maintain a great ascendency among mankind. The unnatural union which had been formed on the death of Ethelwolf between his youthful widow and her aged husband's son did not long continue. The people of England were very much shocked at such a marriage, and a great prelate, the Bishop of Winchester, remonstrated against it with such sternness and authority, that Ethelbald not only soon put his wife away, but submitted to a severe penance which the bishop imposed upon him in retribution for his sin. Judith, thus forsaken, soon afterward sold the lands and estates which her two husbands had severally granted her, and, taking a final leave of Alfred, whom she tenderly loved, she returned to her native land. Not long after this, she was married a third time, to a continental prince, whose dominions lay between the Baltic and the Rhine, and from this period she disappears entirely from the stage of Alfred's history. CHAPTER V. STATE OF ENGLAND. Having thus brought down the narrative of Alfred's early life as far and as fully as the records that remain enable us to do so, we resume the general history of the national affairs by returning to the subject of the depredations and conquests of the Danes, and the circumstances connected with Alfred's accession to the throne. To give the reader some definite and clear ideas of the nature of this warfare, it will be well to describe in detail some few of the incidents and scenes which ancient historians have recorded. The following was one case which occurred: The Danes, it must be premised, were particularly hostile to the monasteries and religious establishments of the Anglo-Saxons. In the first place, they were themselves pagans, and they hated Christianity. In the second place, they knew that these places of sacred seclusion were often the depositories selected for the custody or concealment of treasure; and, besides the treasures which kings and potentates often placed in them for safety, these establishments possessed utensils of gold and silver for the service of the chapels, and a great variety of valuable gifts, such as pious saints or penitent sinners were continually bequeathing to them. The Danes were, consequently, never better pleased than when sacking an abbey or a monastery. In such exploits they gratified their terrible animal propensities, both of hatred and love, by the cruelties which they perpetrated personally upon the monks and the nuns, and at the same time enriched their coffers with the most valuable spoils. A dreadful tale is told of one company of nuns, who, in the consternation and terror which they endured at the approach of a band of Danes, mutilated their faces in a manner too horrid to be described, as the only means left to them for protection against the brutality of their foes. They followed, in adopting this measure, the advice and the example of the lady superior. It was effectual. There was a certain abbey, called Crowland, which was in those days one of the most celebrated in the island. It was situated near the southern border of Lincolnshire, which lies on the eastern side of England. There is a great shallow bay, called The Wash, on this eastern shore, and it is surrounded by a broad tract of low and marshy land, which is drained by long canals, and traversed by roads built upon embankments. Dikes skirt the margins of the streams, and wind-mills are engaged in perpetual toil to raise the water from the fields into the channels by which it is conveyed away. Crowland is at the confluence of two rivers, which flow sluggishly through this flat but beautiful and verdant region. The remains of the old abbey still stand, built on piles driven into the marshy ground, and they form at the present time a very interesting mass of ruins. The year before Alfred acceded to the throne, the abbey was in all its glory; and on one occasion it furnished _two hundred_ men, who went out under the command of one of the monks, named Friar Joly, to join the English armies and fight the Danes. The English army was too small notwithstanding this desperate effort to strengthen it. They stood, however, all day in a compact band, protecting themselves with their shields from the arrows of the foot soldiers of the enemy, and with their pikes from the onset of the cavalry. At night the Danes retired, as if giving up the contest; but as soon as the Saxons, now released from their positions of confinement and restraint, had separated a little, and began to feel somewhat more secure, their implacable foes returned again and attacked them in separate masses, and with more fury than before. The Saxons endeavored in vain either to defend themselves or escape. As fast as their comrades were killed, the survivors stood upon the heaps of the slain, to gain what little advantage they could from so slight an elevation. Nearly all at length were killed. A few escaped into a neighboring wood, where they lay concealed during the day following, and then, when the darkness of the succeeding night came to enable them to conceal their journey, they made their way to the abbey, to make known to the anxious inmates of it the destruction of the army, and to warn them of the imminence of the impending danger to which they were now exposed. A dreadful scene of consternation and terror ensued. The affrighted messengers told their tale, breathless and wayworn, at the door of the chapel, where the monks were engaged at their devotions. The aisles were filled with exclamations of alarm and despairing lamentations. The abbot, whose name was Theodore, immediately began to take measures suited to the emergency. He resolved to retain at the monastery only some aged monks and a few children, whose utter defenselessness, he thought, would disarm the ferocity and vengeance of the Danes. The rest, only about thirty, however, in number--nearly all the brethren having gone out under the Friar Joly into the great battle--were put on board a boat to be sent down the river. It seems at first view a strange idea to send away the vigorous and strong, and keep the infirm and helpless at the scene of danger; but the monks knew very well that all resistance was vain, and that, consequently, their greatest safety would lie in the absence of all appearance of the possibility of resistance. The treasures were sent away, too, with all the men. They hastily collected all the valuables together, the relics, the jewels, and all of the gold and silver plate which could be easily removed, and placed them in a boat--packing them as securely as their haste and trepidation allowed. The boats glided down the river till they came to a lonely spot, where an anchorite or sort of hermit lived in solitude. The men and the treasures were to be intrusted to his charge. He concealed the men in the thickets and other hiding-places in the woods, and buried the treasures. In the mean time, as soon as the boats and the party of monks which accompanied them had left the abbey, the Abbot Theodore and the old monks that remained with him urged on the work of concealing that part of the treasures which had not been taken away. All of the plate which could not be easily transported, and a certain very rich and costly table employed for the service of the altar, and many sacred and expensive garments used by the higher priests in their ceremonies, had been left behind, as they could not be easily removed. These the abbot and the monks concealed in the most secure places that they could find, and then, clothing themselves in their priestly robes, they assembled in the chapel, and resumed their exercises of devotion. To be found in so sacred a place and engaged in so holy an avocation would have been a great protection from any Christian soldiery; but the monks entirely misconceived the nature of the impulses by which human nature is governed, in supposing that it would have any restraining influence upon the pagan Danes. The first thing the ferocious marauders did, on breaking into the sacred precincts of the chapel, was to cut down the venerable abbot at the altar, in his sacerdotal robes, and then to push forward the work of slaying every other inmate of the abbey, feeble and helpless as they were. Only one was saved. This one was a boy, about ten years old. His name was Turgar. He was a handsome boy, and one of the Danish chieftains was struck with his countenance and air, in the midst of the slaughter, and took pity on him. The chieftain's name was Count Sidroc. Sidroc drew Turgar out of the immediate scene of danger, and gave him a Danish garment, directing him, at the same time, to throw aside his own, and then to follow him wherever he went, and keep close to his side, as if he were a Dane. The boy, relieved from his terrors by this hope of protection, obeyed implicitly. He followed Sidroc every where, and his life was saved. The Danes, after killing all the others, ransacked and plundered the monastery, broke open the tombs in their search for concealed treasures, and, after taking all that they could discover, they set the edifices on fire wherever they could find wood-work that would burn, and went away, leaving the bodies slowly burning in the grand and terrible funeral pile. From Crowland the marauders proceeded, taking Turgar with them, to another large and wealthy abbey in the neighborhood, which they plundered and destroyed, as they had the abbey at Crowland. Sidroc made Turgar his own attendant, keeping him always near him. When the expedition had completed their second conquest, they packed the valuables which they had obtained from both abbeys in wagons, and moved toward the south. It happened that some of these wagons were under Count Sidroc's charge, and were in the rear of the line of march. In passing a ford, the wheels of one of these rear wagons sank in the muddy bottom, and the horses, in attempting to draw the wagon out, became entangled and restive. While Sidroc's whole attention was engrossed by this difficulty, Turgar contrived to steal away unobserved. He hid himself in a neighboring wood, and, with a degree of sagacity and discretion remarkable in a boy of his years, he contrived to find his way back to the smoking ruins of his home at the Abbey of Crowland. The monks who had gone away to seek concealment at the cell of the anchorite had returned, and were at work among the smoking ruins, saving what they could from the fire, and gathering together the blackened remains of their brethren for interment. They chose one of the monks that had escaped to succeed the abbot who had been murdered, repaired, so far as they could, their ruined edifices, and mournfully resumed their functions as a religious community. Many of the tales which the ancient chroniclers tell of those times are romantic and incredible; they may have arisen, perhaps, in the first instance, in exaggerations of incidents and events which really occurred, and were then handed down from generation to generation by oral tradition, till they found historians to record them. The story of the martyrdom of King Edmund is of this character. Edmund was a sort of king over one of the nations of Anglo-Saxons called East Angles, who, as their name imports, occupied a part of the eastern portion of the island. Their particular hostility to Edmund was awakened, according to the story, in the following manner: There was a certain bold and adventurous Dane named Lothbroc, who one day took his falcon on his arm and went out alone in a boat on the Baltic Sea, or in the straits connecting it with the German Ocean, intending to go to a certain island and hunt. The falcon is a species of hawk which they were accustomed to train in those days, to attack and bring down birds from the air, and falconry was, as might have been expected, a very picturesque and exciting species of hunting. The game which Lothbroc was going to seek consisted of the wild fowl which frequents sometimes, in vast numbers, the cliffs and shores of the islands in those seas. Before he reached his hunting ground, however, he was overtaken by a storm, and his boat was driven by it out to sea. Accustomed to all sorts of adventures and dangers by sea and by land, and skilled in every operation required in all possible emergencies, Lothbroc contrived to keep his boat before the wind, and to bail out the water as fast as it came in, until at length, after being driven entirely across the German Ocean, he was thrown upon the English shore, where, with his hawk still upon his arm, he safely landed. [Illustration: LOTHBROC AND HIS FALCON.] He knew that he was in the country of the most deadly foes of his nation and race, and accordingly sought to conceal rather than to make known his arrival. He was, however, found, after a few days, wandering up and down in a solitary wood, and was conducted, together with his hawk, to King Edmund. Edmund was so much pleased with his air and bearing, and so astonished at the remarkable manner in which he had been brought to the English shore, that he gave him his life; and soon discovering his great knowledge and skill as a huntsman, he received him into his own service, and treated him with great distinction and honor. In addition to his hawk, Lothbroc had a greyhound, so that he could hunt with the king in the fields as well as through the air. The greyhound was very strongly attached to his master. The king's chief huntsman at this time was Beorn, and Beorn soon became very envious and jealous of Lothbroc, on account of his superior power and skill, and of the honorable distinction which they procured for him. One day, when they two were hunting alone in the woods with their dogs, Beorn killed his rival, and hid his body in a thicket. Beorn went home, his own dogs following him, while the greyhound remained to watch mournfully over the body of his master. They asked Beorn what was become of Lothbroc, and he replied that he had gone off into the wood the day before, and he did not know what had become of him. In the mean time, the greyhound remained faithfully watching at the side of the body of his master until hunger compelled him to leave his post in search of food. He went home, and, as soon as his wants were supplied, he returned immediately to the wood again. This he did several days; and at length his singular conduct attracting attention, he was followed by some of the king's household, and the body of his murdered master was found. The guilt of the murder was with little difficulty brought home to Beorn; and, as an appropriate punishment for his cruelty to an unfortunate and homeless stranger, the king condemned him to be put on board the same boat in which the ill-fated Lothbroc had made his perilous voyage, and pushed out to sea. The winds and storms--entering, it seems, into the plan, and influenced by the same principles of poetical justice as had governed the king--drove the boat, with its terrified mariner, back again across to the mouth of the Baltic, as they had brought Lothbroc to England. The boat was thrown upon the beach, on Lothbroc's family domain. Now Lothbroc had been, in his own country, a man of high rank and influence. He was of royal descent, and had many friends. He had two sons, men of enterprise and energy; and it so happened that the landing of Beorn took place so near to them, that the tidings soon came to their ears that their father's boat, in the hands of a Saxon stranger, had arrived on the coast. They immediately sought out the stranger, and demanded what had become of their father. Beorn, in order to hide his own guilt, fabricated a tale of Lothbroc's having been killed by Edmund, the king of the East Angles. The sons of the murdered Lothbroc were incensed at this news. They aroused their countrymen by calling upon them every where to aid them in revenging their father's death. A large naval force was accordingly collected, and a formidable descent made upon the English coast. Now Edmund, according to the story, was a humane and gentle-minded man, much more interested in deeds of benevolence and of piety than in warlike undertakings and exploits, and he was very far from being well prepared to meet this formidable foe. In fact, he sought refuge in a retired residence called Heglesdune. The Danes, having taken some Saxons captive in a city which they had sacked and destroyed, compelled them to make known the place of the king's retreat. Hinquar, the captain of the Danes, sent him a summons to come and surrender both himself and all the treasures of his kingdom. Edmund refused. Hinquar then laid siege to the palace, and surrounded it; and, finally, his soldiers, breaking in, put Edmund's attendants to death, and brought Edmund himself, bound, into Hinquar's presence. Hinquar decided that the unfortunate captive should die. He was, accordingly, first taken to a tree and scourged. Then he was shot at with arrows, until, as the account states, his body was so full of the arrows that remained in the flesh that there seemed to be no room for more. During all this time Edmund continued to call upon the name of Christ, as if finding spiritual refuge and strength in the Redeemer in this his hour of extremity; and although these ejaculations afforded, doubtless, great support and comfort to him, they only served to irritate to a perfect phrensy of exasperation his implacable pagan foes. They continued to shoot arrows into him until he was dead, and then they cut off his head and went away, carrying the dissevered head with them. Their object was to prevent his friends from having the satisfaction of interring it with the body. They carried it to what they supposed a sufficient distance, and then threw it off into a wood by the way-side, where they supposed it could not easily be found. As soon, however, as the Danes had left the place, the affrighted friends and followers of Edmund came out, by degrees, from their retreats and hiding places. They readily found the dead body of their sovereign, as it lay, of course, where the cruel deed of his murder had been performed. They sought with mournful and anxious steps, here and there, all around, for the head, until at length, when they came into the wood where it was lying, they heard, as the historian who records these events gravely testifies, a voice issuing from it, calling them, and directing their steps by the sound. They followed the voice, and, having recovered the head by means of this miraculous guidance, they buried it with the body.[1] It seems surprising to us that reasonable men should so readily believe such tales as these; but there are, in all ages of the world, certain habits of belief, in conformity to which the whole community go together. We all believe whatever is in harmony with, or analogous to, the general type of faith prevailing in our own generation. Nobody could be persuaded now that a dead head could speak, or a wolf change his nature to protect it; but thousands will credit a fortune-teller, or believe that a mesmerized patient can have a mental perception of scenes and occurrences a thousand miles away. There was a great deal of superstition in the days when Alfred was called to the throne, and there was also, with it, a great deal of genuine honest piety. The piety and the superstition, too, were inextricably intermingled and combined together. They were all Catholics then, yielding an implicit obedience to the Church of Rome, making regular contributions in money to sustain the papal authority, and looking to Rome as the great and central point of Christian influence and power, and the object of supreme veneration. We have already seen that the Saxons had established a seminary at Rome, which King Ethelwolf, Alfred's father, rebuilt and re-endowed. One of the former Anglo-Saxon kings, too, had given a grant of one penny from every house in the kingdom to the successors of St. Peter at Rome, which tax, though nominally small, produced a very considerable sum in the aggregate, exceeding for many years the royal revenues of the kings of England. It continued to be paid down to the time of Henry VIII., when the reformation swept away that, and all the other national obligations of England to the Catholic Church together. In the age of Alfred, however, there were not only these public acts of acknowledgment recognizing the papal supremacy, but there was a strong tide of personal and private feeling of veneration and attachment to the mother Church, of which it is hard for us, in the present divided state of Christendom, to conceive. The religious thoughts and affections of every pious heart throughout the realm centered in Rome. Rome, too, was the scene of many miracles, by which the imaginations of the superstitious and of the truly devout were excited, which impressed them with an idea of power in which they felt a sort of confiding sense of protection. This power was continually interposing, now in one way and now in another, to protect virtue, to punish crime, and to testify to the impious and to the devout, to each in an appropriate way, that their respective deeds were the objects, according to their character, of the displeasure or of the approbation of Heaven. On one occasion, the following incident is said to have occurred. The narration of it will illustrate the ideas of the time. A child of about seven years old, named Kenelm, succeeded to the throne in the Anglo-Saxon line. Being too young to act for himself, he was put under the charge of a sister, who was to act as regent until the boy became of age. The sister, ambitious of making the power thus delegated to her entirely her own, decided on destroying her brother. She commissioned a hired murderer to perpetrate the deed. The murderer took the child into a wood, killed him, and hid his body in a thicket, in a certain cow-pasture at a place called Clent. The sister then assumed the scepter in her own name, and suppressed all inquiries in respect to the fate of her brother; and his murder might have remained forever undiscovered, had it not been miraculously revealed at Rome. A white dove flew into a church there one day, and let fall upon the altar of St. Peter a paper, on which was written, in Anglo-Saxon characters, In Clent Cow-batch, Kenelme king bearne, lieth under Thorne, head bereaved. For a time nobody could read the writing. At length an Anglo-Saxon saw it, and translated it into Latin, so that the pope and all others could understand it. The pope then sent a letter to the authorities in England, who made search and found the body. But we must end these digressions, which we have indulged thus far in order to give the reader some distinct conception of the ideas and habits of the times, and proceed, in the next chapter, to relate the events immediately connected with Alfred's accession to the throne. [Footnote 1: A great many other tales are told of the miraculous phenomena exhibited by the body of St. Edmund, which well illustrate the superstitious credulity of those times. One writer says seriously that, when the head was found, a wolf had it, holding it carefully in his paws, with all the gentleness and care that the most faithful dog would manifest in guarding a trust committed to him by his master. This wolf followed the funeral procession to the tomb where the body was deposited, and then disappeared. The head joined itself to the body again where it had been severed, leaving only a purple line to mark the place of separation.] CHAPTER VI. ALFRED'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE At the battle in which Alfred's brother, Ethelred, whom Alfred succeeded on the throne, was killed, as is briefly mentioned at the close of chapter fourth, Alfred himself, then a brave and energetic young man, fought by his side. The party of Danes whom they were contending against in this fatal fight was the same one that came out in the expedition organized by the sons of Lothbroc, and whose exploits in destroying monasteries and convents were described in the last chapter. Soon after the events there narrated, this formidable body of marauders moved westward, toward that part of the kingdom where the dominions more particularly pertaining to the family of Alfred lay. There was in those days a certain stronghold or castle on the River Thames, about forty miles west from London, which was not far from the confines of Ethelred's dominions. The large and populous town of Reading now stands upon the spot. It is at the confluence of the River Thames with the Kennet, a small branch of the Thames, which here flows into it from the south. The spot, having the waters of the rivers for a defense upon two sides of it, was easily fortified. A castle had been built there, and, as usual in such cases, a town had sprung up about the walls. The Danes advanced to this stronghold and took possession of it, and they made it for some time their head-quarters. It was at once the center from which they carried on their enterprises in all directions about the island, and the refuge to which they could always retreat when defeated and pursued. In the possession of such a fastness, they, of course, became more formidable than ever. King Ethelred determined to dislodge them. He raised, accordingly, as large a force as his kingdom would furnish, and, taking his brother Alfred as his second in command, he advanced toward Reading in a very resolute and determined manner. He first encountered a large body of the Danes who were out on a marauding excursion. This party consisted only of a small detachment, the main body of the army of the Danes having been left at Reading to strengthen and complete the fortifications. They were digging a trench from river to river, so as completely to insulate the castle, and make it entirely inaccessible on either side except by boats or a bridge. With the earth thrown out of the trench they were making an embankment on the inner side, so that an enemy, after crossing the ditch, would have a steep ascent to climb, defended too, as of course it would be in such an emergency, by long lines of desperate men upon the top, hurling at the assailants showers of javelins and arrows. While, therefore, a considerable portion of the Danes were at work within and around their castle, to make it as nearly as possible impregnable as a place of defense, the detachment above referred to had gone forth for plunder, under the command of some of the bolder and more adventurous spirits in the horde. This party Ethelred overtook. A furious battle was fought. The Danes were defeated, and driven off the ground. They fled toward Reading. Ethelred and Alfred pursued them. The various parties of Danes that were outside of the fortifications, employed in completing the outworks, or encamped in the neighborhood, were surprised and slaughtered; or, at least, vast numbers of them were killed, and the rest retreated within the works--all maddened at their defeat, and burning with desire for revenge. The Saxons were not strong enough to dispossess them of their fastness. On the contrary, in a few days, the Danes, having matured their plans, made a desperate sally against the Saxons, and, after a very determined and obstinate conflict, they gained the victory, and drove the Saxons off the ground. Some of the leading Saxon chieftains were killed, and the whole country was thrown into great alarm at the danger which was impending, that the Danes would soon gain the complete and undisputed possession of the whole land. The Saxons, however, were not yet prepared to give up the struggle. They rallied their forces, gathered new recruits, reorganized their ranks, and made preparations for another struggle. The Danes, too, feeling fresh strength and energy in consequence of their successes, formed themselves in battle array, and, leaving their strong-hold, they marched out into the open country in pursuit of their foe. The two armies gradually approached each other and prepared for battle. Every thing portended a terrible conflict, which was to be, in fact, the great final struggle. The place where the armies met was called in those times Æscesdune, which means Ashdown. It was, in fact, a hill-side covered with ash trees. The name has become shortened and softened in the course of the ten centuries which have intervened since this celebrated battle, into Aston; if, indeed, as is generally supposed, the Aston of the present day is the locality of the ancient battle. The armies came into the vicinity of each other toward the close of the day. They were both eager for the contest, or, at least, they pretended to be so, but they waited until the morning. The Danes divided their forces into two bodies. Two kings commanded one division, and certain chieftains, called _earls_, directed the other. King Ethelred undertook to meet this order of battle by a corresponding distribution of his own troops, and he gave, accordingly, to Alfred the command of one division, while he himself was to lead the other. All things being thus arranged, the hum and bustle of the two great encampments subsided at last, at a late hour, as the men sought repose under their rude tents, in preparation for the fatigues and exposures of the coming day. Some slept; others watched restlessly, and talked together, sleepless under the influence of that strange excitement, half exhilaration and half fear, which prevails in a camp on the eve of a battle. The camp fires burned brightly all the night, and the sentinels kept vigilant watch, expecting every moment some sudden alarm. The night passed quietly away. Ethelred and Alfred both arose early. Alfred went out to arouse and muster the men in his division of the encampment, and to prepare for battle. Ethelred, on the other hand, sent for his priest, and, assembling the officers in immediate attendance upon him, commenced divine service in his tent--the service of the mass, according to the forms and usages which, even in that early day, were prescribed by the Catholic Church. Alfred was thus bent on immediate and energetic action, while Ethelred thought that the hour for putting forth the exertion of human strength did not come until time had been allowed for completing, in the most deliberate and solemn manner, the work of imploring the protection of Heaven. Ethelred seems by his conduct on this occasion to have inherited from his father, even more than Alfred, the spirit of religious devotion at least so far as the strict and faithful observance of religious forms was concerned. There was, it is true, a particular reason in this case why the forms of divine service should be faithfully observed, and that is, that the war was considered in a great measure a religious war. The Danes were pagans. The Saxons were Christians. In making their attacks upon the dominions of Ethelred, the ruthless invaders were animated by a special hatred of the name of Christ, and they evinced a special hostility toward every edifice, or institution, or observance which bore the Christian name. The Saxons, therefore, in resisting them, felt that they were not only fighting for their own possessions and for their own lives, but that they were defending the kingdom of God, and that he, looking down from his throne in the heavens, regarded them as the champions of his cause; and, consequently, that he would either protect them in the struggle, or, if they fell, that he would receive them to mansions of special glory and happiness in heaven, as martyrs who had shed their blood in his service and for his glory. Taking this view of the subject, Ethelred, instead of going out to battle at the early dawn, collected his officers into his tent, and formed them into a religious congregation. Alfred, on the other hand, full of impetuosity and ardor, was arousing his men, animating them by his words of encouragement and by the influence of his example, and making, as energetically as possible, all the preparations necessary for the approaching conflict. In fact, Alfred, though his brother was king, and he himself only a lieutenant general under him, had been accustomed to take the lead in all the military operations of the army, on account of the superior energy, resolution, and tact which he evinced, even in this early period of his life. His brothers, though they retained the scepter, as it fell successively into their hands, relied mainly on his wisdom and courage in all their efforts to defend it, and Ethelred may have been somewhat more at his ease, in listening to the priest's prayers in his tent, from knowing that the arrangements for marshaling and directing a large part of the force were in such good hands. The two encampments of Alfred and Ethelred seem to have been at some little distance from each other. Alfred was impatient at Ethelred's delay. He asked the reason for it. They told him that Ethelred was attending mass, and that he had said he should on no account leave his tent until the service was concluded. Alfred, in the mean time, took possession of a gentle elevation of land, which now would give him an advantage in the conflict. A single thorn-tree, growing there alone, marked the spot. The Danes advanced to attack him, expecting that, as he was not sustained by Ethelred's division of the army, he would be easily overpowered and driven from his post. Alfred himself felt an extreme and feverish anxiety at Ethelred's delay. He fought, however, with the greatest determination and bravery. The thorn-tree continued to be the center of the conflict for a long time, and, as the morning advanced, it became more and more doubtful how it would end. At last, Ethelred, having finished his devotional services, came forth from his camp at the head of his division, and advanced vigorously to his faltering brother's aid. This soon decided the contest. The Danes were overpowered and put to flight. They fled at first in all directions, wherever each separate band saw the readiest prospect of escape from the immediate vengeance of their pursuers. They soon, however, all began with one accord to seek the roads which would conduct them to their stronghold at Reading. They were madly pursued, and massacred as they fled, by Alfred's and Ethelred's army. Vast numbers fell. The remnant secured their retreat, shut themselves up within their walls, and began to devote their eager and earnest attention to the work of repairing and making good their defenses. This victory changed for the time being the whole face of affairs, and led, in various ways, to very important consequences, the most important of which was, as we shall presently see, that it was the means indirectly of bringing Alfred soon to the throne. As to the cause of the victory, or, rather, the manner in which it was accomplished, the writers of the times give very different accounts, according as their respective characters incline them to commend, in man, a feeling of quiet trust and confidence in God when placed in circumstances of difficulty or danger, or a vigorous and resolute exertion of his own powers. Alfred looked for deliverance to the determined assaults and heavy blows which he could bring to bear upon his pagan enemies with weapons of steel around the thorn-tree in the field. Ethelred trusted to his hope of obtaining, by his prayers in his tent, the effectual protection of Heaven; and they who have written the story differ, as they who read it will on the question to whose instrumentality the victory is to be ascribed. One says that Alfred gained it by his sword. Another, that Alfred exerted his strength and his valor in vain, and was saved from defeat and destruction only by the intervention of Ethelred, bringing with him the blessing of Heaven. In fact, the various narratives of these ancient events, which are found at the present day in the old chronicles that record them, differ always very essentially, not only in respect to matters of opinion, and to the point of view in which they are to be regarded, but also in respect to questions of fact. Even the place where this battle was fought, notwithstanding what we have said about the derivation of Aston from Æscesdune, is not absolutely certain. There is in the same vicinity another town, called Ashbury, which claims the honor. One reason for supposing that this last is the true locality is that there are the ruins of an ancient monument here, which, tradition says, was a monument built to commemorate the death of a Danish chieftain slain here by Alfred. There is also in the neighborhood another very singular monument, called The White Horse, which also has the reputation of having been fashioned to commemorate Alfred's victories. The White Horse is a rude representation of a horse, formed by cutting away the turf from the steep slope of a hill, so as to expose a portion of the white surface of the chalky rock below of such a form that the figure is called a horse, though they who see it seem to think it might as well have been called a dog. The name, however, of _The White Horse_ has come down with it from ancient times, and the hill on which it is cut is known as The White Horse Hill. Some ingenious antiquarians think they find evidence that this gigantic profile was made to commemorate the victory obtained by Alfred and Ethelred over the Danes at the ancient Æscesdune. However this may be, and whatever view we may take of the comparative influence of Alfred's energetic action and Ethelred's religious faith in the defeat of the Danes at this great battle, it is certain that the results of it were very momentous to all concerned. Ethelred received a wound, either in this battle or in some of the smaller contests and collisions which followed it, under the effects of which he pined and lingered for some months, and then died. Alfred, by his decision and courage on the day of the battle, and by the ardor and resolution with which he pressed all the subsequent operations during the period of Ethelred's decline, made himself still more conspicuous in the eyes of his countrymen than he had ever been before. In looking forward to Ethelred's approaching death, the people, accordingly, began to turn their eyes to Alfred as his successor. There were children of some of his older brothers living at that time, and they, according to all received principles of hereditary right, would naturally succeed to the throne; but the nation seems to have thought that the crisis was too serious, and the dangers which threatened their country were too imminent, to justify putting any child upon the throne. The accession of one of those children would have been the signal for a terrible and protracted struggle among powerful relatives and friends for the regency during the minority of the youthful sovereign, and this, while the Danes remained in their strong-hold at Reading, in daily expectation of new re-enforcements from beyond the sea, would have plunged the country in hopeless ruin. They turned their eyes toward Alfred, therefore, as the sovereign to whom they were to bow so soon as Ethelred should cease to breathe. In the mean time, the Danes, far from being subdued by the adverse turn of fortune which had befallen them, strengthened themselves in their fortress, made desperate sallies from their intrenchments, attacked their foes on every possible occasion, and kept the country in continual alarm. They at length so far recruited their strength, and intimidated and discouraged their foes, whose king and nominal leader, Ethelred, was now less able than ever to resist them, as to take the field again. They fought more pitched battles; and, though the Saxon chroniclers who narrate these events are very reluctant to admit that the Saxons were really vanquished in these struggles, they allow that the Danes kept the ground which they successively took post upon, and the discouraged and disheartened inhabitants of the country were forced to retire. In the mean time, too, new parties of Danes were continually arriving on the coast, and spreading themselves in marauding and plundering excursions over the country. The Danes at Reading were re-enforced by these bands, which made the conflict between them and Ethelred's forces more unequal still. Alfred did his utmost to resist the tide of ill fortune, with the limited and doubtful authority which he held; but all was in vain. Ethelred, worn down, probably, with the anxiety and depression which the situation of his kingdom brought upon him, lingered for a time, and then died, and Alfred was by general consent called to the throne. This was in the year 871. It was a matter of moment to find a safe and secure place of deposit for the body of Ethelred, who, as a Christian slain in contending with pagans, was to be considered a martyr. His memory was honored as that of one who had sacrificed his life in defense of the Christian faith. They knew very well that even his lifeless remains would not be safe from the vengeance of his foes unless they were placed effectually beyond the reach of these desperate marauders. There was, far to the south, in Dorsetshire, on the southern coast of England, a monastery, at Wimborne, a very sacred spot, worthy to be selected as a place of royal sepulture. The spot has continued sacred to the present day; and it has now upon the site, as is supposed, of the ancient monastery, a grand cathedral church or minster, full of monuments of former days, and impressing all beholders with its solemn architectural grandeur. Here they conveyed the body of Ethelred and interred it. It was a place of sacred seclusion, where there reigned a solemn stillness and awe, which no _Christian_ hostility would ever have dared to disturb. The sacrilegious paganism of the Danes, however, would have respected it but little, if they had ever found access to it; but they did not. The body of Ethelred remained undisturbed; and, many centuries afterward, some travelers who visited the spot recorded the fact that there was a monument there with this inscription: "IN HOC LOCO QUIESC'T CORPUS ETHELREDI REGIS WEST SAXONUM, MARTYRIS, QUI ANNO DOMINI DCCCLXXI., XXIII. APRILIS, PER MANUS DANORUM PAGANORUM, OCCUBUIT."[1] Such is the commonly received opinion of the death of Ethelred. And yet some of the critical historians of modern times, who find cause to doubt or disbelieve a very large portion of what is stated in ancient records, attempt to prove that Ethelred was not killed by the Danes at all, but that he died of the plague, which terrible disease was at that time prevailing in that part of England. At all events, he died, and Alfred, his brother, was called to reign in his stead. [Footnote 1: "Here rests the body of Ethelred, king of West Saxony, the Martyr, who died by the hands of the pagan Danes, in the year of our Lord 871."] CHAPTER VII. REVERSES. The historians say that Alfred was very unwilling to assume the crown when the death of Ethelred presented it to him. If it had been an object of ambition or desire, there would probably have been a rival claimant, whose right would perhaps have proved superior to his own, since it appears that one or more of the brothers who reigned before him left a son, whose claim to the inheritance, if the inheritance had been worth claiming, would have been stronger than that of their uncle. The _son_ of the oldest son takes precedence always of the _brother_, for hereditary rights, like water, never move laterally so long as they can continue to descend. The nobles, however, and chieftains, and all the leading powers of the kingdom of Wessex, which was the particular kingdom which descended from Alfred's ancestors, united to urge Alfred to take the throne. His father had, indeed, designated him as the successor of his brothers by his will, though how far a monarch may properly control by his will the disposal of his realm, is a matter of great uncertainty. Alfred yielded at length to these solicitations, and determined on assuming the sovereign power. He first went to Wimborne to attend to the funeral solemnities which were to be observed at his royal brother's burial. He then went to Winchester, which, as well as Wimborne, is in the south of England, to be crowned and anointed king. Winchester was, even in those early days, a great ecclesiastical center. It was for some time the capital of the West Saxon realm. It was a very sacred place, and the crown was there placed upon Alfred's head, with the most imposing and solemn ceremonies. It is a curious and remarkable fact, that the spots which were consecrated in those early days by the religious establishments of the times, have preserved in almost every case their sacredness to the present day. Winchester is now famed all over England for its great Cathedral church, and the vast religious establishment which has its seat there--the annual revenues and expenditures of which far exceed those of many of the states of this Union. The income of the bishop alone was for many years double that of the salary of the President of the United States. The Bishop of Winchester is widely celebrated, therefore, all over England, for his wealth, his ecclesiastical power, the architectural grandeur of the Cathedral church, and the wealth and importance of the college of ecclesiastics over which he presides. [Illustration: CORONATION CHAIR.] It was in Winchester that Alfred was crowned. As soon as the ceremony was performed, he took the field, collected his forces, and went to meet the Danes again. He found the country in a most deplorable condition. The Danes had extended and strengthened their positions. They had got possession of many of the towns, and, not content with plundering castles and abbeys, they had seized lands, and were beginning to settle upon them, as if they intended to make Alfred's new kingdom their permanent abode. The forces of the Saxons, on the other hand, were scattered and discouraged. There seemed no hope left to them of making head against their pestiferous invaders. If they were defeated, their cruel conquerors showed no moderation and no mercy in their victory; and if they conquered, it was only to suppress for a moment one horde, with a certainty of being attacked immediately by another, more recently arrived, and more determined and relentless than those before them. Alfred succeeded, however, by means of the influence of his personal character, and by the very active and efficient exertions that he made, in concentrating what forces remained, and in preparing for a renewal of the contest. The first great battle that was fought was at Wilton. This was within a month of his accession to the throne. The battle was very obstinately fought; at the first onset Alfred's troops carried all before them, and there was every prospect that he would win the day. In the end, however, the tide of victory turned in favor of the Danes, and Alfred and his troops were driven from the field. There was an immense loss on both sides. In fact, both armies were, for the time, pretty effectually disabled, and each seems to have shrunk from a renewal of the contest. Instead, therefore, of fighting again, the two commanders entered into negotiations. Hubba was the name of the Danish chieftain. In the end, he made a treaty with Alfred, by which he agreed to retire from Alfred's dominions, and leave him in peace, provided that Alfred would not interfere with him in his wars in any other part of England. Alfred's kingdom was Wessex. Besides Wessex, there was Essex, Mercia, and Northumberland. Hubba and his Danes, finding that Alfred was likely to prove too formidable an antagonist for them easily to subdue, thought it would be most prudent to give up one kingdom out of the four, on condition of not having Alfred to contend against in their depredations upon the other three. They accordingly made the treaty, and the Danes withdrew. They evacuated their posts and strong-holds in Wessex, and went down the Thames to London, which was in Mercia, and there commenced a new course of conquest and plunder, where they had no such powerful foe to oppose them. Buthred was the king of Mercia. He could not resist Hubba and his Danes alone, and he could not now have Alfred's assistance. Alfred was censured very much at the time, and has been condemned often since, for having thus made a separate peace for himself and his own immediate dominions, and abandoned his natural allies and friends, the people of the other Saxon kingdoms. To make a peace with savage and relentless pagans, on the express condition of leaving his fellow-Christian neighbors at their mercy, has been considered ungenerous, at least, if it was not unjust. On the other hand, those who vindicate his conduct maintain that it was his duty to secure the peace and welfare of his own realm, leaving other sovereigns to take care of theirs; and that he would have done very wrong to sacrifice the property and lives of his own immediate subjects to a mere point of honor, when it was utterly out of his power to protect them and his neighbors too. However this may be, Buthred, finding that he could not have Alfred's aid, and that he could not protect his kingdom by any force which he could himself bring into the field, tried negotiations too, and he succeeded in buying off the Danes with money. He paid them a large sum, on condition of their leaving his dominions finally and forever, and not coming to molest him any more. Such a measure as this is always a very desperate and hopeless one. Buying off robbers, or beggars, or false accusers, or oppressors of any kind, is only to encourage them to come again, after a brief interval, under some frivolous pretext, with fresh demands or new oppressions, that they may be bought off again with higher pay. At least Buthred found it so in this case. Hubba went northward for a time, into the kingdom of Northumberland, and, after various conquests and plunderings there, he came back again into Mercia, on the plea that there was a scarcity of provisions in the northern kingdom, and he was _obliged_ to come back. Buthred bought him off again with a larger sum of money. Hubba scarcely left the kingdom this time, but spent the money with his army, in carousings and excesses, and then went to robbing and plundering as before. Buthred, at last, reduced to despair, and seeing no hope of escape from the terrible pest with which his kingdom was infested, abandoned the country and escaped to Rome. They received him as an exiled monarch, in the Saxon school, where he soon after died a prey to grief and despair. The Danes overturned what remained of Buthred's government. They destroyed a famous mausoleum, the ancient burial place of the Mercian kings. This devastation of the abodes of the dead was a sort of recreation--a savage amusement, to vary the more serious and dangerous excitements attending their contests with the living. They found an officer of Buthred's government named Ceolwulf, who, though a Saxon, was willing, through his love of place and power, to accept of the office of king in subordination to the Danes, and hold it at their disposal, paying an annual tribute to them. Ceolwulf was execrated by his countrymen, who considered him a traitor. He, in his turn, oppressed and tyrannized over them. In the mean time, a new leader, with a fresh horde of Danes, had landed in England. His name was Halfden. Halfden came with a considerable fleet of ships, and, after landing his men, and performing various exploits and encountering various adventures in other parts of England, he began to turn his thoughts toward Alfred's dominions. Alfred did not pay particular attention to Halfden's movements at first, as he supposed that his treaty with Hubba had bound the whole nation of the Danes not to encroach upon _his_ realm, whatever they might do in respect to the other Saxon kingdoms. Alfred had a famous castle at Wareham, on the southern coast of the island. It was situated on a bay which lies in what is now Dorsetshire. This castle was the strongest place in his dominions. It was garrisoned and guarded, but not with any special vigilance, as no one expected an attack upon it. Halfden brought his fleet to the southern shore of the island, and, organizing an expedition there, he put to sea, and before any one suspected his design, he entered the bay, surprised and attacked Wareham Castle, and took it. Alfred and the people of his realm were not only astonished and alarmed at the loss of the castle, but they were filled with indignation at the treachery of the Danes in violating their treaty by attacking it. Halfden said, however, that he was an independent chieftain, acting in his own name, and was not bound at all by any obligations entered into by Hubba! There followed after this a series of contests and truces, during which treacherous wars alternated with still more treacherous and illusive periods of peace, neither party, on the whole, gaining any decided victory. The Danes, at one time, after agreeing upon a cessation of hostilities, suddenly fell upon a large squadron of Alfred's horse, who, relying on the truce, were moving across the country too much off their guard. The Danes dismounted and drove off the men, and seized the horses, and thus provided themselves with cavalry, a species of force which it is obvious they could not easily bring, in any ships which they could then construct, across the German Ocean. Without waiting for Alfred to recover from the surprise and consternation which this unexpected treachery occasioned, the newly-mounted troop of Danes rode rapidly along the southern coast of England till they came to the town of Exeter. Its name was in those days Exancester. It was then, as it is now, a very important town. It has since acquired a mournful celebrity as the place of refuge, and the scene of suffering of Queen Henrietta Maria, the mother of Charles the Second.[1] The loss of this place was a new and heavy cloud over Alfred's prospects. It placed the whole southern coast of his realm in the hands of his enemies, and seemed to portend for the whole interior of the country a period of hopeless and irremediable calamity. It seems, too, from various unequivocal statements and allusions contained in the narratives of the times, that Alfred did not possess, during this period of his reign, the respect and affection of his subjects. He is accused, or, rather, not directly accused, but spoken of as generally known to be guilty of many faults which alienated the hearts of his countrymen from him, and prepared them to consider his calamities as the judgments of Heaven. He was young and ardent, full of youthful impetuosity and fire, and was elated at his elevation to the throne; and, during the period while the Danes left him in peace, under the treaties he had made with Hubba, he gave himself up to pleasure, and not always to innocent pleasure. They charged him, too, with being tyrannical and oppressive in his government, being so devoted to gratifying his own ambition and love of personal indulgence that he neglected his government, sacrificed the interests and the welfare of his subjects, and exercised his regal powers in a very despotic and arbitrary manner. It is very difficult to decide, at this late day how far this disposition to find fault with Alfred's early administration of his government arose from, or was aggravated by, the misfortunes and calamities which befell him. On the one hand, it would not be surprising if, young, and arduous, and impetuous as he was at this period of his life, he should have fallen into the errors and faults which youthful monarchs are very prone to commit on being suddenly raised to power. But then, on the other hand, men are prone, in all ages of the world, and most especially in such rude and uncultivated times as these were, to judge military and governmental action by the sole criterion of success. Thus, when they found that Alfred's measures, one after another, failed in protecting his country, that the impending calamities burst successively upon them, notwithstanding all Alfred's efforts to avert them, it was natural that they should look at and exaggerate his faults, and charge all their national misfortunes to the influence of them. There was a certain Saint Neot, a kinsman and religious counselor of Alfred, the history of whose life was afterward written by the Abbot of Crowland, the monastery whose destruction by the Danes was described in a former chapter. In this narrative it is said that Neot often rebuked Alfred in the severest terms for his sinful course of life, predicting the most fatal consequences if he did not reform, and using language which only a very culpable degree of remissness and irregularity could justify. "You glory," said he, one day, when addressing the king, "in your pride and power, and are determined and obdurate in your iniquity. But there is a terrible retribution in store for you. I entreat you to listen to my counsels, amend your life, and govern your people with moderation and justice, instead of tyranny and oppression, and thus avert if you can, before it is too late, the impending judgments of Heaven." Such language as this it is obvious that only a very serious dereliction of duty on Alfred's part could call for or justify; but, whatever he may have done to deserve it, his offenses were so fully expiated by his subsequent sufferings, and he atoned for them so nobly, too, by the wisdom, the prudence, the faithful and devoted patriotism of his later career, that mankind have been disposed to pass by the faults of his early years without attempting to scrutinize them too closely. The noblest human spirits are always, in some periods of their existence, or in some aspects of their characters, strangely weakened by infirmities and frailties, and deformed by sin. This is human nature. We like to imagine that we find exceptions, and to see specimens of moral perfection in our friends or in the historical characters whose general course of action we admire; but there are no exceptions. To err and to sin, at some times and in some ways, is the common, universal, and inevitable lot of humanity. At the time when Halfden and his followers seized Wareham Castle and Exeter, Alfred had been several years upon the throne, during which time these derelictions from duty took place, so far as they existed at all. But now, alarmed at the imminence of the impending danger, which threatened not only the welfare of his people, but his own kingdom and even his life--for one Saxon monarch had been driven from his dominions, as we have seen, and had died a miserable exile at Rome--Alfred aroused himself in earnest to the work of regaining his lost influence among his people, and recovering their alienated affections. He accordingly, as his first step, convened a great assembly of the leading chieftains and noblemen of the realm, and made addresses to them, in which he urged upon them the imminence of the danger which threatened their common country, and pressed them to unite vigorously and energetically with him to contend against their common foe. They must make great sacrifices, he said, both of their comfort and ease, as well as of their wealth, to resist successfully so imminent a danger. He summoned them to arms, and urged them to contribute the means necessary to pay the expense of a vigorous prosecution of the war. These harangues, and the ardor and determination which Alfred manifested himself at the time of making them, were successful. The nation aroused itself to new exertions, and for a time there was a prospect that the country would be saved. [Illustration: THE FIRST BRITISH FLEET.] Among the other measures to which Alfred resorted in this emergency was the attempt to encounter the Danes upon their own element by building and equipping a fleet of ships, with which to proceed to sea, in order to meet and attack upon the water certain new bodies of invaders, who were on the way to join the Danes already on the island--coming, as rumor said, along the southern shore. In attempting to build up a naval power, the greatest difficulty, always, is to provide seamen. It is much easier to build ships than to train sailors. To man his little fleet, Alfred had to enlist such half-savage foreigners as could be found in the ports, and even pirates, as was said, whom he induced to enter his service, promising them pay, and such plunder as they could take from the enemy. These attempts of Alfred to build and man a fleet are considered the first rude beginnings from which the present vast edifice of British naval power took its origin. When the fleet was ready to put to sea, the people thronged the shores, watching its movements with the utmost curiosity and interest, earnestly hoping that it might be successful in its contests with the more tried and experienced armaments with which it would have to contend. Alfred was, in fact, successful in the first enterprises which he undertook with his ships. He encountered a fleet of the Danish ships in the Channel, and defeated them. His fleet captured, moreover, one of the largest of the vessels of the enemy; and, with what would be thought in our day unpardonable cruelty, they threw the sailors and soldiers whom they found on board into the sea, and kept the vessel. After all, however, Alfred gained no conclusive and decisive victory over his foes. They were too numerous, too scattered, and too firmly seated in the various districts of the island, of some of which they had been in possession for many years. Time passed on, battles were fought, treaties of peace were made, oaths were taken, hostages were exchanged, and then, after a very brief interval of repose, hostilities would break out again, each party bitterly accusing the other of treachery. Then the poor hostages would be slain, first by one party, and afterward, in retaliation, by the other. In one of these temporary and illusive pacifications, Alfred attempted to bind the Danes by Christian oaths. Their customary mode of binding themselves, in cases where they wished to impose a solemn religious obligation, was to swear by a certain ornament which they wore upon their arms, which is called in the chronicles of those times a _bracelet_. What its form and fashion was we can not now precisely know; but it is plain that they attached some superstitious, and perhaps idolatrous associations of sacredness to it. To swear by this bracelet was to place themselves under the most solemn obligation that they could assume. Alfred, however, not satisfied with this pagan sanction, made them, in confirming one treaty, swear by the Christian relics, which were certain supposed memorials of our Saviour's crucifixion, or portions of the bodies of dead saints miraculously preserved, and to which the credulous Christians of that day attached an idea of sacredness and awe, scarcely less superstitious than that which their pagan enemies felt for the bracelets on their arms. Alfred could not have supposed that these treacherous covenanters, since they would readily violate the faith plighted in the name of what they revered, could be held by what they hated and despised. Perhaps he thought that, though they would be no more likely to keep the new oath than the old, still, that their violation of it, when it occurred, would be in itself a great crime--that his cause would be subsequently strengthened by their thus incurring the special and unmitigated displeasure of Heaven. Among the Danish chieftains with whom Alfred had thus continually to contend in this early part of his reign, there was one very famous hero, whose name was Rollo. He invaded England with a wild horde which attended him for a short time, but he soon retired and went to France, where he afterward greatly distinguished himself by his prowess and his exploits. The Saxon historians say that he retreated from England because Alfred gave him such a reception that he saw that it would be impossible for him to maintain his footing there. His account of it was, that, one day, when he was perplexed with doubt and uncertainty about his plans, he fell asleep and dreamed that he saw a swarm of bees flying southward. This was an omen, as he regarded it, indicating the course which he ought to pursue. He accordingly embarked his men on board his ships again, and crossed the Channel, and sought successfully in Normandy, a province of France the kingdom and the home which, either on account of Alfred or of the bees, he was not to enjoy in England. The cases, however, in which the Danish chieftains were either entirely conquered or finally expelled from the kingdom were very few. As years passed on, Alfred found his army diminishing, and the strength of his kingdom wasting away. His resources were exhausted, his friends had disappeared, his towns and castles were taken, and, at last, about eight years after his coronation at Winchester as monarch of the most powerful of the Saxon kingdoms, he found himself reduced to the very last extreme of destitution and distress. [Footnote 1: For an account of Henrietta's adventures and sufferings at Exeter, see the History of Charles II., chap. iii] CHAPTER VIII. THE SECLUSION. Notwithstanding the tide of disaster and calamity which seemed to be gradually overwhelming Alfred's kingdom, he was not reduced to absolute despair, but continued for a long time the almost hopeless struggle. There is a certain desperation to which men are often aroused in the last extremity, which surpasses courage, and is even sometimes a very effectual substitute for strength; and Alfred might, perhaps, have succeeded, after all, in saving his affairs from utter ruin, had not a new circumstance intervened, which seemed at once to extinguish all remaining hope and to seal his doom. This circumstance was the arrival of a new band of Danes, who were, it seems, more numerous, more ferocious, and more insatiable than any who had come before them. The other kingdoms of the Saxons had been already pretty effectually plundered. Alfred's kingdom of Wessex was now, therefore, the most inviting field, and, after various excursions of conquest and plunder in other parts of the island, they came like an inundation over Alfred's frontiers, and all hope of resisting them seems to have been immediately abandoned. The Saxon armies were broken up. Alfred had lost, it appears, all influence and control over both leaders and men. The chieftains and nobles fled. Some left the country altogether; others hid themselves in the best retreats and fastnesses that they could find. Alfred himself was obliged to follow the general example. A few attendants, either more faithful than the rest, or else more distrustful of their own resources, and inclined, accordingly, to seek their own personal safety by adhering closely to their sovereign, followed him. These, however, one after another, gradually forsook him, and, finally, the fallen and deserted monarch was left alone. In fact, it was a relief to him at last to be left alone; for they who remained around him became in the end a burden instead of affording him protection. They were too few to fight, and too many to be easily concealed. Alfred withdrew himself from them, thinking that, under the circumstances in which he was now placed, he was justified in seeking his own personal safety alone. He had a wife, whom he married when he was about twenty years old; but she was not with him now, though she afterward joined him. She was in some other place of retreat. She could, in fact, be much more easily concealed than her husband; for the Danes, though they would undoubtedly have valued her very highly as a captive, would not search for her with the eager and persevering vigilance with which it was to be expected they would hunt for their most formidable, but now discomfited and fugitive foe. Alfred, therefore, after disentangling himself from all but one or two trustworthy and faithful friends, wandered on toward the west, through forests, and solitudes, and wilds, to get as far away as possible from the enemies who were upon his track. He arrived at last on the remote western frontiers of his kingdom, at a place whose name has been immortalized by its having been for some time the place of his retreat. It was called Athelney.[1] Athelney was, however, scarcely deserving of a name, for it was nothing but a small spot of dry land in the midst of a morass, which, as grass would grow upon it in the openings among the trees, a simple cow-herd had taken possession of, and built his hut there. The solid land which the cow-herd called his farm was only about two acres in extent. All around it was a black morass, of great extent, wooded with alders, among which green sedges grew, and sluggish streams meandered, and mossy tracts of verdure spread treacherously over deep bogs and sloughs. In the driest season of the summer the goats and the sheep penetrated into these recesses, but, excepting in the devious and tortuous path by which the cow-herd found his way to his island, it was almost impassable for man. Alfred, however, attracted now by the impediments and obstacles which would have repelled a wanderer under any other circumstances, went on with the greater alacrity the more intricate and entangled the thickets of the morass were found, since these difficulties promised to impede or deter pursuit. He found his way in to the cow-herd's hut. He asked for shelter. People who live in solitudes are always hospitable. The cow-herd took the wayworn fugitive in, and gave him food and shelter. Alfred remained his guest for a considerable time. The story is, that after a few days the cow-herd asked him who he was, and how he came to be wandering about in that distressed and destitute condition. Alfred told him that he was one of the king's _thanes_. A thane was a sort of chieftain in the Saxon state. He accounted for his condition by saying that Alfred's army had been beaten by the Danes, and that he, with the other generals, had been forced to fly. He begged the cow-herd to conceal him, and to keep the secret of his character until times should change, so that he could take the field again. The story of Alfred's seclusion on the _island_, as it might almost be called, of Ethelney, is told very differently by the different narrators of it. Some of these narrations are inconsistent and contradictory. They all combine, however, though they differ in respect to many other incidents and details, in relating the far-famed story of Alfred's leaving the cakes to burn. It seems that, though the cow-herd himself was allowed to regard Alfred as a man of rank in disguise--though even _he_ did not know that it was the king--his wife was not admitted, even in this partial way, into the secret. She was made to consider the stranger as some common strolling countryman, and the better to sustain this idea, he was taken into the cow-herd's service, and employed in various ways, from time to time, in labors about the house and farm. Alfred's thoughts, however, were little interested in these occupations. His mind dwelt incessantly upon his misfortunes and the calamities which had befallen his kingdom. He was harassed by continual suspense and anxiety, not being able to gain any clear or certain intelligence about the condition and movements of either his friends or foes. He was revolving continually vague and half-formed plans for resuming the command of his army and attempting to regain his kingdom, and wearying himself with fruitless attempts to devise means to accomplish these ends. Whenever he engaged voluntarily in any occupation, it would always be something in harmony with these trains of thought and these plans. He would repair and put in order implements of hunting, or any thing else which might be deemed to have some relation to war. He would make bows and arrows in the chimney corner--lost, all the time, in melancholy reveries, or in wild and visionary schemes of future exploits. One evening, while he was thus at work, the cow-herd's wife left, for a few moments, some cakes under his charge, which she was baking upon the great stone hearth, in preparation for their common supper. Alfred, as might have been expected, let the cakes burn. The woman, when she came back and found them smoking, was very angry. She told him that he could eat the cakes fast enough when they were baked, though it seemed he was too lazy and good for nothing to do the least thing in helping to bake them. What wide-spread and lasting effects result sometimes from the most trifling and inadequate causes! The singularity of such an adventure befalling a monarch in disguise, and the terse antithesis of the reproaches with which the woman rebuked him, invest this incident with an interest which carries it every where spontaneously among mankind. Millions, within the last thousand years, have heard the name of Alfred, who have known no more of him than this story; and millions more, who never would have heard of him but for this story, have been led by it to study the whole history of his life; so that the unconscious cow-herd's wife, in scolding the disguised monarch for forgetting her cakes, was perhaps doing more than he ever did himself for the wide extension of his future fame.[2] [Illustration: ALFRED WATCHING THE CAKES.] Alfred was, for a time, extremely depressed and disheartened by the sense of his misfortunes and calamities; but the monkish writers who described his character and his life say that the influence of his sufferings was extremely salutary in softening his disposition and improving his character. He had been proud, and haughty, and domineering before. He became humble, docile, and considerate now. Faults of character that are superficial, resulting from the force of circumstances and peculiarities of temptation, rather than from innate depravity of heart, are easily and readily burned off in the fire of affliction, while the same severe ordeal seems only to indurate the more hopelessly those propensities which lie deeply seated in an inherent and radical perversity. Alfred, though restless and wretched in his apparently hopeless seclusion, bore his privations with a great degree of patience and fortitude, planning, all the time, the best means of reorganizing his scattered forces, and of rescuing his country from the ruin into which it had fallen. Some of his former friends, roaming as he himself had done, as fugitives about the country, happened at length to come into the neighborhood of his retreat. He heard of them, and cautiously made himself known. They were rejoiced to find their old commander once more, and, as there was no force of the Danes in that neighborhood at the time, they lingered, timidly and fearlessly at first, in the vicinity, until, at length, growing more bold as they found themselves unmolested in their retreat, they began to make it their gathering place and head-quarters. Alfred threw off his disguise, and assumed his true character. Tidings of his having been thus discovered spread confidentially among the most tried and faithful of his Saxon followers, who had themselves been seeking safety in other places of refuge. They began, at first cautiously and by stealth, but afterward more openly, to repair to the spot. Alfred's family, too, from which he had now been for many months entirely separated, contrived to rejoin him. The herdsman, who proved to be a man of intelligence and character superior to his station, entered heartily into all these movements. He kept the secret faithfully. He did all in his power to provide for the wants and to promote the comfort of his warlike guests, and, by his fidelity and devotion, laid Alfred under obligations of gratitude to him, which the king, when he was afterward restored to the throne, did not forget to repay. Notwithstanding, however, all the efforts which the herdsman made to obtain supplies, the company now assembled at Ethelney were sometimes reduced to great straits. There were not only the wants of Alfred and his immediate family and attendants to be provided for, but many persons were continually coming and going, arriving often at unexpected times, and acting, as roving and disorganized bodies of soldiers are very apt to do at such times, in a very inconsiderate manner. The herdsman's farm produced very little food, and the inaccessibleness of its situation made it difficult to bring in supplies from without. In fact, it was necessary, in one part of the approach to it, to use a boat, so that the place is generally called, in history, an island, though it was insulated mainly by swamps and morasses rather than by navigable waters. There were, however, sluggish streams all around it, where Alfred's men, when their stores were exhausted, went to fish, under the herdsman's guidance, returning sometimes with a moderate fare, and sometimes with none. The monks who describe this portion of Alfred's life have recorded an incident as having occurred on the occasion of one of these fishing excursions, which, however, is certainly, in part, a fabrication, and may be wholly so. It was in the winter. The waters about the grounds were frozen up. The provisions in the house were nearly exhausted, there being scarcely anything remaining. The men went away with their fishing apparatus, and with their bows and arrows, in hopes of procuring some fish or fowl to replenish their stores. Alfred was left alone, with only a single lady of his family, who is called in the account "Mother," though it could not have been Alfred's own mother, as she had been dead many years. Alfred was sitting in the hut reading. A beggar, who had by some means or other found his way in over the frozen morasses, came to the door, and asked for food. Alfred, looking up from his book, asked the mother, whoever she was, to go and see what there was to give him. She went to make examination, and presently returned, saying that there was nothing to give him. There was only a single loaf of bread remaining, and that would not be half enough for their own wants that very night when the hunting party should return, if they should come back unsuccessful from their expedition. Alfred hesitated a moment, and then ordered half the loaf to be given to the beggar. He said, in justification of the act, that his trust was now in God, and that the power which once, with five loaves and two small fishes, fed abundantly three thousand men, could easily make half a loaf suffice for them. The loaf was accordingly divided, the beggar was supplied, and, delighted with this unexpected relief, he went away. Alfred turned his attention again to his reading. After a time the book dropped from his hand. He had fallen asleep. He dreamed that a certain saint appeared to him, and made a revelation to him from heaven. God, he said, had heard his prayers, was satisfied with his penitence, and pitied his sorrows; and that his act of charity in relieving the poor beggar, even at the risk of leaving himself and his friends in utter destitution, was extremely acceptable in the sight of Heaven. The faith and trust which he thus manifested were about to be rewarded. The time for a change had come. He was to be restored to his kingdom, and raised to a new and higher state of prosperity and power than before. As a token that this prediction was true, and would be all fulfilled, the hunting party would return that night with an ample and abundant supply. Alfred awoke from his sleep with his mind filled with new hopes and anticipations. The hunting party returned loaded with supplies, and in a state of the greatest exhilaration at their success. They had fish and game enough to have supplied a little army. The incident of relieving the beggar, the dream, and their unwonted success confirming it, inspired them all with confidence and hope. They began to form plans for commencing offensive operations. They would build fortifications to strengthen their position on the island. They would collect a force. They would make sallies to attack the smaller parties of the Danes. They would send agents and emissaries about the kingdom to arouse, and encourage, and assemble such Saxon forces as were yet to be found. In a word, they would commence a series of measures for recovering the country from the possession of its pestilent enemy, and for restoring the rightful sovereign to the throne. The development of these projects and plans, and the measures for carrying them into effect, were very much hastened by an event which suddenly occurred in the neighborhood of Ethelney, the account of which, however, must be postponed to the next chapter. [Footnote 1: The name is spelled variously, Ethelney, Æthelney, Ethelingay, &c. It was in Somersetshire, between the rivers Thone and Parrot.] [Footnote 2: As this incident has been so famous, it may amuse the reader to peruse the different accounts which are given of it in the most ancient records which now remain. They were written in Latin and in Saxon, and, of course, as given here, they are translations. The discrepancies which the reader will observe in the details illustrate well the uncertainty which pertains to all historical accounts that go back to so early an age. "He led an unquiet life there, at his cow-herd's. It happened that, on a certain day, the rustic wife of the man prepared to bake her bread. The king, sitting then near the hearth, was making ready his bow and arrows, and other warlike implements, when the ill-tempered woman beheld the loaves burning at the fire. She ran hastily and removed them, scolding at the king, and exclaiming, 'You man! you will not turn the bread you see burning, but you will be very glad to eat it when it is done!' This unlucky woman little thought she was addressing the King Alfred." In a certain Saxon history the story is told thus: "He took shelter in a swain's house, and also him and his evil wife diligently served. It happened that, on one day, the swain's wife heated her oven, and the king sat by it warming himself by the fire. She knew not then that he was the king. Then the evil woman was excited, and spoke to the king with an angry mind. 'Turn thou these loaves, that they burn not, for I see daily that thou art a great eater!' He soon obeyed this evil woman because she would scold. He then, the good king, with great anxiety and sighing, called to his Lord, imploring his pity." The following account is from a Latin life of St. Neot, which still exists in manuscript, and is of great antiquity: "Alfred, a fugitive, and exiled from his people, came by chance and entered the house of a poor herdsman, and there remained some days concealed, poor and unknown. "It happened that, on the Sabbath day, the herdsman, as usual, led his cattle to their accustomed pastures, and the king remained alone in the cottage with the man's wife. She, as necessity required, placed a few loaves, which some call _loudas_, on a pan, with fire underneath, to be baked for her husband's repast and her own, on his return. "While she was necessarily busied, like peasants, on other offices, she went anxious to the fire, and found the bread burning on the other side. She immediately assailed the king with reproaches. 'Why, man! do you sit thinking there, and are too proud to turn the bread? Whatever be your family, with your manners and sloth, what trust can be put in you hereafter? If you were even a nobleman, you will be glad to eat the bread which you neglect to attend to.' The king, though stung by her upbraidings, yet heard her with patience and mildness, and, roused by her scolding, took care to bake her bread thereafter as she wished." There is one remaining account, which is as follows: "It happened that the herdsman one day, as usual, led his swine to their accustomed pasture, and the king remained at home alone with the wife. She placed her bread under the ashes of the fire to bake, and was employed in other business when she saw the loaves burning, and said to the king in her rage, 'You will not turn the bread you see burning, though you will be very glad to eat it when done!' The king, with a submitting countenance, though vexed at her upbraidings not only turned the bread, but gave them to the woman well baked and unbroken." It is obvious, from the character of these several accounts that each writer, taking the substantial fact as the groundwork of his story, has added such details and chosen such expressions for the housewife's reproaches as suited his own individual fancy. We find, unfortunately for the truth and trustworthiness of history, that this is almost always the case, when independent and original accounts of past transactions, whether great or small, are compared. The gravest historians, as well as the lightest story tellers, frame their narrations for _effect_, and the tendency in all ages to shape and fashion the narrative with a view to the particular effect designed by the individual narrator to be produced has been found entirely irresistible. It is necessary to compare, with great diligence and careful scrutiny, a great many different accounts, in order to learn how little there is to be exactly and confidently believed.] CHAPTER IX. REASSEMBLING OF THE ARMY. Ethelney, though its precise locality can not now be certainly ascertained, was in the southwestern part of England, in Somersetshire, which county lies on the southern shore of the Bristol Channel. There is a region of marshes in that vicinity, which tradition assigns as the place of Alfred's retreat; and there was, about the middle of this century, a farmhouse there, which bore the name of Ethelney, though this name may have been given to it in modern times by those who imagined it to be the ancient locality. A jewel of gold, engraved as an amulet to be worn about the neck, and inscribed with the Saxon words which mean "Alfred had me made," was found in the vicinity, and is still carefully preserved in a museum in England. Some curious antiquarians profess to find the very hillock, rising out of the low grounds around, where the herdsman that entertained Alfred so long lived; but this, of course is all uncertain. The peculiarities of the spot derived their character from the morasses and the woods, and the courses of the sluggish streams in the neighborhood, and these are elements of landscape scenery which ten centuries of time and of cultivation would entirely change. Whatever may have been the precise situation of the spot, instead of being, as at first, a mere hiding-place and retreat, it became, before many months, as was intimated in the last chapter, a military camp, secluded and concealed, it is true, but still possessing, in a considerable degree, the characteristics of a fastness and place of defense. Alfred's company erected something which might be called a wall. They built a bridge across the water where the herdsman's boat had been accustomed to ply. They raised two towers to watch and guard the bridge. All these defenses were indeed of a very rude and simple construction; still, they answered the purpose intended. They afforded a real protection; and, more than all, they produced a certain moral effect upon the minds of those whom they shielded, by enabling them to consider themselves as no longer lurking fugitives, dependent for safety on simple concealment, but as a garrison, weak, it is true, but still gathering strength, and advancing gradually toward a condition which would enable them to make positive aggressions upon the enemy. The circumstance which occurred to hasten the development of Alfred's plans, and which was briefly alluded to at the close of the last chapter, was the following: It seems that quite a large party of Danes, under the command of a leader named Hubba, had been making a tour of conquest and plunder in Wales, which country was on the other side of the Bristol Channel, directly north of Ethelney, where Alfred was beginning to concentrate a force. He would be immediately exposed to an attack from this quarter as soon as it should be known that he was at Ethelney, as the distance across the Channel was not great, and the Danes were provided with shipping. Ethelney was in the county called Somersetshire. To the southwest of Somersetshire, a little below it, on the shores of the Bristol Channel, was a castle, called Castle Kenwith, in Devonshire. The Duke of Devonshire, who held this castle, encouraged by Alfred's preparations for action, had assembled a considerable force here, to be ready to co-operate with Alfred in the active measures which he was about to adopt. Things being in this state, Hubba brought down his forces to the northern shores of the Channel, collected together all the boats and shipping that he could command, crossed the Channel, and landed on the Devonshire shore. Odun, the duke, not being strong enough to resist, fled, and shut himself up, with all his men, in the castle. Hubba advanced to the castle walls, and, sitting down before them, began to consider what to do. Hubba was the last surviving son of Ragner Lodbrog, whose deeds and adventures were related in a former chapter. He was, like all other chieftains among the Danes, a man of great determination and energy, and he had made himself very celebrated all over the land by his exploits and conquests. His particular horde of marauders, too, was specially celebrated among all the others, on account of a mysterious and magical banner which they bore. The name of this banner was the _Reafan_, that is, the Raven. There was the figure of a raven woven or embroidered on the banner. Hubba's three sisters had woven it for their brothers, when they went forth across the German Ocean to avenge their father's death. It possessed, as both the Danes and Saxons believed, supernatural and magical powers. The raven on the banner could foresee the result of any battle into which it was borne. It remained lifeless and at rest whenever the result was to be adverse; and, on the other hand, it fluttered its wings with a mysterious and magical vitality when they who bore it were destined to victory. The Danes consequently looked up to this banner with a feeling of profound veneration and awe, and the Saxons feared and dreaded its mysterious power. The explanation of this pretended miracle is easy. The imagination of superstitious men, in such a state of society as that of these half-savage Danes, is capable of much greater triumphs over the reason and the senses than is implied in making them believe that the wings of a bird are either in motion or at rest, whichever it fancies, when the banner on which the image is embroidered is advancing to the field and fluttering in the breeze. The Castle of Kenwith was situated on a rocky promontory, and was defended by a Saxon wall. Hubba saw that it would be difficult to carry it by a direct assault. On the other hand, it was not well supplied with water or provisions, and the numerous multitude which had crowded into it, would, as Hubba thought, be speedily compelled to surrender by thirst and famine, if he were simply to wait a short time, till their scanty stock of food was consumed. Perhaps the raven did not flutter her wings when Hubba approached the castle, but by her apparent lifelessness portended calamity if an attack were to be made. At all events, Hubba decided not to attack the castle, but to invest it closely on all sides, with his army on the land and with his vessels on the side of the sea, and thus reduce it by famine. He accordingly stationed his troops and his galleys at their posts and established himself in his tent, quietly to await the result. He did not have to wait so long as he anticipated. Odun, finding that his danger was so imminent, nay, that his destruction was inevitable if he remained in his castle, thus shut in, determined, in the desperation to which the emergency reduced him, to make a sally. Accordingly, one night, as soon as it was dark, so that the indications of any movement within the castle might not be perceived by the sentinels and watchmen in Hubba's lines, he began to marshal and organize his army for a sudden and furious onset upon the camp of the Danes. They waited, when all was ready, till the first break of day. To make the surprise most effectual, it was necessary that it should take place in the night; but then, on the other hand, the success, if they should be successful, would require, in order to be followed up with advantage, the light of day. Odun chose, therefore, the earliest dawn as the time for his attempt, as this was the only period which would give him at first darkness for his surprise, and afterward light for his victory. The time was well chosen, the arrangements were all well made, and the result corresponded with the character of the preparations. The sally was triumphantly successful. The Danes, who were all, except their sentinels, sleeping quietly and secure, were suddenly aroused by the unearthly and terrific yells with which the Saxons burst into the lines of their encampment. They flew to arms, but the shock of the onset produced a panic and confusion which soon made their cause hopeless. Odun and his immediate followers pressed directly forward into Hubba's tent, where they surprised the commander, and massacred him on the spot. They seized, too, to their inexpressible joy, the sacred banner, which was in Hubba's tent, and bore it forth, rejoicing in it, not merely as a splendid trophy of their victory, but as a loss to their enemies which fixed and sealed their doom. The Danes fled before their enemies in terror, and the consternation which they felt, when they learned that their banner had been captured and their leader slain, was soon changed into absolute despair. The Saxons slew them without mercy, cutting down some as they were running before them in their headlong flight, and transfixing others with their spears and arrows as they lay upon the ground, trampled down by the crowds and the confusion. There was no place of refuge to which they could fly except to their ships. Those, therefore, that escaped the weapons of their pursuers, fled in the direction of the water, where the strong and the fortunate gained the boats and the galleys, while the exhausted and the wounded were drowned. The fleet sailed away from the coast, and the Saxons, on surveying the scene of the terrible contest, estimated that there were twelve hundred dead bodies lying in the field. This victory, and especially the capture of the Raven, produced vast effects on the minds both of the Saxons and of the Danes, animating and encouraging the one, and depressing the other with superstitious as well as natural and proper fears. The influence of the battle was sufficient, in fact, wholly to change Alfred's position and prospects. The news of the discovery of the place of his retreat, and of the measures which he was maturing for taking the field again to meet his enemies, spread throughout the country. The people were every where ready to take up arms and join him. There were large bodies of Danes in several parts of his dominions still, and they, alarmed somewhat at these indications of new efforts of resistance on the part of their enemies, began to concentrate their strength and prepare for another struggle. The main body of the Danes were encamped at a place called Edendune, in Wiltshire. There is a hill near, which the army made their main position, and the marks of their fortifications have been traced there, either in imagination or reality, in modern times. Alfred wished to gain more precise and accurate information than he yet possessed of the numbers and situation of his foes; and, in order to do this, instead of employing a spy, he conceived the design of going himself in disguise to explore the camp of the Danes. The undertaking was full of danger, but yet not quite so desperate as at first it might seem. Alfred had had abundant opportunities during the months of his seclusion to become familiar with the modes of speech and the manners of peasant life. He had also, in his early years, stored his memory with Saxon poetry, as has already been stated. He was fond of music, too, and well skilled in it; so that he had every qualification for assuming the character of one of those roving harpers, who, in those days, followed armies, to sing songs and make amusement for the soldiers. He determined, consequently, to assume the disguise of a harper, and to wander into the camp of the Danes, that he might make his own observations on the nature and magnitude of the force with which he was about to contend. He accordingly clothed himself in the garb of the character which he was to assume, and, taking his harp upon his shoulder, wandered away in the direction of the Northmen's camp. Such a strolling countryman, half musician, half beggar would enter without suspicion or hinderance into the camp, even though he belonged to the nation of the enemy. Alfred was readily admitted, and he wandered at will about the lines, to play and sing to the soldiers wherever he found groups to listen--intent, apparently, on nothing but his scanty pittance of pay, while he was really studying, with the utmost attention and care, the number, and disposition, and discipline of the troops, and all the arrangements of the army. He came very near discovering himself, however, by overacting his part. His music was so well executed and his ballads were so fine, that reports of the excellence of his performance reached the commander's ears. He ordered the pretended harper to be sent into his tent, that he might hear him play and sing. Alfred went, and thus he had the opportunity of completing his observations in the tent, and in the presence of the Danish king. Alfred found that the Danish camp was in a very unguarded and careless condition. The name of the commander, or king, was Guthrum.[1] Alfred, while playing in his presence, studied his character, and it is (not) improbable that the very extraordinary course which he afterward pursued in respect to Guthrum may have been caused, in a great degree, by the opportunity he now enjoyed of domestic access to him and of obtaining a near and intimate view of his social and personal character. Guthrum treated the supposed harper with great kindness. He was much pleased both with his singing and his songs, being attracted, too, probably, in some degree, by a certain mysterious interest which the humble stranger must have inspired; for Alfred possessed personal and intellectual traits of character which could not but have given to his conversation and his manners a certain charm, notwithstanding all his efforts to disguise or conceal them. However this may be, Guthrum gave Alfred a very friendly reception, and the hour of social intercourse and enjoyment which the general and the ballad-singer spent together was only a precursor of the more solid and honest friendship which afterward subsisted between them as allied sovereigns. Alfred had one person with him, whom he had brought from Ethelney--a sort of attendant--to help him carry his harp, and to be a companion for him on the way. He would have needed such a companion even if he had been only what he seemed; but for a spy, going in disguise into the camp of such ferocious enemies as the Danes, it would seem absolutely indispensable that he should have the support and sympathy of a friend. Alfred, after finishing his examination of the camp of Guthrum, and forming secretly, in his own mind, his plans for attacking it, moved leisurely away, taking his harp and his attendant with him, as if going on in search of some new place to practice his profession. As soon as he was out of the reach of observation, he made a circuit and returned in safety to Ethelney. The season was now spring, and every thing favored the commencement of his enterprise. His first measure was to send out some trusty messengers into all the neighboring counties, to visit and confer with his friends at their various castles and strong-holds. These messengers were to announce to such Saxon leaders as they should find that Alfred was still alive, and that he was preparing to take the field against the Danes again; and were to invite them to assemble at a certain place appointed, in a forest, with as many followers as they could bring, that the king might there complete the organization of an army, and hold consultation with them to mature their plans. The wood on the borders of which they were to meet was an extensive forest of willows, fifteen miles long and six broad. It was known by the name of Selwood Forest. There was a celebrated place called the Stone of Egbert, where the meeting was to be held. Each chieftain whom the messengers should visit was to be invited to come to the Stone of Egbert at the appointed day, with as many armed men, and yet in as secret and noiseless a manner as possible, so as thus, while concentrating all their forces in preparation for their intended attack, to avoid every thing which would tend to put Guthrum on his guard. The messengers found the Saxon chieftains very ready to enter into Alfred's plans. They were rejoiced to hear, as some of them did now for the first time hear, that he was alive, and that the spirit and energy of his former character were about to be exhibited again. Every thing, in fact, conspired to favor the enterprise. The long and gloomy months of winter were past, and the opening spring brought with it, as usual, excitement and readiness for action. The tidings of Odun's victory over Hubba, and the capture of the sacred raven, which had spread every where, had awakened a general enthusiasm, and a desire on the part of all the Saxon chieftains and soldiers to try their strength once more with their ancient enemies. Accordingly, those to whom the secret was intrusted eagerly accepted the invitation, or, perhaps, as it should rather be expressed, obeyed the summons which Alfred sent them. They marshaled their forces without any delay, and repaired to the appointed place in Selwood Forest. Alfred was ready to meet them there. Two days were occupied with the arrivals of the different parties, and in the mutual congratulations and rejoicings. Growing more bold as their sense of strength increased with their increasing numbers, and with the ardor and enthusiasm which their mutual influence on each other inspired, they spent the intervals of their consultations in festivities and rejoicings, celebrating the occasion with games and martial music. The forest resounded with the blasts of horns, the sound of the trumpets, the clash of arms, and the shouts of joy and congratulation, which all the efforts of the more prudent and cautious could not repress. In the mean time, Guthrum remained in his encampment at Edendune. This seems to have been the principal concentration of the forces of the Danes which were marshaled for military service; and yet there were large numbers of the people, disbanded soldiers, or non-combatants, who had come over in the train of the armies, that had taken possession of the lands which they had conquered, and had settled upon them for cultivation, as if to make them their permanent home. These intruders were scattered in larger or smaller bodies in various parts of the kingdom, the Saxon inhabitants being prevented from driving them away by the influence and power of the armies, which still kept possession of the field, and preserved their military organization complete, ready for action at any time whenever any organized Saxon force should appear. Guthrum, as we have said, headed the largest of these armies. He was aware of the increasing excitement that was spreading among the Saxon population, and he even heard rumors of the movements which the bodies of Saxons made, in going under their several chieftains to Selwood Forest. He expected that some important movement was about to occur, but he had no idea that preparations so extended, and for so decisive a demonstration, were so far advanced. He remained, therefore, at his camp at Edendune, gradually completing his arrangements for his summer campaign, but making no preparations for resisting any sudden or violent attack. When all was ready, Alfred put himself at the head of the forces which had collected at the Egbert Stone, or, as it is quaintly spelled in some of the old accounts, Ecgbyrth-stan. There is a place called Brixstan in that vicinity now, which may possibly be the same name modified and abridged by the lapse of time. Alfred moved forward toward Guthrum's camp. He went only a part of the way the first day, intending to finish the march by getting into the immediate vicinity of the enemy on the morrow. He succeeded in accomplishing this object, and encamped the next night at a place called Æcglea,[2] on an eminence from which he could reconnoiter, from a great distance, the position of the army. That night, as he was sleeping in his tent, he had a remarkable dream. He dreamed that his relative, St. Neot, who has been already mentioned as the chaplain or priest who reproved him so severely for his sins in the early part of his reign, appeared to him. The apparition bid him not fear the immense army of pagans whom he was going to encounter on the morrow. God, he said, had accepted his penitence, and was now about to take him under his special protection. The calamities which had befallen him were sent in judgment to punish the pride and arrogance which he had manifested in the early part of his reign; but his faults had been expiated by the sufferings he had endured, and by the penitence and the piety which they had been the means of awakening in his heart; and now he might go forward into the battle without fear, as God was about to give him the victory over all his enemies. The king related his dream the next morning to his army. The enthusiasm and ardor which the chieftains and the men had felt before were very much increased by this assurance of success. They broke up their encampment, therefore, and commenced the march, which was to bring them, before many hours, into the presence of the enemy, with great alacrity and eager expectations of success. [Footnote 1: Spelled sometimes Godrun, Gutrum, Gythram, and in various other ways.] [Footnote 2: Some think that this place is the modern Leigh; others, that it was Highley; either of which names might have been deduced from Æcglea.] CHAPTER X. THE VICTORY OVER THE DANES. Encouraged by his dream, and animated by the number and the elation of his followers, Alfred led his army onward toward the part of the country where the camp of the enemy lay. He intended to surprise them; and, although Guthrum had heard vague rumors that some great Saxon movement was in train, he viewed the sudden appearance of this large and well-organized army with amazement. He had possession of the hill near Edendune, which has been already described. He had established his head-quarters here, and made his strongest fortifications on the summit of the eminence. The main body of his forces were, however, encamped upon the plain, over which they extended, in vast numbers, far and wide. Alfred halted his men to change the order of march into the order of battle. Here he made an address to his men. As no time was to be lost, he spoke but a few words. He reminded them that they were to contend, that day, to rescue themselves and their country from the intolerable oppression of a horde of pagan idolaters; that God was on their side, and had promised them the victory; and he urged them to act like men, so as to deserve the success and happiness which was in store for them. The army then advanced to the attack, the Danes having been drawn out hastily, but with as much order as the suddenness of the call would allow, to meet them. When near enough for their arrows to take effect, the long line of Alfred's troops discharged their arrows. They then advanced to the attack with lances; but soon these and all other weapons which kept the combatants at a distance were thrown aside, and it became a terrible conflict with swords, man to man. It was not long before the Danes began to yield. They were not sustained by the strong assurance of victory, nor by the desperate determination which animated the Saxons. The flight soon became general. They could not gain the fortification on the hill, for Alfred had forced his way in between the encampment on the plains and the approaches to the hill. The Danes, consequently, not being able to find refuge in either part of the position they had taken, fled altogether from the field, pursued by Alfred's victorious columns as fast as they could follow. Guthrum succeeded, by great and vigorous exertions, in rallying his men, or, at least, in so far collecting and concentrating the separate bodies of the fugitives as to change the flight into a retreat, having some semblance of military order. Vast numbers had been left dead upon the field. Others had been taken prisoners. Others still had become hopelessly dispersed, having fled from the field of battle in diverse directions, and wandered so far, in their terror, that they had not been able to rejoin their leader in his retreat. Then, great numbers of those who pressed on under Guthrum's command, exhausted by fatigue, or spent and fainting from their wounds, sank down by the way-side to die, while their comrades, intent only upon their own safety, pressed incessantly on. The retreating army was thus, in a short time, reduced to a small fraction of its original force. This remaining body, with Guthrum at their head, continued their retreat until they reached a castle which promised them protection. They poured in over the drawbridges and through the gates of this fortress in extreme confusion; and feeling suddenly, and for the moment, entirely relieved at their escape from the imminence of the immediate danger, they shut themselves in. The finding of such a retreat would have been great good fortune for these wretched fugitives if there had been any large force in the country to come soon to their deliverance; but, as they were without provisions and without water, they soon began to perceive that, unless they obtained some speedy help from without, they had only escaped the Saxon lances and swords to die a ten times more bitter death of thirst and famine; and there was no force to relieve them. The army which had been thus defeated was the great central force of the Danes upon the island. The other detachments and independent bands which were scattered about the land were thunderstruck at the news of this terrible defeat. The Saxons, too, were every where aroused to the highest pitch of enthusiasm at the reappearance of their king and the tidings of his victory. The whole country was in arms. Guthrum, however, shut up in his castle, and closely invested with Alfred's forces, had no means of knowing what was passing without. His numbers were so small in comparison with those besieging him that it would have been madness for him to have attempted a sally; and he would not surrender. He waited day after day, hoping against hope that some succor would come. His half-famished sentinels gazed from the watch-towers of the castle all around, looking for some cloud of distant dust, or weapon glancing in the sun, which might denote the approach of friends coming to their rescue. This lasted fourteen days. At the end of that time, the number within this wretched prison who were raving in the delirium of famine and thirst, or dying in agony, became too great for Guthrum to persist any longer. He surrendered. Alfred was once more in possession of his kingdom. During the fourteen days that elapsed between the victory on the field of battle and the final surrender of Guthrum, Alfred, feeling that the power was now in his hands, had had ample time to reflect on the course which he should pursue with his subjugated enemies; and the result to which he came, and the measure which he adopted, evince, as much as any act of his life, the greatness, and originality, and nobleness of his character. Here were two distinct and independent races on the same island, that had been engaged for many years in a most fierce and sanguinary struggle, each gaining at times a temporary and partial victory, but neither able entirely to subdue or exterminate the other. The Danes, it is true, might be considered as the aggressors in this contest, and, as such, wholly in the wrong; but then, on the other hand, it was to be remembered that the ancestors of the Saxons had been guilty of precisely the same aggressions upon the Britons, who held the island before them; so that the Danes were, after all, only intruding upon intruders. It was, besides, the general maxim of the age, that the territories of the world were prizes open for competition, and that the right to possess and to govern vested naturally and justly in those who could show themselves the strongest. Then, moreover, the Danes had been now for many years in Britain. Vast numbers had quietly settled on agricultural lands. They had become peaceful inhabitants. They had established, in many cases, friendly relations with the Saxons. They had intermarried with them; and the two races, instead of appearing, as at first, simply as two hostile armies of combatants contending on the field, had been, for some years, acquiring the character of a mixed population, established and settled, though heterogeneous, and, in some sense, antagonistic still. To root out all these people, intruders though they were, and send them back again across the German Ocean, to regions where they no longer had friends or home, would have been a desperate--in fact, an impossible undertaking. Alfred saw all these things. He took, in fact, a general, and comprehensive, and impartial view of the whole subject, instead of regarding it, as most conquerors in his situation would have done, in a _partisan_, that is, an exclusively _Saxon_ point of view. He saw how impossible it was to undo what had been done, and wisely determined to take things as they were, and make the best of the present situation of affairs, leaving the past, and aiming only at accomplishing the best that was now attainable for the future. It would be well if all men who are engaged in quarrels which they vainly endeavor to settle by discussing and disputing about what is past and gone, and can now never be recalled, would follow his example. In all such cases we should say, let the past be forgotten, and, taking things as they now are, let us see what we can do to secure peace and happiness in future. The policy which Alfred determined to adopt was, not to attempt the utter extirpation of the Danes from England, but only to expel the _armed forces_ from his own dominions, allowing those peaceably disposed to remain in quiet possession of such lands in other parts of the island as they already occupied. Instead, therefore, of treating Guthrum with harshness and severity as a captive enemy, he told him that he was willing not only to give him his liberty, but to regard him, on certain conditions, as a friend and an ally, and allow him to reign as a king over that part of England which his countrymen possessed, and which was beyond Alfred's own frontiers. These conditions were, that Guthrum was to go away with all his forces and followers out of Alfred's kingdom, under solemn oaths never to return; that he was to confine himself thenceforth to the southeastern part of England, a territory from which the Saxon government had long disappeared; that he was to give hostages for the faithful fulfillment of these stipulations, without, however, receiving on his part any hostages from Alfred. There was one other stipulation, more extraordinary than all the rest, viz., that Guthrum should become a convert to Christianity, and publicly avow his adhesion to the Saxon faith by being baptized in the presence of the leaders of both armies, in the most open and solemn manner. In this proposed baptism, Alfred himself would stand his godfather. This idea of winning over a pagan soldier to the Christian Church as the price of his ransom from famine and death in the castle to which his direst enemy had driven him--this enemy himself, the instrument thus of so rude a mode of conversion, to be the sponsor of the new communicant's religious profession--was one in keeping, it is true, with the spirit of the times, but still it is one which, under the circumstances of this case, only a mind of great originality and power would have conceived of or attempted to carry into effect. Guthrum might well be astonished at this unexpected turn in his affairs. A few days before, he saw himself on the brink of utter and absolute destruction. Shut up with his famished soldiers in a gloomy castle, with the enemy, bitter and implacable, as he supposed, thundering at the gates, the only alternatives before him seemed to be to die of starvation and phrensy within the walls which covered him, or by a cruel military execution in the event of surrender. He surrendered at last, as it would seem, only because the utmost that human cruelty can inflict is more tolerable than the horrid agonies of thirst and hunger. We can not but hope that Alfred was led, in some degree, by a generous principle of Christian forgiveness in proposing the terms which he did to his fallen enemy, and also that Guthrum, in accepting them, was influenced, in part at least, by emotions of gratitude and by admiration of the high example of Christian virtue which Alfred thus exhibited. At any rate, he did accept them. The army of the Danes were liberated from their confinement, and commenced their march to the eastward; Guthrum himself, attended by thirty of his chiefs and many other followers, became Alfred's guest for some weeks, until the most pressing measures for the organization of Alfred's government could be attended to, and the necessary preparations for the baptism could be made. At length, some weeks after the surrender, the parties all repaired together, now firm friends and allies, to a place near Ethelney, where the ceremony of baptism was to be performed. The admission of this pagan chieftain into the Christian Church did not probably mark any real change in his opinions on the question of paganism and Christianity, but it was not the less important in its consequences on that account. The moral effect of it upon the minds of his followers was of great value. It opened the way for their reception of the Christian faith, if any of them should be disposed to receive it. Then it changed wholly the feeling which prevailed among the Saxon soldiery, and also the Saxon chieftains, in respect to these enemies. A great deal of the bitterness of exasperation with which they had regarded them arose from the fact that they were pagans, the haters and despisers of the rites and institutions of religion. Guthrum's approaching baptism was to change all this; and Alfred, in leading him to the baptismal font, was achieving, in the estimation not only of all England, but of France and of Rome, a far greater and nobler victory than when he conquered his armies on the field of Edendune. The various ceremonies connected with the baptism were protracted through several days. They were commenced at a place called Aulre, near Ethelney, where there was a religious establishment and priests to perform the necessary rites. The new convert was clothed in white garments--the symbol of purity, then customarily worn by candidates for baptism--and was covered with a mystic veil. They gave Guthrum a new name--a Christian, that is, a Saxon name. Converted pagans received always a new name, in those days, when baptized; and our common phrase, _the Christian name_, has arisen from the circumstance. Guthrum's Christian name was Ethelstan. Alfred was his godfather. After the baptism the whole party proceeded to a town a few miles distant, which Alfred had decided to make a royal residence, and there other ceremonies connected with the new convert's admission to the Church were performed, the whole ending with a series of great public festivities and rejoicings. A very full and formal treaty of peace and amity was now concluded between the two sovereigns; for Guthrum was styled in the treaty a _king_, and was to hold, in the dominions assigned him to the eastward of Alfred's realm, an independent jurisdiction. He agreed, however, by this treaty, to confine himself, from that time forward, to the limits thus assigned. If the reader wishes to see what part of England it was which Guthrum was thus to hold, he can easily identify it by finding upon the map the following counties, which now occupy the same territory, viz., Norfolk, Suffolk, Cambridgeshire, Essex, and part of Herefordshire. The population of all this region consisted already, in a great measure, of Danes. It was the part most easily accessible from the German Ocean, by means of the Thames and the Medway, and it had, accordingly, become the chief seat of the Northmen's power. Guthrum not only agreed to confine himself to the limits thus marked out, but also to consider himself henceforth as Alfred's friend and ally in the event of any new bands of adventurers arriving on the coast, and to join Alfred in his endeavors to resist them. In hoping that he would fulfill this obligation, Alfred did not rely altogether on Guthrum's oaths or promises, or even on the hostages that he held. He had made it for his _interest_ to fulfill them. By giving him peaceable possession of this territory, after having, by his victories, impressed him with a very high idea of his own great military resources and power, he had placed his conquered enemy under very strong inducements to be satisfied with what he now possessed, and to make common cause with Alfred in resisting the encroachments of any new marauders. Guthrum was therefore honestly resolved on keeping his faith with his new ally; and when all these stipulations were made, and the treaties were signed, and the ceremonies of the baptism all performed, Alfred dismissed his guest, with many presents and high honors. There is some uncertainty whether Alfred did not, in addition to the other stipulations under which he bound Guthrum, reserve to himself the superior sovereignty over Guthrum's dominions, in such a manner that Guthrum, though complimented in the treaty with the title of king, was, after all, only a sort of viceroy, holding his throne under Alfred as his liege lord. One thing is certain, that Alfred took care, in his treaty with Guthrum, to settle all the fundamental laws of both kingdoms, making them the same for both, as if he foresaw the complete and entire union which was ultimately to take place, and wished to facilitate the accomplishment of this end by having the political and social constitution of the two states brought at once into harmony with each other. It proved, in the end, that Guthrum was faithful to his obligations and promises. He settled himself quietly in the dominions which the treaty assigned to him, and made no more attempts to encroach upon Alfred's realm. Whenever other parties of Danes came upon the coast, as they sometimes did, they found no favor or countenance from him. They came, in some cases, expecting his co-operation and aid; but he always refused it, and by this discouragement, as well as by open resistance, he drove many bands away, turning the tide of invasion southward into France, and other regions on the Continent. Alfred, in the mean time, gave his whole time and attention to organizing the various departments of his government, to planning and building towns, repairing and fortifying castles, opening roads, establishing courts of justice, and arranging and setting in operation the complicated machinery necessary in the working of a well-conducted social state. The nature and operation of some of his plans will be described more fully in the next chapter. In concluding this chapter, we will add, that notwithstanding his victory over Guthrum, and Guthrum's subsequent good faith, Alfred never enjoyed an absolute peace, but during the whole remainder of his reign was more or less molested with parties of Northmen, who came, from time to time, to land on English shores, and who met sometimes with partial and temporary success in their depredations. The most serious of these attempts occurred near the close of Alfred's life, and will be hereafter described. * * * * * The generosity and the nobleness of mind which Alfred manifested in his treatment of Guthrum made a great impression upon mankind at the time, and have done a great deal to elevate the character of our hero in every subsequent age. All admire such generosity in others, however slow they may be to practice it themselves. It seems a very easy virtue when we look upon an exhibition of it like this, where we feel no special resentments ourselves against the person thus nobly forgiven. We find it, however, a very hard virtue to practice, when a case occurs requiring the exercise of it toward a person who has done _us_ an injury. Let those who think that in Alfred's situation they should have acted as he did, look around upon the circle of their acquaintance, and see whether it is easy for them to pursue a similar course toward their personal enemies--those who have thwarted and circumvented them in their plans, or slandered them, or treated them with insult and injury. By observing how hard it is to change our own resentments to feelings of forgiveness and good will, we can the better appreciate Alfred's treatment of Guthrum. Alfred was famed during all his life for the kindness of his heart, and a thousand stories were told in his day of his interpositions to right the wronged, to relieve the distressed, to comfort the afflicted, and to befriend the unhappy. On one occasion, as it is said, when he was hunting in a wood, he heard the piteous cries of a child, which seemed to come from the air above his head. It was found, after much looking and listening, that the sounds proceeded from an eagle's nest upon the top of a lofty tree. On climbing to the nest, they found the child within, screaming with pain and terror. The eagle had carried it there in its talons for a prey. Alfred brought down the boy, and, after making fruitless inquiries to find its father and mother, adopted him for his own son, gave him a good education, and provided for him well in his future life. The story was all, very probably, a fabrication; but the characters of men are sometimes very strikingly indicated by the kind of stories that are _invented_ concerning them. [Illustration: PORTRAIT OF ALFRED.] CHAPTER XI. CHARACTER OF ALFRED'S REIGN. Perhaps the chief aspect in which King Alfred's character has attracted the attention of mankind, is in the spirit of humanity and benevolence which he manifested, and in the efforts which he made to cultivate the arts of peace, and to promote the intellectual and social welfare of his people, notwithstanding the warlike habits to which he was accustomed in his early years, and the warlike influences which surrounded him during all his life. Every thing in the outward circumstances in which he was placed tended to make him a mere military hero. He saw, however, the superior greatness and glory of the work of laying the foundations of an extended and permanent power, by arranging in the best possible manner the internal organization of the social state. He saw that intelligence, order, justice, and system, prevailing in and governing the institutions of a country, constitute the true elements of its greatness, and he acted accordingly. It is true, he had good materials to work with. He had the Anglo-Saxon race to act upon at the time, a race capable of appreciating and entering into his plans; and he has had the same race to carry them on, for the ten centuries which have elapsed since he laid his foundations. As no other race of men but Anglo-Saxons could have produced an Alfred, so, probably, no other race could have carried out such plans as Alfred formed. It is a race which has always been distinguished, like Alfred their great prototype and model, for a certain cool and intrepid energy in war, combined with and surpassed by the industry, the system, the efficiency, and the perseverance with which they pursue and perfect all the arts of peace. They systematize every thing. They arrange--they organize. Every thing in their hands takes form, and advances to continual improvement. Even while the rest of the world remain inert, they are active. When the arts and improvements of life are stationary among other nations, they are always advancing with _them_. It is a people that is always making new discoveries, pressing forward to new enterprises, framing new laws, constituting new combinations and developing new powers; until now after the lapse of a thousand years, the little island feeds and clothes, directly or indirectly, a very large portion of the human race, and directs, in a great measure, the politics of the world. Whether Alfred reasoned upon the capacities of the people whom he ruled, and foresaw their future power, or whether he only followed the simple impulses of his own nature in the plans which he formed and the measures which he adopted, we can not know; but we know that, in fact, he devoted his chief attention, during all the years of his reign, to perfecting in the highest degree the internal organization of his realm, considered as a great social community. His people were in a very rude, and, in fact, almost half-savage state when he commenced his career. He had every thing to do, and yet he seems to have had no favorable opportunities for doing any thing. In the first place, his time and attention were distracted, during his whole reign, by continued difficulties and contentions with various hordes of Danes, even after his peace with Guthrum. These troubles, and the military preparations and movements to which they would naturally give rise, would seem to have been sufficient to have occupied fully all the powers of his mind, and to have prevented him from doing any thing effectual for the internal improvement of his kingdom. Then, besides, there was another difficulty with which Alfred had to contend, which one might have supposed would have paralyzed all his energies. He suffered all his life from some mysterious and painful internal disease, the nature of which, precisely, is not known, as the allusions to it, though very frequent throughout his life, are very general, and the physicians of the day, who probably were not very skillful, could not determine what it was, or do any thing effectual to relieve it. The disease, whatever it may have been, was a source of continual uneasiness, and sometimes of extreme and terrible suffering. Alfred bore all the pain which it caused him with exemplary patience; and, though he could not always resist the tendency to discouragement and depression with which the perpetual presence of such a torment wears upon the soul, he did not allow it to diminish his exertions, or suspend, at any time, the ceaseless activity with which he labored for the welfare of the people of his realm. Alfred attached great importance to the education of his people. It was not possible, in those days, to educate the mass, for there were no books, and no means of producing them in sufficient numbers to supply any general demand. Books, in those days, were extremely costly, as they had all to be written laboriously by hand. The great mass of the population, therefore, who were engaged in the daily toil of cultivating the land, were necessarily left in ignorance; but Alfred made every effort in his power to awaken a love for learning and the arts among the higher classes. He set them, in fact, an efficient example in his own case, by pressing forward diligently in his own studies, even in the busiest periods of his reign. The spirit and manner in which he did this are well illustrated by the plan he pursued in studying Latin. It was this: He had a friend in his court, a man of great literary attainments and great piety, whose name was Asser. Asser was a bishop in Wales when Alfred first heard of his fame as a man of learning and abilities, and Alfred sent for him to come to his court and make him a visit. Alfred was very much pleased with what he saw of Asser at this interview, and proposed to him to leave his preferments in Wales, which were numerous and important, and come into his kingdom, and he would give him greater preferments there. Asser hesitated. Alfred then proposed to him to spend six months every year in England, and the remaining six in Wales. Asser said that he could not give an answer even to this proposal till he had returned home and consulted with the monks and other clergy under his charge there. He would, however, he said, at least come back and see Alfred again within the next six months, and give him his final answer. Then, after having spent four days in Alfred's court, he went away. The six months passed away and he did not return. Alfred sent a messenger into Wales to ascertain the reason. The messenger found that Asser was sick. His friends, however, had advised that he should accede to Alfred's proposal to spend six months of the year in England, as they thought that by that means, through his influence with Alfred, he would be the better able to protect and advance the interests of their monasteries and establishments in Wales. So Asser went to England, and became during six months in the year Alfred's constant friend and teacher. In the course of time, Alfred placed him at the head of some of the most important establishments and ecclesiastical charges in England. One day--it was eight or nine years after Alfred's victory over Guthrum and settlement of the kingdom--the king and Asser were engaged in conversation in the royal apartments, and Asser quoted some Latin phrase with which, on its being explained, Alfred was very much pleased, and he asked Asser to write it down for him in his book. So saying, he took from his pocket a little book of prayers and other pieces of devotion, which he was accustomed to carry with him for daily use. It was, of course, in manuscript. Asser looked over it to find a space where he could write the Latin quotation, but there was no convenient vacancy. He then proposed to Alfred that he should make for him another small book, expressly for Latin quotations, with explanations of their meaning, if Alfred chose to make them, in the Anglo-Saxon tongue. Alfred highly approved of this suggestion. The bishop prepared the little parchment volume, and it became gradually filled with passages of Scripture, in Latin, and striking sentiments, briefly and tersely expressed, extracted from the writings of the Roman poets or of the fathers of the Church. Alfred wrote opposite to each quotation its meaning, expressed in his own language; and as he made the book his constant companion, and studied it continually, taking great interest in adding to its stores, it was the means of communicating to him soon a very considerable knowledge of the language, and was the foundation of that extensive acquaintance with it which he subsequently acquired. Alfred made great efforts to promote in every way the intellectual progress and improvement of his people. He wrote and translated books, which were published so far as it was possible to publish books in those days, that is, by having a moderate number of copies transcribed and circulated among those who could read them. Such copies were generally deposited at monasteries, and abbeys, and other such places, where learned men were accustomed to assemble. These writings of Alfred exerted a wide influence during his day. They remained in manuscript until the art of printing was invented, when many of them were printed; others remain in manuscript in the various museums of England, where visitors look at them as curiosities, all worn and corroded as they are, and almost illegible by time. These books, though they exerted great influence at the time when they were written, are of little interest or value now. They express ideas in morals and philosophy, some of which have become so universally diffused as to be commonplace at the present day, while others would now be discarded, as not in harmony with the ideas or the philosophy of the times. One of the greatest and most important of the measures which Alfred adopted for the intellectual improvement of his people was the founding of the great University of Oxford. Oxford was Alfred's residence and capital during a considerable part of his reign. It is situated on the Thames, in the bosom of a delightful valley, where it calmly reposes in the midst of fields and meadows as verdant and beautiful as the imagination can conceive. There was a monastery at Oxford before Alfred's day, and for many centuries after his time acts of endowment were passed and charters granted, some of which were perhaps of greater importance than those which emanated from Alfred himself. Thus some carry back the history of this famous university beyond Alfred's time; others consider that the true origin of the present establishment should be assigned to a later date than his day. Alfred certainly adopted very important measures at Oxford for organizing and establishing schools of instruction and assembling learned men there from various parts of the world, so that he soon made it a great center and seat of learning, and mankind have been consequently inclined to award to him the honor of having laid the foundations of the vast superstructure which has since grown up on that consecrated spot. Oxford is now a city of ancient and venerable colleges. Its silent streets; its grand quadrangles; its churches, and chapels, and libraries; its secluded walks; its magnificent, though old and crumbling architecture, make it, even to the passing traveler, one of the wonders of England; and by the influence which it has exerted for the past ten centuries on the intellectual advancement of the human race, it is really one of the wonders of the world. Alfred repaired the castles which had become dilapidated in the wars; he rebuilt the ruined cities, organized municipal governments for them, restored the monasteries, and took great pains to place men of learning and piety in charge of them. He revised the laws of the kingdom, and arranged and systematized them in the most perfect manner which was possible in times so rude. Alfred's personal character gave him great influence among his people, and disposed them to acquiesce readily in the vast innovations and improvements which he introduced--changes which were so radical and affected so extensively the whole structure of society, and all the customs of social life, that any ordinary sovereign would have met with great opposition in his attempt to introduce them; but Alfred possessed such a character, and proceeded in such a way in introducing his improvements and reforms, that he seems to have awakened no jealousy and to have aroused no resistance. He was of a very calm, quiet, and placid temper of mind. The crosses and vexations which disturb and irritate ordinary men seemed never to disturb his equanimity. He was patient and forbearing, never expecting too much of those whom he employed, or resenting angrily the occasional neglects or failures in duty on their part, which he well knew must frequently occur. He was never elated by prosperity, nor made moody and morose by the turning of the tide against him. In a word, he was a philosopher, of a calm, and quiet, and happy temperament. He knew well that every man in going through life, whatever his rank and station, must encounter the usual alternations of sunshine and storm. He determined that these alternations should not mar his happiness, nor disturb the repose of his soul; that he would, on the other hand, keeping all quiet within, press calmly and steadily forward in the accomplishment of the vast objects to which he felt that his life was to be given. He was, accordingly, never anxious or restless, never impatient or fretful, never excited or wild; but always calm, considerate, steady, and persevering, he infused his own spirit into all around him. They saw him governed by fixed and permanent principles of justice and of duty in all that he planned, and in every measure that he resorted to in the execution of his plans. It was plain that his great ruling motive was a true and honest desire to promote the welfare and prosperity of his people, and the internal peace, and order, and happiness of his realm, without any selfish or sinister aims of his own. In fact, it seemed as if there were no selfish or sinister ends that possessed any charms for Alfred's mind. He had no fondness or taste for luxury or pleasure, or for aggrandizing himself in the eyes of others by pomp and parade. It is true that, as was stated in a former chapter, he was charged in early life with a tendency to some kinds of wrong indulgence; but these charges, obscure and doubtful as they were, pertained only to the earliest periods of his career, before the time of his seclusion. Through all the middle and latter portions of his life, the sole motive of his conduct seems to have been a desire to lay broad, and deep, and lasting foundations for the permanent welfare and prosperity of his realm. It resulted from the nature of the measures which Alfred undertook to effect, that they brought upon him daily a vast amount of labor as such measures always involve a great deal of minute detail. Alfred could only accomplish this great mass of duty by means of the most unremitting industry, and the most systematic and exact division of time. There were no clocks or watches in those days, and yet it was very necessary to have some plan for keeping the time, in order that his business might go on regularly, and also that the movements and operations of his large household might proceed without confusion. Alfred invented a plan. It was as follows: He observed that the wax candles which were used in his palace and in the churches burned very regularly, and with greater or less rapidity according to their size. He ordered some experiments to be made, and finally, by means of them, he determined on the size of a candle which should burn three inches in an hour. It is said that the weight of wax which he used for each candle was twelve pennyweights, that is, but little more than half an ounce, which would make, one would suppose, a _taper_ rather than a candle. There is, however, great doubt about the value of the various denominations of weight and measure, and also of money used in those days. However this may be, the candles were each a foot long, and of such size that each would burn four hours. They were divided into inches, and marked, so that each inch corresponded with a third of an hour, or twenty minutes. A large quantity of these candles were prepared, and a person in one of the chapels was appointed to keep a succession of them burning, and to ring the bells, or give the other signals, whatever they might be, by which the household was regulated, at the successive periods of time denoted by their burning. As each of these candles was one foot long, and burned three inches in an hour, it follows that it would last four hours; when this time was expired, the attendant who had the apparatus in charge lighted another. There were, of course, six required for the whole twenty-four hours. The system worked very well, though there was one difficulty that occasioned some trouble in the outset, which, however, was not much to be regretted after all, since the remedying of it awakened the royal ingenuity anew, and led, in the end, to adding to Alfred's other glories the honor of being the inventor of _lanterns_! The difficulty was, that the wind, which came in very freely in those days, even in royal residences, through the open windows, blew the flames of these horological candles about, so as to interfere quite seriously with the regularity of their burning. There was no glass for windows in those days, or, at least, very little. It had been introduced, it is said, in one instance, and that was in a monastery in the north of England. The abbot, whose name was Benedict, brought over some workmen from the Continent, where the art of making glass windows had been invented, and caused them to glaze some windows in his monastery. It was many years after this before glass came into general use even in churches, and palaces, and other costly buildings of that kind. In the mean time, windows were mere openings in stone walls, which could be closed only by shutters; and inasmuch as when closed they excluded the light as well as the air, they could ordinarily be shut only on one side of the apartment at a time--the side most exposed to the winds and storms. Alfred accordingly found that the flame of his candles was blown by the wind, which made the wax burn irregularly; and, to remedy the evil, he contrived the plan of protecting them by thin plates of horn. Horn, when softened by hot water, can easily be cut and fashioned into any shape, and, when very thin, is almost transparent. Alfred had these thin plates of horn prepared, and set into the sides of a box made open to receive them, thus forming a rude sort of lantern, within which the time-keeping candles could burn in peace. Mankind have consequently given to King Alfred the credit of having invented lanterns. Having thus completed his apparatus for the correct measurement of time, Alfred was enabled to be more and more systematic in the division and employment of it. One of the historians of the day relates that his plan was to give one third of the twenty-four hours to sleep and refreshment, one third to business, and the remaining third to the duties of religion. Under this last head was probably included all those duties and pursuits which, by the customs of the day, were considered as pertaining to the Church, such as study, writing, and the consideration and management of ecclesiastical affairs. These duties were performed, in those days, almost always by clerical men, and in the retirement and seclusion of monasteries, and were thus regarded as in some sense religious duties. We must conclude that Alfred classed them thus, as he was a great student and writer all his days, and there is no other place than this third head to which the duties of this nature can be assigned. Thus understood, it was a very wise and sensible division; though eight hours daily for any long period of time, appropriated to services strictly devotional, would not seem to be a wise arrangement, especially for a man in the prime of life, and in a position demanding the constant exercise of his powers in the discharge of active duties. Thus the years of Alfred's life passed away, his kingdom advancing steadily all the time in good government, wealth, and prosperity. The country was not, however, yet freed entirely from the calamities and troubles arising from the hostility of the Danes. Disorders continually broke out among those who had settled in the land, and, in some instances, new hordes of invaders came in. These were, however, in most instances, easily subdued, and Alfred went on with comparatively little interruption for many years, in prosecuting the arts and improvements of peace. At last, however, toward the close of his life, a famous Northman leader, named Hastings, landed in England at the head of a large force, and made, before he was expelled, a great deal of trouble. An account of this invasion will be given in the next chapter. CHAPTER XII. THE CLOSE OF LIFE. It was twelve or fifteen years after Alfred's restoration to his kingdom, by means of the victory at Edendune, that the great invasion of Hastings occurred. That victory took place in the year 878. It was in the years 893-897 that Hastings and his horde of followers infested the island, and in 900 Alfred died, so that his reign ended, as it had commenced, with protracted and desperate conflicts with the Danes. Hastings was an old and successful soldier before he came to England. He had led a wild life for many years as a sea king on the German Ocean, performing deeds which in our day entail upon the perpetrator of them the infamy of piracy and murder, but which then entitled the hero of them to a very wide-spread and honorable fame. Afterward Hastings landed upon the Continent, and pursued, for a long time, a glorious career of victory and plunder in France. In these enterprises, the tide, indeed, sometimes turned against him. On one occasion, for instance, he found himself obliged to give way before his enemies, and he retreated to a church, which he seized and fortified, making it his castle until a more favorable aspect of his affairs enabled him to issue forth from this retreat and take the field again. Still he was generally very successful in his enterprises; his terrible ferocity, and that of his savage followers, were dreaded in every part of the civilized world. Hastings had made one previous invasion of England; but Guthrum, faithful to his covenants with Alfred, repulsed him. But Guthrum was now dead, and Alfred had to contend against his formidable enemy alone. Hastings selected a point on the southern coast of England for his landing. Guthrum's Danes still continued to occupy the eastern part of England, and Hastings went round on the southern coast until he got beyond their boundaries, as if he wished to avoid doing any thing directly to awaken their hostility. Guthrum himself, while he lived, had evinced a determination to oppose Hastings's plans of invasion. Hastings did not know, now that Guthrum was dead, whether his successors would oppose him or not. He determined, at all events, to respect their territory, and so he passed along on the southern shore of England till he was beyond their limits, and then prepared to land. [Illustration: HASTINGS BESIEGED IN THE CHURCH.] He had assembled a large force of his own, and he was joined, in addition to them, by many adventurers who came out to attach themselves to his expedition from the bays, and islands, and harbors which he passed on his way. His fleet amounted at least to two hundred and fifty vessels. They arrived, at length, at a part of the coast where there extends a vast tract of low and swampy land, which was then a wild and dismal morass. This tract, which is known in modern times by the name of the Romney Marshes, is of enormous extent, containing, as it does, fifty thousand acres. It is now reclaimed, and is defended by a broad and well-constructed dike from the inroads of the sea. In Hastings's time it was a vast waste of bogs and mire, utterly impassable except by means of a river, which, meandering sluggishly through the tangled wilderness of weeds and bushes in a deep, black stream, found an outlet at last into the sea. Hastings took his vessels into this river, and, following its turnings for some miles, he conducted them at last to a place where he found more solid ground to land upon. But this ground, though solid, was almost as wild and solitary as the morass. It was a forest of vast extent, which showed no signs of human occupancy, except that the peasants who lived in the surrounding regions had come down to the lowest point accessible, and were building a rude fortification there. Hastings attacked them and drove them away. Then, advancing a little further, until he found an advantageous position, he built a strong fortress himself and established his army within its lines. His next measure was to land another force near the mouth of the Thames, and bring them into the country, until he found a strong position where he could intrench and fortify the second division as he had done the first. These two positions were but a short distance from each other. He made them the combined center of his operations, going from them in all directions in plundering excursions. Alfred soon raised an army and advanced to attack him; and these operations were the commencement of a long and tedious war. A detailed description of the events of this war, the marches and countermarches, the battles and sieges, the various success, first of one party and then of the other, given historically in the order of time, would be as tedious to read as the war itself was to endure. Alfred was very cautious in all his operations, preferring rather to trust to the plan of wearing out the enemy by cutting off their resources and hemming them constantly in, than to incur the risk of great decisive battles. In fact, watchfulness, caution, and delay are generally the policy of the invaded when a powerful force has succeeded in establishing itself among them; while, on the other hand, the hope of _invaders_ lies ordinarily in prompt and decided action. Alfred was well aware of this, and made all his arrangements with a view to cutting off Hastings's supplies, shutting him up into as narrow a compass as possible, heading him off in all his predatory excursions, intercepting all detachments, and thus reducing him at length to the necessity of surrender. At one time, soon after the war began, Hastings, true to the character of his nation for treachery and stratagem, pretended that he was ready to surrender, and opened a negotiation for this purpose. He agreed to leave the kingdom if Alfred would allow him to depart peaceably, and also, which was a point of great importance in Alfred's estimation, to have his two sons baptized. While, however, these negotiations were going on between the two camps, Alfred suddenly found that the main body of Hastings's army had stolen away in the rear, and were marching off by stealth to another part of the country. The negotiations were, of course, immediately abandoned, and Alfred set off with all his forces in full pursuit. All hopes of peace were given up, and the usual series of sieges, maneuverings, battles, and retreats was resumed again. On one occasion Alfred succeeded in taking possession of Hastings's camp, when he had left it in security, as he supposed, to go off for a time by sea on an expedition. Alfred's soldiers found Hastings's wife and children in the camp, and took them prisoners. They sent the terrified captives to Alfred, to suffer, as they supposed, the long and cruel confinement or the violent death to which the usages of those days consigned such unhappy prisoners. Alfred baptized the children, and then sent them, with their mother, loaded with presents and proofs of kindness, back to Hastings again. This generosity made no impression upon the heart of Hastings, or, at least, it produced no effect upon his conduct. He continued the war as energetically as ever. Months passed away and new re-enforcements arrived, until at length he felt strong enough to undertake an excursion into the very heart of the country. He moved on for a time with triumphant success; but this very success was soon the means of turning the current against him again. It aroused the whole country through which he was passing. The inhabitants flocked to arms. They assembled at every rallying point, and, drawing up on all sides nearer and nearer to Hastings's army, they finally stopped his march, and forced him to call all his forces in, and intrench himself in the first place of retreat that he could find. Thus his very success was the means of turning his good fortune into disaster. And then, in the same way, the success of Alfred and the Saxons soon brought disaster upon them too, in their turn; for, after succeeding in shutting Hastings closely in, and cutting off his supplies of food, they maintained their watch and ward over their imprisoned enemies so closely as to reduce them to extreme distress--a distress and suffering which they thought would end in their complete and absolute submission. Instead of ending thus, however, it aroused them to desperation. Under the influence of the phrensy which such hopeless sufferings produce in characters like theirs, they burst out one day from the place of their confinement, and, after a terrible conflict, which choked up a river which they had to pass with dead bodies and dyed its waters with blood, the great body of the starving desperadoes made their escape, and, in a wild and furious excitement, half a triumph and half a retreat, they went back to the eastern coast of the island, where they found secure places of refuge to receive them. In the course of the subsequent campaigns, a party of the Danes came up the River Thames with a fleet of their vessels, and an account is given by some of the ancient historians of a measure which Alfred resorted to to entrap them, which would seem to be scarcely credible. The account is, that he _altered the course of the river_ by digging new channels for it, so as to leave the vessels all aground, when, of course, they became helpless, and fell an easy prey to the attacks of their enemies. This is, at least, a very improbable statement, for a river like the Thames occupies always the lowest channel of the land through which it passes to the sea. Besides, such a river, in order that it should be possible for vessels to ascend it from the ocean, must have the surface of its water very near the level of the surface of the ocean. There can, therefore, be no place to which such waters could be drawn off, unless into a valley below the level of the sea. All such valleys, whenever they exist in the interior of a country, necessarily get filled with water from brooks and rains, and so become lakes or inland seas. It is probable, therefore, that it was some other operation which Alfred performed to imprison the hostile vessels in the river, more possible in its own nature than the drawing off of the waters of the Thames from their ancient bed. Year after year passed on, and, though neither the Saxons nor the Danes gained any very permanent and decisive victories, the invaders were gradually losing ground, being driven from one intrenchment and one stronghold to another, until, at last, their only places of refuge were their ships, and the harbors along the margin of the sea. Alfred followed on and occupied the country as fast as the enemy was driven away; and when, at last, they began to seek refuge in their ships, he advanced to the shore, and began to form plans for building ships, and manning and equipping a fleet, to pursue his retiring enemies upon their own element. In this undertaking, he proceeded in the same calm, deliberate, and effectual manner, as in all his preceding measures. He built his vessels with great care. He made them twice as long as those of the Danes, and planned them so as to make them more steady, more safe, and capable of carrying a crew of rowers so numerous as to be more active and swift than the vessels of the enemy. When these naval preparations were made, Alfred began to look out for an object of attack on which he could put their efficiency to the test. He soon heard of a fleet of the Northmen's vessels on the coast of the Isle of Wight, and he sent a fleet of his own ships to attack them. He charged the commander of this fleet to be sparing of life, but to capture the ships and take the men, bringing as many as possible to him unharmed. There were nine of the English vessels, and when they reached the Isle of Wight they found six vessels of the Danes in a harbor there. Three of these Danish vessels were afloat, and came out boldly to attack Alfred's armament. The other three were upon the shore, where they had been left by the tide, and were, of course, disabled and defenseless until the water should rise and float them again. Under these circumstances, it would seem that the victory for Alfred's fleet would have been easy and sure; and at first the result was, in fact, in Alfred's favor. Of the three ships that came out to meet him, two were captured, and one escaped, with only five men left on board of it alive. The Saxon ships, after thus disposing of the three living and moving enemies, pushed boldly into the harbor to attack those which were lying lifeless on the sands. They found, however, that, though successful in the encounter with the active and the powerful, they were destined to disaster and defeat in approaching the defenseless and weak. They got aground themselves in approaching the shoals on which the vessels of their enemies were lying. The tide receded and left three of the vessels on the sands, and kept the rest so separated and so embarrassed by the difficulties and dangers of their situation as to expose the whole force to the most imminent danger. There was a fierce contest in boats and on the shore. Both parties suffered very severely; and, finally, the Danes, getting first released, made their escape and put to sea. Notwithstanding this partial discomfiture, Alfred soon succeeded in driving the ships of the Danes off his coast, and in thus completing the deliverance of his country. Hastings himself went to France, where he spent the remainder of his days in some territories which he had previously conquered, enjoying, while he continued to live, and for many ages afterward, a very extended and very honorable fame. Such exploits as those which he had performed conferred, in those days, upon the hero who performed them, a very high distinction, the luster of which seems not to have been at all tarnished in the opinions of mankind by any ideas of the violence and wrong which the commission of such deeds involved. Alfred's dominions were now left once more in peace, and he himself resumed again his former avocations. But a very short period of his life, however, now remained. Hastings was finally expelled from England about 897. In 900 or 901 Alfred died. The interval was spent in the same earnest and devoted efforts to promote the welfare and prosperity of his kingdom that his life had exhibited before the war. He was engaged diligently and industriously in repairing injuries, redressing grievances, and rectifying every thing that was wrong. He exacted rigid impartiality in all the courts of justice; he held public servants of every rank and station to a strict accountability; and in all the colleges, and monasteries, and ecclesiastical establishments of every kind, he corrected all abuses, and enforced a rigid discipline, faithfully extirpating from every lurking place all semblance of immorality or vice. He did these things, too, with so much kindness and consideration for all concerned, and was actuated in all he did so unquestionably by an honest and sincere desire to fulfill his duty to his people and to God, that nobody opposed him. The good considered him their champion, the indifferent readily caught a portion of his spirit and wished him success, while the wicked were silenced if they were not changed. Alfred's children had grown up to maturity, and seemed to inherit, in some degree, their father's character. He had a daughter, named Æthelfleda, who was married to a prince of Mercia, and who was famed all over England for the superiority of her mental powers, her accomplishments, and her moral worth. The name of his oldest son was Edward; he was to succeed Alfred on the throne, and it was a source now of great satisfaction to the king to find this son emulating his virtues, and preparing for an honorable and prosperous reign. Alfred had warning, in the progress of his disease, of the approach of his end. When he found that the time was near at hand, he called his son Edward to his side, and gave him these his farewell counsels, which express in few words the principles and motives by which his own life had been so fully governed. "Thou, my dear son, set thee now beside me, and I will deliver thee true instructions. I feel that my hour is coming. My strength is gone; my countenance is wasted and pale. My days are almost ended. We must now part. I go to another world, and thou art to be left alone in the possession of all that I have thus far held. I pray thee, my dear child, to be a father to thy people. Be the children's father and the widow's friend. Comfort the poor, protect and shelter the weak, and, with all thy might, right that which is wrong. And, my son, govern _thyself_ by _law_. Then shall the Lord love thee, and God himself shall be thy reward. Call thou upon him to advise thee in all thy need, and he shall help thee to compass all thy desires." Alfred was fifty-two years of age when he died. His death was universally lamented. The body was interred in the great cathedral at Winchester. The kingdom passed peacefully and prosperously to his son, and the arrangements which Alfred had spent his life in framing and carrying into effect, soon began to work out their happy results. The constructions which he founded stand to the present day, strengthened and extended rather than impaired by the hand of time; and his memory, as their founder, will be honored as long as any remembrance of the past shall endure among the minds of men. CHAPTER XIII. THE SEQUEL. The romantic story of Godwin forms the sequel to the history of Alfred, leading us onward, as it does, toward the next great era in English history, that of William the Conqueror. Although, as we have seen in the last chapter, the immediate effects of Alfred's measures was to re-establish peace and order in his kingdom, and although the institutions which he founded have continued to expand and develop themselves down to the present day, still it must not be supposed that the power and prosperity of his kingdom and of the Saxon dynasty continued wholly uninterrupted after his death. Contentions and struggles between the two great races of Saxons and Danes continued for some centuries to agitate the island. The particular details of these contentions have in these days, in a great measure, lost their interest for all but professed historical scholars. It is only the history of great leading events and the lives of really extraordinary men, in the annals of early ages, which can now attract the general attention even of cultivated minds. The vast movements which have occurred and are occurring in the history of mankind in the present century, throw every thing except what is really striking and important in early history into the shade. The era which comes next in the order of time to that of Alfred in the course of English history, as worthy to arrest general attention, is, as we have already said, that of William the Conqueror. The life of this sovereign forms the subject of a separate volume of this series. He lived two centuries after Alfred's day; and although, for the reasons above given, a full chronological narration of the contentions between the Saxon and Danish lines of kings which took place during this interval would be of little interest or value, some general knowledge of the state of the kingdom at this time is important, and may best be communicated in connection with the story of Godwin. Godwin was by birth a Saxon peasant, of Warwickshire. At the time when he arrived at manhood, and was tending his father's flocks and herds like other peasants' sons, the Saxons and the Danes were at war. It seems that one of Alfred's descendants, named Ethelred, displeased his people by his misgovernment, and was obliged to retire from England. He went across the Channel, and married there the sister of a Norman chief named Richard. Her name was Emma. Ethelred hoped by this alliance to obtain Richard's assistance in enabling him to recover his kingdom. The Danish population, however, took advantage of his absence to put one of their own princes upon the throne. His name was Canute. He figures in English history, accordingly, among the other English kings, as Canute the Dane, that appellation being given him to mark the distinction of his origin in respect to the kings who preceded and followed him, as they were generally of the Saxon line. It was this Canute of whom the famous story is told that, in order to rebuke his flatterers, who, in extolling his grandeur and power, had represented to him that even the elements were subservient to his will, he took his stand upon the sea-shore when the tide was coming in, with his flatterers by his side, and commanded the rising waves not to approach his royal feet. He kept his sycophantic courtiers in this ridiculous position until the encroaching waters drove them away, and then dismissed them overwhelmed with confusion. The story is told in a thousand different ways, and with a great variety of different embellishments, according to the fancy of the several narrators; all that there is now any positive evidence for believing, however, is, that probably some simple incident of the kind occurred, out of which the stories have grown. Canute did not hold his kingdom in peace. Ethelred sent his son across the Channel into England to negotiate with the Anglo-Saxon powers for his own restoration to the throne. An arrangement was accordingly made with them, and Ethelred returned, and a violent civil war immediately ensued between Ethelred and the Anglo-Saxons on the one hand, and Canute and the Danes on the other. At length Ethelred fell, and his son Edmund, who was at the time of his death one of his generals, succeeded him. Emma and his two other sons had been left in Normandy. Edmund carried on the war against Canute with great energy. One of his battles was fought in the county of Warwick, in the heart of England, where the peasant Godwin lived. In this battle the Danes were defeated, and the discomfited generals fled in all directions from the field wherever they saw the readiest hope of concealment or safety. One of them, named Ulf,[1] took a by-way, which led him in the direction of Godwin's father's farm. Night came on, and he lost his way in a wood. Men, when flying under such circumstances from a field of battle, avoid always the public roads, and seek concealment in unfrequented paths, where, they easily get bewildered and lost. Ulf wandered about all night in the forest, and when the morning came he found himself exhausted with fatigue, anxiety, and hunger, certain to perish unless he could find some succor, and yet dreading the danger of being recognized as a Danish fugitive if he were to be discovered by any of the Saxon inhabitants of the land. At length he heard the shouts of a peasant who was coming along a solitary pathway through the wood, driving a herd to their pasture. Ulf would gladly have avoided him if he could have gone on without succor or help. His plan was to find his way to the Severn, where some Danish ships were lying, in hopes of a refuge on board of them. But he was exhausted with hunger and fatigue, and utterly bewildered and lost; so he was compelled to go forward, and take the risk of accosting the Saxon stranger. He accordingly went up to him, and asked him his name. Godwin told him his name, and the name of his father, who lived, he said, at a little distance in the wood. While he was answering the question, he gazed very earnestly at the stranger, and then told him that he perceived that he was a Dane--a fugitive, he supposed, from the battle. Ulf, thus finding that he could not be concealed, begged Godwin not to betray him. He acknowledged that he was a Dane, and that he had made his escape from the battle, and he wished, he said, to find his way to the Danish ships in the Severn. He begged Godwin to conduct him there. Godwin replied by saying that it was unreasonable and absurd for a Dane to expect guidance and protection from a Saxon. Ulf offered Godwin all sorts of rewards if he would leave his herd and conduct him to a place of safety. Godwin said that the attempt, were he to make it, would endanger his own life without saving that of the fugitive. The country, he said, was all in arms. The peasantry, emboldened by the late victory obtained by the Saxon army, were every where rising; and although it was not far to the Severn, yet to attempt to reach the river while the country was in such a state of excitement would be a desperate undertaking. They would almost certainly be intercepted; and, if intercepted, their exasperated captors would show no mercy, Godwin said, either to him or to his guide. Among the other inducements which Ulf offered to Godwin was a valuable gold ring, which he took from his finger, and which, he said, should be his if he would consent to be his guide. Godwin took the ring into his hand, examined it with much apparent curiosity, and seemed to hesitate. At length he yielded; though he seems to have been induced to yield, not by the value of the offered gift, but by compassion for the urgency of the distress which the offer of it indicated, for he put the ring back into Ulf's hand, saying that he would not take any thing from him, but he would try to save him. Instead, however, of undertaking the apparently hopeless enterprise of conducting Ulf to the Severn, he took him to his father's cottage and concealed him there. During the day they formed plans for journeying together, not to the ships in the Severn, but to the Danish camp. They were to set forth as soon as it was dark. When the evening came and all was ready, and they were about to commence their dangerous journey, the old peasant, Godwin's father, with an anxious countenance and manner, gave Ulf this solemn charge: "This is my _only_ son. In going forth to guide you under these circumstances, he puts his life at stake, trusting to your honor. He can not return to me again, as there will be no more safety for him among his own countrymen after having once been a guide for you. When, therefore, you reach the camp, present my son to your king, and ask him to receive him into his service. He can not come again to me." Ulf promised very earnestly to do all this and much more for his protector; and then bidding the father farewell, and leaving him in his solitude, the two adventurers sallied forth into the dark forest and went their way. After various adventures, they reached the camp of the Danes in safety. Ulf faithfully fulfilled the promises that he had made. He introduced Godwin to the king, and the king was so much pleased with the story of his general's escape, and so impressed with the marks of capacity and talent which the young Saxon manifested, that he gave Godwin immediately a military command in his army. In fact, a young man who could leave his home and his father, and abandon the cause of his countrymen forever under such circumstances, must have had something besides generosity toward a fugitive enemy to impel him. Godwin was soon found to possess a large portion of that peculiar spirit which constitutes a soldier. He was ambitious, stern, energetic, and always successful. He rose rapidly in influence and rank, and in the course of a few years, during which King Canute triumphed wholly over his Saxon enemies, and established his dominion over almost the whole realm, he was promoted to the rank of a king, and ruled, second only to Canute himself, over the kingdom of Wessex, one of the most important divisions of Canute's empire. Here he lived and reigned in peace and prosperity for many years. He was married, and he had a daughter named Edith, who was as gentle and lovely as her father was terrible and stern. They said that Edith sprung from Godwin like a rose from its stem of thorns. A writer who lived in those days, and recorded the occurrences of the times, says that, when he was a boy, his father was employed in some way in Godwin's palace, and that in going to and from school he was often met by Edith, who was walking, attended by her maid. On such occasions Edith would stop him, he said, and question him about his studies, his grammar, his logic, and his verses; and she would often draw him into an argument on those subtle points of disputation which attracted so much attention in those days. Then she would commend him for his attention and progress, and order her woman to make him a present of some money. In a word, Edith was so gentle and kind, and took so cordial an interest in whatever concerned the welfare and happiness of those around her, that she was universally beloved. She became in the end, as we shall see in due time, the English queen. In the mean time, while Godwin was governing, as vicegerent, the province which Canute had assigned him, Canute himself extended his own dominion far and wide, reducing first all England under his sway, and then extending his conquests to the Continent. Edmund, the Saxon king, was dead. His brothers Edward and Alfred, the two remaining sons of Ethelred, were with their mother in Normandy. They, of course, represented the Saxon line. The Saxon portion of Canute's kingdom would of course look to them as their future leaders. Under these circumstances, Canute conceived the idea of propitiating the Saxon portion of the population, and combining, so far as was possible, the claims of the two lines, by making the widow Emma his own wife. He made the proposal to her, and she accepted it, pleased with the idea of being once more a queen. She came to England, and they were married. In process of time they had a son, who was named Hardicanute, which means Canute _the strong_. Canute now felt that his kingdom was secure; and he hoped, by making Hardicanute his heir, to perpetuate the dominion in his own family. It is true that he had older children, whom the Danes might look upon as more properly his heirs; and Emma had also two older children, the sons of Ethelred, in Normandy. These the _Saxons_ would be likely to consider as the rightful heirs to the throne. There was danger, therefore, that at his death parties would again be formed, and the civil wars break out anew. Canute and Emma therefore seem to have acted wisely, and to have done all that the nature of the case admitted to prevent a renewal of these dreadful struggles, by concentrating their combined influence in favor of Hardicanute, who, though not absolutely the heir to either line, still combined, in some degree, the claims of both of them. Canute also did all in his power to propitiate his Anglo-Saxon subjects. He devoted himself to promoting the welfare of the kingdom in every way. He built towns, he constructed roads, he repaired and endowed the churches. He became a very zealous Christian, evincing the ardor of his piety, whether real or pretended, by all the forms and indications common in those days. Finally, to crown all, he went on a pilgrimage to Rome. He set out on this journey with great pomp and parade, and attended by a large retinue, and yet still strictly like a pilgrim. He walked, and carried a wallet on his back, and a long pilgrim's staff in his hand. This pilgrimage, at the time when it occurred, filled the world with its fame. At length King Canute died, and then, unfortunately, it proved that all his seemingly wise precautions against the recurrence of civil wars were taken in vain. It happened that Hardicanute, whom he had intended should succeed him, was in Denmark at the time of his father's death. Godwin, however, proclaimed him king, and attempted to establish his authority, and to make Emma a sort of regent, to govern in his name until he could be brought home. The Danish chieftains, on the other hand, elected and proclaimed one of Canute's older sons, whose name was Harold;[2] and they succeeded in carrying a large part of the country in his favor. Godwin then summoned Emma to join him in the west with such forces as she could command, and both parties prepared for war. Then ensued one of those scenes of terror and suffering which war, and sometimes the mere fear of war, brings often in its train. It was expected that the first outbreak of hostilities would be in the interior of England, near the banks of the Thames, and the inhabitants of the whole region were seized with apprehensions and fears, which spread rapidly, increased by the influence of sympathy, and excited more and more every day by a thousand groundless rumors, until the whole region was thrown into a state of uncontrollable panic and confusion. The inhabitants abandoned their dwellings, and fled in dismay into the eastern part of the island, to seek refuge among the fens and marshes of Lincolnshire, and of the other counties around. Here, as has been already stated in a previous chapter when describing the Abbey of Croyland, were a great many monasteries, and convents, and hermitages, and other religious establishments, filled with monks and nuns. The wretched fugitives from the expected scene of war crowded into this region, besieging the doors of the abbeys and monasteries to beg for shelter, or food, or protection. Some built huts among the willow woods which grew in the fens; others encamped at the road-sides, or under the monastery walls, wherever they could find the semblance of shelter. They presented, of course, a piteous spectacle--men infirm with sickness or age, or exhausted with anxiety and fatigue; children harassed and way-worn; and helpless mothers, with still more helpless babes at their breasts. The monks, instead of being moved to compassion by the sight of these unhappy sufferers, were only alarmed on their own account at such an inundation of misery. They feared that they should be overwhelmed themselves. Those whose establishments were large and strong, barred their doors against the suppliants, and the hermits, who lived alone in detached and separate solitudes, abandoned their osier huts, and fled themselves to seek some place more safe from such intrusions. And yet, after all, the whole scene was only a false alarm. Men acting in a panic are almost always running into the ills which they think they shun. The war did not break out on the banks of the Thames at all. Hardicanute, deterred, perhaps, by the extent of the support which the claims of Harold were receiving, did not venture to come to England, and Emma and Godwin, and those who would have taken their side, having no royal head to lead them, gave up their opposition, and acquiesced in Harold's reign. The fugitives in the marshes and fens returned to their homes; the country became tranquil; Godwin held his province as a sort of lieutenant general of Harold's kingdom, and Emma herself joined his court in London, where she lived with him ostensibly on very friendly terms. Still, her mind was ill at ease. Harold, though the son of her husband, was not her own son, and the ambitious spirit which led her to marry for her second husband her first husband's rival and enemy, that she might be a second time a queen, naturally made her desire that one of her own offspring, either on the Danish or the Saxon side, should inherit the kingdom; for the reader must not forget that Emma, besides being the mother of Hardicanute by her second husband Canute, the Danish sovereign, was also the mother of Edward and Alfred by her first husband Ethelred, of the Anglo-Saxon line, and that these two sons were in Normandy now. The family connection will be more apparent to the eye by the following scheme: Ethelred the Saxon. Emma. Canute the Dane. ------\/---------------/\-------------\/-------- Edward. Hardicanute. Alfred. Harold was the son of Canute by a former marriage. Emma, of course, felt no maternal interest in him, and though compelled by circumstances to acquiesce for a time in his possession of the kingdom, her thoughts were continually with her own sons; and since the attempt to bring Hardicanute to the throne had failed, she began to turn her attention toward her Norman children. After scheming for a time, she wrote letters to them, proposing that they should come to England. She represented to them that the Anglo-Saxon portion of the people were ill at ease under Harold's dominion, and would gladly embrace any opportunity of having a Saxon king. She had no doubt, she said, that if one of them were to appear in England and claim the throne, the people would rise in mass to support him, and he would easily get possession of the realm. She invited them, therefore, to repair secretly to England, to confer with her on the subject; charging them, however, to bring very few, if any, Norman attendants with them, as the English people were inclined to be very jealous of the influence of foreigners. The brothers were very much elated at receiving these tidings; so much so that in their zeal they were disposed to push the enterprise much faster than their mother had intended. Instead of going, themselves, quietly and secretly to confer with her in London, they organized an armed expedition of Norman soldiers. The youngest, Alfred, with an enthusiasm characteristic of his years, took the lead in these measures. He undertook to conduct the expedition. The eldest consented to his making the attempt. He landed at Dover, and began his march through the southern part of the country. _Godwin_ went forth to meet him. Whether he would join his standard or meet him as a foe, no one could tell. Emma considered that Godwin was on her side, though even she had not recommended an armed invasion of the country. It is very probable that Godwin himself was uncertain, at first, what course to pursue, and that he intended to have espoused Prince Alfred's cause if he had found that it presented any reasonable prospect of success. Or he may have felt bound to serve Harold faithfully, now that he had once given in his adhesion to him. Of course, he kept his thoughts and plans to himself, leaving the world to see only his deeds. But if he had ever entertained any design of espousing Alfred's cause, he abandoned it before the time arrived for action. As he advanced into the southern part of the island, he called together the leading Saxon chiefs to hold a council, and he made an address to them when they were convened, which had a powerful influence on their minds in preventing their deciding in favor of Alfred. However much they might desire a monarch of their own line, this, he said, was not the proper occasion for effecting their end. Alfred was, it was true, an Anglo-Saxon by descent, but he was a Norman by birth and education. All his friends and supporters were Normans. He had come now into the realm of England with a retinue of Norman followers, who would, if he were successful, monopolize the honors and offices which he would have to bestow. He advised the Anglo-Saxon chieftains, therefore, to remain inactive, to take no part in the contest, but to wait for some other opportunity to re-establish the Saxon line of kings. The Anglo-Saxon chieftains seem to have considered this good advice. At any rate, they made no movement to sustain young Alfred's cause. Alfred had advanced to the town of Guilford. Here he was surrounded by a force which Harold had sent against him. There was no hope or possibility of resistance. In fact, his enemies seem to have arrived at a time when he did not expect an attack, for they entered the gates by a sudden onset, when Alfred's followers were scattered about the town at the various houses to which they had been distributed. They made no attempt to defend themselves, but were taken prisoners one by one, wherever they were found. They were bound with cords, and carried away like ordinary criminals. Of Alfred's ten principal Norman companions, nine were beheaded. For some reason or other the life of one was spared. Alfred himself was charged with having violated the peace of his country, and was condemned to lose his eyes. The torture of this operation, and the inflammation which followed, destroyed the unhappy prince's life. Neither Emma nor Godwin did any thing to save him. It was wise policy, no doubt, in Emma to disavow all connection with her son's unfortunate attempt, now that it had failed; and ambitious queens have to follow the dictates of policy instead of obeying such impulses as maternal love. She was, however, secretly indignant at the cruel fate which her son had endured, and she considered Godwin as having betrayed him. After this dreadful disappointment, Emma was not likely to make any farther attempts to place either of her sons upon the throne; but Harold seems to have distrusted her, for he banished her from the realm. She had still her Saxon son in Normandy, Alfred's brother Edward, and her Danish son in Denmark. She went to Flanders, and there sent to Hardicanute, urging him by the most earnest importunities to come to England and assert his claims to the crown. He was doubly bound to do it now, she said, as the blood of his murdered brother called for retribution, and he could have no honorable rest or peace until he had avenged it. There was no occasion, however, for Hardicanute to attempt force for the recovery of his kingdom, for not many months after these transactions Harold died, and then the country seemed generally to acquiesce in Hardicanute's accession. The Anglo-Saxons, discouraged perhaps by the discomfiture of their cause in the person of Alfred, made no attempt to rise. Hardicanute came accordingly and assumed the throne. But, though he had not courage and energy enough to encounter his rival Harold during his lifetime, he made what amends he could by offering base indignities to his body after he was laid in the grave. His first public act after his accession was to have the body disinterred, and, after cutting off the head, he threw the mangled remains into the Thames. The Danish fishermen in the river found them, and buried them again in a private sepulcher in London, with such concealed marks of respect and honor as it was in their power to bestow. Hardicanute also instituted legal proceedings to inquire into the death of Alfred. He charged the Saxons with having betrayed him, especially those who were rich enough to pay the fines by which, in those days, it was very customary for criminals to atone for their crimes. Godwin himself was brought before the tribunal, and charged with being accessory to Alfred's death. Godwin positively asserted his innocence, and brought witnesses to prove that he was entirely free from all participation in the affair. He took also a much more effectual method to secure an acquittal, by making to King Hardicanute some most magnificent presents. One of these was a small ship, profusely enriched and ornamented with gold. It contained eighty soldiers, armed in the Danish style, with weapons of the most highly-finished and costly construction. They each carried a Danish axe on the left shoulder, and a javelin in the right hand, both richly gilt, and they had each of them a bracelet on his arm, containing six ounces of solid gold. Such at least is the story. The presents might be considered in the light either of a bribe to corrupt justice, or in that of a fine to satisfy it. In fact, the line, in those days, between bribes to purchase acquittal and fines atoning for the offense seems not to have been very accurately drawn. Hardicanute, when fairly established on his throne, governed his realm like a tyrant. He oppressed the Saxons especially without any mercy. The effect of his cruelties, and those of the Danes who acted under him, was, however, not to humble and subdue the Saxon spirit, but to awaken and arouse it. Plots and conspiracies began to be formed against him, and against the whole Danish party. Godwin himself began to meditate some decisive measures, when, suddenly, Hardicanute died. Godwin immediately took the field at the head of all his forces, and organized a general movement throughout the kingdom for calling Edward, Alfred's brother, to the throne. This insurrection was triumphantly successful. The Danish forces that undertook to resist it were driven to the northward. The leaders were slain or put to flight. A remnant of them escaped to the sea-shore, where they embarked on board such vessels as they could find, and left England forever; and this was the final termination of the political authority of the Danes over the realm of England--the consummation and end of Alfred's military labors and schemes, coming surely at last, though deferred for two centuries after his decease. What follows belongs rather to the history of William the Conqueror than to that of Alfred, for Godwin invited Edward, Emma's Norman son, to come and assume the crown; and his coming, together with that of the many Norman attendants that accompanied or followed him, led, in the end, to the Norman invasion and conquest. Godwin might probably have made himself king if he had chosen to do so. His authority over the whole island was paramount and supreme. But, either from a natural sense of justice toward the rightful heir, or from a dread of the danger which always attends the usurping of the royal name by one who is not of royal descent, he made no attempt to take the crown. He convened a great assembly of all the estates of the realm, and there it was solemnly decided that Edward should be invited to come to England and ascend the throne. A national messenger was dispatched to Normandy to announce the invitation. It was stipulated in this invitation that Edward should bring very few Normans with him. He came, accordingly, in the first instance, almost unattended. He was received with great joy, and crowned king with splendid ceremonies and great show, in the ancient cathedral at Winchester. He felt under great obligations to Godwin, to whose instrumentality he was wholly indebted for this sudden and most brilliant change in his fortunes; and partly impelled by this feeling of gratitude, and partly allured by Edith's extraordinary charms, he proposed to make Edith his wife. Godwin made no objection. In fact, his enemies say that he made a positive stipulation for this match before allowing the measures for Edward's elevation to the throne to proceed too far. However this may be, Godwin found himself, after Edward's accession, raised to the highest pitch of honor and power. From being a young herdsman's son, driving the cows to pasture in a wood, he had become the prime minister, as it were, of the whole realm, his four sons being great commanding generals in the army, and his daughter the queen. The current of life did not flow smoothly with him, after all. We can not here describe the various difficulties in which he became involved with the king on account of the Normans, who were continually coming over from the Continent to join Edward's court, and whose coming and growing influence strongly awakened the jealousy of the English people. Some narration of these events will more properly precede the history of William the Conqueror. We accordingly close this story of Godwin here by giving the circumstances of his death, as related by the historians of the time. The readers of this narrative will, of course, exercise severally their own discretion in determining how far they will believe the story to be true. The story is, that one day he was seated at Edward's table, at some sort of entertainment, when one of his attendants, who was bringing in a goblet of wine, tripped one of his feet, but contrived to save himself by dexterously bringing up the other in such a manner as to cause some amusement to the guests; Godwin said, referring to the man's feet, that _one brother saved the other_. "Yes," said the king, "brothers have need of brothers' aid. Would to God that mine were still alive." In saying this he directed a meaning glance toward Godwin, which seemed to insinuate, as, in fact, the king had sometimes done before, that Godwin had had some agency in young Alfred's death. Godwin was displeased. He reproached the king with the unreasonableness of his surmises, and solemnly declared that he was wholly innocent of all participation in that crime. He imprecated the curse of God upon his head if this declaration was not true, wishing that the next mouthful of bread that he should eat might choke him if he had contributed in any way, directly or indirectly, to Alfred's unhappy end. So saying, he put the bread into his mouth, and in the act of swallowing it he was seized with a paroxysm of coughing and suffocation. The attendants hastened to his relief, the guests rose in terror and confusion. Godwin was borne away by two of his sons, and laid on his bed in convulsions. He survived the immediate injury, but after lingering five days he died. Edward continued to reign in prosperity long after this event, and he employed the sons of Godwin as long as he lived in the most honorable stations of public service. In fact, when he died, he named one of them as his successor to the throne. [Footnote 1: Pronounced _Oolf_] [Footnote 2: Spelled sometimes Herald] THE END. 
46320	----	WULNOTH THE WANDERER STORIES OF VIKING DAYS Illustrated and Decorated by the Kinneys =The Thrall of Leif the Lucky.= By Ottilie A. Liljencrantz. Six pictures in full color. _Eighth Edition._ =The Ward of King Canute.= By Ottilie A. Liljencrantz. Six pictures in full color. _Third Edition._ =For the White Christ.= By Robert Ames Bennet. Four pictures in full color. _Each volume beautifully printed and bound, $1.50_ A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers [Illustration: "And it was peace time in their souls, and the Princess Edgiva lifted her face to Wulnoth and smiled, and her eyes spoke words that her lips uttered not." [Page 154.]] Wulnoth The Wanderer A Story of King Alfred of England BY H. Escott-Inman With decorations and frontispiece by Troy & Margaret West Kinney Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1908 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1908 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, Eng. Published October 17, 1908 The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I How Wyborga the Wise spoke with King Hardacnute 1 II How Wulnoth saved Edgiva from the Bear 12 III How Wulnoth journeyed by the Birds' Road 27 IV The Coming of Hungwar and Hubba 39 V Of Wulnoth's Schooling 53 VI Of Wulnoth's Strange Wrestling in the Place of Desolation 64 VII Of the Coming of Wulnoth to the Danish Sea-kings 75 VIII Of what befell Wulnoth in the Halls of the Danes 87 IX How the Sea-kings sailed for East Anglia 98 X Of the Slaying of Edmund, the King of the East Saxons 111 XI How Wulnoth met with Wyborga again 124 XII How Wulnoth and Wahrmund visited the Christian Church 136 XIII Of how Wulnoth met with Edgiva again 147 XIV How Wahrmund the Dane gave his Life for Wulnoth 159 XV How Wulnoth came to Alfred 170 XVI How the Men of Wessex fought the Danes 183 XVII The Passing of Ethelred the King 195 XVIII Of the Coming back of Guthrun 203 XIX Of the Capturing of the Raven Banner 214 XX Of the Hunting of the Ring 226 XXI Of the Gleeman who visited the Danish Camp 237 XXII The Battle of Ethandune 248 XXIII How Hungwar was slain, and the Danes became Christians 260 XXIV How Wulnoth met with Guthred again 271 XXV The Crowning of Guthred 285 XXVI Of the Wedding of Wulnoth and Edgiva 296 XXVII Skoal! 306 FOREWORD The song of Wulnoth, the born thrall, who was called the Wanderer; the song of the nameless and the landless man who aided two kings to gain kingdoms. "The song of his friendship for Guthred the prince; the song of his wanderings to find his friend. The song of his perils and warrings, and of his slaying of Hungwar the Dane. The song of his friendship with Alfred the Bretwalda of the West Saxons, and of his love for Edgiva the Beautiful. The song of his turning to the Life Giver; the song of his last fight with Jarl Eric, on the field of the great slaughter. This is the song. "And this song did Gyso the Gleeman sing by command of Edward the King, the son of Alfred, that the name and the deeds of Wulnoth might not perish, but be remembered by all men." CHAPTER I _How Wyborga the Wise spoke with King Hardacnute_ Far across the dark sea which rolls its waters to the northeast of this England of ours, there rise the dark cliffs and frowning heights of Norway's shores; and there, in the days of old, lived Hardacnute the King. Far inland did his lands extend, fair with many a fertile field where broad streams flowed, and grim with snow-clad peaks, from which the torrents roared and foamed their way down to the sea. On the cliff-top his castle was built, and around, on many a height, could be seen the halls of jarl and lord, each mighty in war, and each owning Hardacnute as master and overlord. By night and by day did the warders guard his towers; by night and by day were his long ships ready to put to sea; by night and by day did a hundred shields gleam in his halls, and a hundred spears rest beside them; and by night and by day were there a hundred strong hands ready to grasp the one or to prise the other. For across the dark waves was the way of the sea-kings, and no man could say when their long ships might come sailing from Denmark or Juteland to carry fire and sword along the coast. Well it became the King to be watchful; and for his watchfulness was there now peace in the land. A great flaxen-haired man was this King, whose blue eyes could gleam with anger or sparkle with merriment; terrible was he in battle, and yet mild in the hall, and dearly did he love Wulfreda his fair wife, and little Guthred his son, who played in the great courtyard with a tiny shield and spear, which Hald the Constable had fashioned for him. Blue-eyed and golden-haired was Guthred, with more of his mother's gentle nature than of his father's strong passion, so that Hardacnute frowned sometimes, and said that the boy was too timid, and that he feared pain; but old Hald would laugh and answer-- "Let be, O King; the tender shoot hath not the rough bark of the old tree. Let be. Guthred will prove a brave holda yet." Now, some way from the King's castle there dwelt a wise woman, one who knew many things that other people could not understand, yet one who used her power well, and did not seek to cast spells upon man or beast; and it chanced that one day this wise woman came along the road by the castle as the King came riding home from the hunting, with his dogs leaping and the slain bear carried between two sturdy carls. Some of the dogs were fierce, but they tried not to harm old Wyborga; and the King saw, as he rode past on his great horse, that she looked pale and weary, as if from a journey. So the King called to one of his followers to light from his steed, and he bade Wyborga ride with him to the castle; and he took her to the hall and treated her with honor, and gave her food and sweet mead, for King Hardacnute was ever kind to the old and the young, and to women. And while Wyborga sat at meat, little Guthred came and played at her side, and laughed up into her face, and the wise woman placed one hand on his fair head and looked into his eyes and sighed, so that the King said-- "Why do you sigh, O mother, when you look into the eyes of this my son?" "Because of what I see there, O King," answered the wise woman. And the King asked again-- "And what is it that you see, O mother?" "A long journey to a far land, for a kingdom," answered Wyborga; and at that the King laughed heartily. "Why, truly, mother, that is but a little thing, for the sea is the road of the sea-kings; and though Guthred will be king in my place when I have passed to the storm land, yet it may well be that he will carry fire and sword across the sea, and conquer other lands." "Not fire nor sword will Guthred carry across the sea, O King," she answered, "nor will he reign as king here in thy stead, though he shall be king of a greater realm than thine. The thrall collar shall he wear, and the thrall's part shall he play, yet shall he become a king in his day, and a thrall shall help him to his kingdom." Now, at that the King paused and pondered, and his brow was troubled, but he said at last-- "Thy riddle is too hard for me, mother, and it seems dark with evil, for how shall my son become a thrall?" "Thrall makers ride the sea, O King," she answered. And the King said-- "Yet where shall the King be when they come, O mother?" And again she made reply-- "The sword has a death-song for each in turn, O King." "Now truly, mother," cried the King, "this is a hard thing you say to me, after you have eaten at my table. Evil did I do to bring you here as my guest." "Not evil, O King," Wyborga answered, "but good. And now listen to my words, O King. This thing will not be yet, and before it comes, over the Westarweg shall come wanderers seeking food and shelter. Be they poor or be they rich, high or low, let thy hand be to them, King, for of their number one will be the friend of Guthred the Prince. A thrall shall take the thraldom from the Prince, and that a thrall who shall mate with a king's daughter; and now--I go in peace, and thanks for thy kindness." So Wyborga went her way, and the King pondered and was troubled. Much that she had said he could not understand, but this one thing seemed clear: the wise woman had foretold that foes would come and slay him and carry his little son away into captivity, and that seemed heavy tidings to King Hardacnute. Therefore he called in all his servants, and had great stores of food prepared for siege, and night and day kept watch and ward for the foe who should come across Westarweg, as they called the dark sea. But no foes came; not a single dark sail appeared, not a single shield shone over the waves to catch the gleams of the sun; and at last the King laughed away his fears, and said that surely Wyborga the Wise must have lost her wisdom. But in that the King was wrong, for had not Wyborga said that this would not be yet, and that ere the foe arrived wanderers would come seeking shelter and succor? King Hardacnute had forgotten that part of the prophecy. But when the summer waned and the sea grew wild with the winter gales, when the ice came down from the North, to gleam ghost-like as it slowly floated by, when even the bravest of the sea-kings would have trembled to launch his stout ships--then, one day, as the pale sun died away and the fierce tempests sprang up, the warder came to say that out on the sea a ship of some sort was to be seen; and at that all men ran to their posts, for perchance this might be the enemy that the wise woman had foretold. But when the King reached the castle walls and gazed out into the storm wrack, there, beating and buffeted and sore tried, he saw one poor boat, such as the fisher folk use, drifting almost at the mercy of the tempest, and yet seeking to make its way to the shelter of Lethra Fiord. "Now who can these be?" cried the King. "What madman would put to sea in such a craft on such a night?" But to that old Hald answered-- "Not all who put to sea do so willingly, O King. These are some poor castaways; and it minds me that the wise woman foretold the coming of some such. So I will get me down to the water with some stout hearts, and render them what aid I may." Then the King gave permission, and Hald and his men went down and launched one of the King's ships to the storm, and with straining oars and slanting sail they came round and rendered help to the storm-beaten ones, and got them safely back, and carried them into King Hardacnute's hall and set them in his presence, so that he might see them for himself. And the King stared, and perchance he frowned a little, for it seemed a foolish thing to endanger his stout hearts to rescue these travellers, seeing that they were but three, and poorly dressed like carls, and, moreover, two of them wore the collars of thralls. There was a man, big and stalwart, with bold defiant eyes, and erect head, and he had a thrall collar; and there was a woman, fair and timid; and between them they held a child, a boy of about the young Prince's age, but more stalwart and well-knit, and he also had around his little neck the badge of slavery. The three stood there waiting for the King to speak, and yet for the moment the King made no sound, for he gazed upon that child. A bold daring child he seemed. Tender of years though he was, his eyes were blue as the bluest summer sky, and his long hair shone yellow gold, as though the sun had kissed it; and the King looked and wondered, and thought that he had never seen so fair a child, no, not even when he looked at his own little son, Prince Guthred. And while he sat looking, the Prince himself ran into the hall brandishing his tiny spear and shield, and seeing a little one of his own age, he ran to him, flourishing his baby weapons. But the little stranger did not flinch; though the spear-head grazed his arm, he only smiled. And then Guthred slipped and fell, and his shield and spear went flying across the hall, so that the little stranger ran and gathered them up and then aided the Prince, and gave him his weapons back and stood beside him, his arm round the other's neck, as though he were holda and noble, and not a churl's child. Thereat the King frowned, and then he turned to the man and spoke and asked him whence he came, and who he was, and how came he to be in the boat, with woman and child, on such a stormy day? "Wast thou washed away against thy will?" he asked, "and dost thou desire to be safely sent back to thy lord?" And at that the face of the man darkened, and the woman began to weep, while the child seized the baby spear, and cried so that even the King heard his shrill voice-- "My father, better this than to go back now." "Now," said the King, "truly we have a young wolf cub here. Tell me your story, friend, that I may learn that from which you flee, and why this child, who is little more than a babe, talks so largely of choosing the kiss of the spear before return to that place from whence ye came. Methinks this means that we have thralls who have fled from their thraldom." And then the man stepped forward, and he spoke, and his voice sounded strong and clear; nor, though he was in the presence of the King, did he show any fear. "Truly, O King, this child speaks well," he said; "for there is no going back for us. And, truly, as thou sayest, we are thralls, and thralls who have fled from thraldom, seeing that is worse than death. Know, O King, that I am Cerdic, the son of Elchere; and this woman is Olfa, and this child is our son Wulnoth--" "Thou art Saxon, then, if thy name speaks truly," said the King. "How comes one of the name of the noble Cerdic to wear a thrall's collar?" "This is the matter of it, O King," Cerdic answered. "Of the blood of Cerdic am I; yet, as thou perchance knowest, the sons of Cerdic sailed across the Westarweg to the land of East Anglia, leaving Tholk to rule in the place where they were born. Yet Tholk was unworthy, and made a league with Berwulf the Viking; whereat I and others rebelled, and were therefore made landless and nameless, and the thrall collars were placed upon us. Yet this I might have abided, though the blood of jarls was in my veins; but this Berwulf broke his treaty, and put Tholk to death and made himself lord in his place; and because I would not own him he had me beaten with rods, and would have had me slain but that I burst my bonds and struck him down with his own axe; and then, escaping, made to the sea with my wife and my son. For it was better to trust to the fury of the winter storms than to abide the cruel wrath of Viking Berwulf. For six long days and nights have we battled with the tempests, while the storm sisters have ridden around us; and then we sighted thy walls, O King. And, now that we are here, either slay us or send us on our way if thou canst not keep us here; but send us not back to Berwulf, who, methinks, would be as much thy foe as mine." Then did King Hardacnute swear a mighty oath by Thor's hammer that no harm should come to Cerdic or his while he bided in Lethra. "These Danish pirates," he cried, "are foes to all honest men, and each should help the other against them. Bide thou here in safety, Cerdic, son of Elchere, thou and thine, and no harm shall come to thee. But as for thy thrall collar, it was put on by thy lord because thou didst rebel against him; and it is not meet that I should take it off until thou hast proved thyself in the man's game, making the sword sing the death song in the ears of thy foes." "That will I do when the time comes, O King," answered Cerdic. "For the rest, I am content, and my service is thine." "Thou shalt have house and a piece of land," said the King, "and my Stallere shall allow thee grazing; and as for thy little son--" But then a little voice spoke, and Prince Guthred ran to his father's side, crying-- "Wulnoth must stay with me, O father. Wulnoth must stay and be my playmate." And at that the King laughed and said that it should be so. So this is how little Wulnoth, the child of a fugitive and a thrall, and himself wearing a thrall collar, came to dwell in the King's hall and to play with Guthred the Prince; and though some of the jarls and warriors frowned and said that this thing should not be, the King took little heed; and the Queen smiled on the boy who played with her own son, and the two lads were happy together. And all this time there was peace in the land, and no sign of the viking lords coming with fire and sword; and all this time did the King have watch and ward kept. But sometimes, as he stood on his tower and looked over the long, rolling waves of the Westarweg, he would think of the words of Wyborga, and wonder within himself whether they would ever come true. Now, this is how Wyborga the Wise prophesied evil tidings to the King; and this is how Cerdic, and Olfa his wife, and Wulnoth their son, came from the storm-sea to dwell in the King's land. CHAPTER II _How Wulnoth saved Edgiva from the Bear_ So Cerdic the Saxon took service with the King of Lethra; and the King gave him a cottage and a piece of land, where he lived with Olfa his wife. But Wulnoth his son was most of his time up in the King's hall playing with the little Prince Guthred; and, though some of the nobles frowned, a great friendship sprang up between the two children, so that they called each other brother, and each shared the other's joys and sorrows; and it was hard to say whether Guthred was most happy when he was with Wulnoth in Cerdic's cottage, or Wulnoth, when he was in the King's courtyard with the Prince. And three years passed away with their sun and their snow, and still it was peace in the land, and the vikings did not appear. For some had gone to Angle Land, where there were fertile fields to be seized; and some had followed the mighty Hrolf--who was called The Walker, because he was so heavy that no horse could bear his weight--into Normandy to war against Charles the Simple; and others, again, had journeyed over the mighty river and the snow-clad mountains to carry fire and sword into the provinces of the Romans. And in those three years the two boys grew strong and sturdy, and now they were each fourteen years old; yet still Wulnoth was the stronger. If Guthred could run swiftly, Wulnoth could beat him. If Guthred could wrestle with any son of the jarls, Wulnoth could throw Guthred. If Guthred could send an arrow to the mark, Wulnoth could split the Prince's shaft from feather to head; so that the King said that the wolf cub would grow into a fine wolf one of these days and do great deeds in the land. And though Wulnoth could best the Prince in most things, there was neither jealousy nor quarrellings; but the two boys loved like brothers, though Wulnoth never forgot that he was but a thrall's son, and wore thrall collar. The Prince would forget that, but Wulnoth never did, and he ever spoke of his companion as "my friend and Prince." Now, you must know that about the time that Cerdic had first come to Lethra, the little Princess Edgiva was born; so that now she was three years old; and throughout all the land, yea, and throughout all wide Norway, there was not another child so beautiful as Edgiva, the daughter of Hardacnute. Her skin was like the pink blush of the morning sky, or the tender leaf of the rose-bud; her teeth were like the purest pearls, and her eyes blue as the rarest sapphire; while, as for her hair, never spider spun thread so fine, never gold gleamed and played in the sunlight so brightly, and never down of the thistle, or wool of the sheep, was so soft. The scalds sang songs in her praise, and said that when she grew up she would be the fairest woman in all the world, fit to become bride of the mightiest of kings. And a dear, sweet, loving child she was, with a smile for all and a frown for none, except those who did wrong; and of all in Lethra she smiled most upon the little thrall-boy, Wulnoth; and Wulnoth was never so happy, no, not even when playing with Guthred, as when he was sitting watching Edgiva. It was his strong brown hand that first held her as she tried to walk; and when they bought a little pony for her, it was Wulnoth who walked by her side and held the bridle, lest the creature should rear and throw his precious burden. And at this some of the lords were more angry than ever; for they said it was a high honor for any lad to attend Princess Edgiva, and that their sons should come before a mere churl. And perchance the King would have listened to their speech, but that Wulfreda, the Queen, said their daughter liked the boy, and that it was a princess's right to choose her own servant; while as for old Hald the Constable, he laughed until the tears came into his fierce eyes, and he cried-- "By Odin! but some people are ever jealous, let what may happen. The boy is right, O King; and he has the thews of a young viking and the heart of a hero; and there is no peril would touch Edgiva while Wulnoth stood unwounded." Hald, old and renowned as he was, had a big heart, and he did not forget that though he was noble and jarl now, his own father had been a churl until the day of his death. So, despite frowns and grumblings, Wulnoth walked by the side of the Princess; and he and Guthred called themselves her knights, and waited upon her pleasure and delighted to do her bidding. Now, all this time nothing had been seen of Wyborga the wise woman; for she had been a journey to places afar, as was her custom at certain seasons, despite her age; and the King had forgotten all about her dark sayings, or, if ever he remembered them, it was but as the idle tale of a poor old crone, whose wits had gone with the years that were fled. King Hardacnute ruled wisely and well, and was at peace with his neighbors, and the land was happy. Only sometimes Hald and other old warriors would shake their heads when they took counsel together, and they would say-- "The times are too easy, and the people are too slow. They forget the hardships of war-time, and if the sword came into the land again, it would go hard with us." Well, one summer's day, when the fields were bright with flowers and the corn grew high, almost ready for the reaping, and when the kine stood knee deep in the long grass in the valleys, Prince Guthred and Wulnoth set out for a long ramble, and between them, on her little pony, Edgiva rode, a garland of white blossoms, which Wulnoth had fashioned, upon her beautiful hair. All the world seemed bright and beautiful: the sun shone, and the birds sang, and the brooks rippled, and all seemed to say to them--"Waes heal to you, little travellers--waes heal to the three fair ones." The squirrels played in the branches, and the sea-birds screamed as they passed overhead, and the great, lazy pigs grunted as they rolled in the woodland shade, and all seemed to say--"Waes heal to the three fair ones." So they went through the meadow-land; and they went through the woodland glade, where the great ferns spring up and the good people hide from men's eyes all the day long, waiting for the gloaming, to creep out and dance their fairy dances; and yet, though they looked carefully and peered into many a tiny glen and sat without the least sound for quite ten minutes, never one of the good people could they see, but only the rabbits and the wild birds, and the little darting lizards. And presently they came to a dell, and there they sat and ate their cakes, which they had brought with them, and drank from the skin of milk, which Wulnoth had brought especially for Edgiva--for he and the Prince would have had the cool water from the brook, only the Princess insisted that they three, who were friends, should share all things equally. And while they sat there, a stick cracked in the woods, and Wulnoth started up, ready to guard the Princess if need be: for if a stick cracked some foot must have pressed it. But no foe, either man or beast, came into the glade, but only an old woman with gentle face and kindly eyes, and hair white as the snow from the north; and this woman said, as she surveyed the children-- "Greeting to you, little ones. All good greeting to you." And they answered her-- "All good greeting to you also, good mother." "And who are you, and how are you called?" asked the woman; "and how is it that a prince and princess have a thrall for their playmate?" Then the Prince looked angry, for he did not like people to speak so to his dear Wulnoth; and even little Edgiva looked pained. But Wulnoth only laughed, and he made reply-- "Good mother, the great and high, if they are good and true, may hold out hand to the poor and gain no dishonor thereby. And those who are lowly born may take such friendship, and yet no harm be done; and so it is in this case." "Thou hast answered well and truly, Wulnoth, son of Cerdic," the woman said; and at that Wulnoth stared, and demanded how she knew his name. "I know many things," answered the woman, who was really old Wyborga returning from her travels to her own house. "I know many things, and this is one of them--many wonderful things." "Tell us some more of thy wonderful things, good mother," pleaded the little Princess. "Tell us, for we are fond of wonder tales." "Not now, little Princess," answered the wise woman; "go on with your play. And you, little Prince, when you get back home, say to your father the King that Wyborga sends him greeting, and says that the time draws nigh." "What time, good mother?" asked Guthred curiously; but Wyborga shook her head. "A dark time, little Prince, for thee and for thine, of which thou mayst not know now. But remember when sorrow and tears come, as come they will, that manhood and honor are better than a throne. Remember that a prince's word, and the word of every true man, must be kept, though death be the price of the keeping. Prince Guthred, remember this." "Now truly, good mother," cried Wulnoth, "you do speak very hard things; and, truly, methinks you had little need to ask our names, seeing that without being told you have mentioned them all to us." And at that Wyborga smiled again. But then little Edgiva drew close to her, and she again asked her of her wonder stories. "Cannot you tell us even one?" she said; "not one about Odin or Thor and the heroes who dwell in Walhalla? For these are the most wonderful stories of all." "Not the most wonderful, nor the most beautiful of all, little Princess," was the answer. "I know of one far better, far more wonderful, and far more beautiful." And at this they all three asked eagerly what this wonderful story could be. "Oh, so wonderful and so beautiful," answered Wyborga. "The hearing of it turns sorrow to joy, and makes darkness become light, and weakness turn into strength. But you may not hear it yet; for, if I told it to you, you would not understand it. Yet this I promise, that one day you all three shall hear it." "And will sorrow become joy, and weakness strength, and darkness light, when we hear it?" cried Wulnoth. And Wyborga nodded and said: "It will indeed." "But when and where shall we hear it?" the children asked. "Shall we come to you again?" "Nay," answered the wise woman; "you will hear it from other lips, and in another land." "But what shall be the sign that we shall hear it?" asked the Prince, "and how shall we know that it is the story when it is told?" "Because it will turn weakness into strength," said Wulnoth. "We are sure to know then." "And sorrow into joy, and darkness into light," added Edgiva. "Oh, we shall be sure to know, brother." "I will give you a sign," the wise woman said. And she took two little pieces of rough wood from the ground, and with a piece of grass, she bound them together in the form of a cross. Then she plucked a little spray of wild thorn and wound it round her cross and held it up; and she said, and her voice was soft and sweet, like the sigh of the summer wind amidst the forest leaves, "This is the sign, dear children. One day you will come to this sign, and then you will hear the most wonderful and the most beautiful story in all the wide world; and when you hear that, you will never want to hear of Odin or Thor any more." Then she turned and walked away, and not another word could they get from her. So they turned to start on their homeward way, wondering what that strange sign could possibly mean, and what this story could be about. And as they journeyed on, back through the woodlands, suddenly Edgiva's little pony stopped and planted its forefeet firmly and laid back its ears, snorting and trembling as if with fear. "What can be the matter with him?" asked Prince Guthred. "There is nothing to frighten him." "Be not so sure of that, Prince," said Wulnoth. "The pony may see more than we can; I have heard that animals can see warlocks and wizards when they are invisible to mortal eyes." "Then what shall we do for Edgiva?" cried Guthred. "We must not let warlocks harm her." "Let me get down and pat him," Edgiva said. "I will gather him a handful of sweet grass and then he will go on." So they helped her to alight; but alas, no sooner had her foot touched the ground than they heard a dreadful sound, a deep, angry growl of rage and hate; and there, emerging from the undergrowth, with eyes ablaze and with yellow gleaming fangs, they saw an immense old he bear, a real wood-roamer, a honey-finder, who now was seeking for no honey. And the pony, with a snort of terror, started off as fast as it could go, leaving the children alone there, with the monster approaching them. For a moment Prince Guthred stood bewildered, and little Edgiva clasped her tiny hands in terror; for, indeed, this seemed a very dreadful creature, and its size was so vast and its claws so long, and it seemed to be saying to itself as it came along-- "Ho, ho! Here is a fine meal for me. This is better than risking the swineherd's spear when I go stealing the pigs. Ho, ho! This is much better." Of course, the bear did not really say that; but that is what it seemed to the children; so it is no wonder that they were frightened. "Run, Guthred! Run! Take Edgiva and run!" screamed Wulnoth frantically. "I will stay here and keep the bear busy." But even in his terror Prince Guthred remembered that Wulnoth was his friend, and it seemed a hard thing to him to run away and leave him alone. But Wulnoth cried again--"Run with thy sister, Prince. Edgiva must be before all." So Prince Guthred caught up Edgiva in his strong arms and began to run, while Wulnoth threw a stone at the bear to make him turn his way. But the bear did not turn; perhaps he thought that two children were better than one--but he commenced to rush after Guthred, with great roars of rage; and Wulnoth ran after the bear, calling him a coward and a nithing, and bidding him stop and fight; and, as he ran, he unsheathed his stout knife and held it ready. It was the only weapon he had, and the stoutest hunters might have been forgiven if they had feared to attack such a monster with no better arms. But Wulnoth did not think of that. Edgiva must be saved, and he and that knife must save her. And just then Guthred caught his foot in a trailing bramble, and fell, and the bear was now very nigh them. But Wulnoth was also very near to the bear, running so swiftly that the blades of grass had not even time to bend beneath his weight before he had passed on, and the gleaming knife was ready in his hand. Now Wulnoth knew full well that the bear would not harm the others without first rising on his hind legs--for that is the way in which the bears always attack--and for that he was ready and waiting. The bear stopped with a clumsy jerk just as Guthred scrambled to his feet, and it opened its great paws wide to seize the boy. But Wulnoth was there, and he pushed Guthred aside and darted under the bear's paws, and buried his knife in its broad, hairy chest, once, twice, and yet a third time, swifter than the lightning plays or the adder darts. Then the bear roared, and strove to bite with its wide-open, slavering jaws, and it dug its long claws deeply into Wulnoth's back, and tore muscle and flesh to the bone. But that was all it could do. It had no strength left, and it fell on its side and struggled and died; and Wulnoth uttered a mighty shout of joy, and thought nothing of his painful wounds, for he had done a man's deed and had saved Edgiva and his friend the Prince. And Guthred and Edgiva came to him and strove to check the blood that dripped from his hurts, and the Princess would make him sit while she used her own scarf for this purpose. "Oh, Wulnoth!" cried Guthred, "surely here is the story already, for weakness has become strength, and you have conquered the waster while I fled like a nithing." "Wulnoth has been brave," said Edgiva, "but you have naught to grieve for, dear brother. As for the story, this cannot be it, for the sign of the thorn and the cross are not here." "Let us not worry about stories," laughed Wulnoth, and he was as happy as could be. Indeed, his only sorrow was that Guthred had not slain a bear also, so that they could have been alike. "Let us skin this monster and take his coat home for the Princess to have a rug for her feet." So they set to work, the two boys, and though it was a long job, they got the bear's skin, together with its mighty head and paws; and then they found the pony again, for that was grazing in a field hard by, and they put the skin on its back and Edgiva on the skin, and set off again. And when they reached the castle, and the soldiers saw the skin, they clustered round in wonder, asking who had killed the monster. Wulnoth would have said little, but Guthred said much, and the men caught Wulnoth up and cried, "Skoal" to him, and carried him into the hall and set him down before the King, and laid the head and the claws and the great skin on the floor. And now again Wulnoth would have said little, for he was modest and did not like to boast, and besides, he did not want to seem braver than the Prince, who would have done as he had done if the chance had been his. But Guthred and Edgiva stood at the King's side and told of the fight, and made Wulnoth show his wounds, and the King said that Wulnoth had done a man's deed, and asked him what his reward should be. Now, the King had expected that the boy would ask that the thrall collar should be taken from his neck and from his father's, but Wulnoth made no such request. "O King," he said, "if, as thou sayest, I have done a man's deed, let a man's weapons be given to me now, and let it be my place to guard Edgiva thy daughter, and to sleep across the threshold at night." Then, for a moment, the King paused and frowned, for a memory came of the words of Wyborga that a thrall should marry a king's daughter; and he wondered whether that thrall was to be this boy, and the king's daughter Edgiva; for if he had thought that, though Wulnoth had slain the bear and preserved the Princess, he would have driven his spear through him as he stood, and so have made an end of the matter. Then, when the jarls heard this thrall-boy's words, they cried out that he should be beaten with sticks for his presumption. "Shall the son of a churl be made the Princess's guardian?" they cried. "Are there no sons of noble birth in the land, O King?" But Wulnoth stood out, and turned and showed them the deep wounds made by the claws of the bear, and he cried-- "Many there be more noble in the land, but are there any who would have dared more? Did the bear wound me more lightly than he would have wounded any man? Are these wounds less painful to the churl than they would be to the noble? The King asked me what I desired, and I have answered. I want no other gift, and if this may not be, then let be." "He talks like a man," some laughed; but old Hald, who liked the boy, answered-- "And by the hammer of Thor, he acts like one, and I am minded that our Edgiva would have little to fear with Wulnoth the son of Cerdic as her armed man." "The thing shall be," answered the King, and when that was said all had to obey. "Wulnoth shall be given sword and spear and shield, and his shall it be to guard the Princess, and if any harm comes to her, then his head shall pay the penalty. I have spoken, and the thing is." So Wulnoth the boy was given the war tools of a man, and he was appointed the guardian of the Princess, which is just what he had appointed himself in the past, only then he had no weapons save his knife. But when King Hardacnute heard the message which Wyborga had sent to him, his face grew very grave, for it showed him that if he had forgotten, the wise woman had remembered, and that the time was drawing near when war time should be in the land. And also the children spoke of the wonder tale that Wyborga had hinted at, and of the strange thorn cross which she had made; and the King listened and answered-- "By Thor, I can make nothing of it! 'T is like her other tale, and it may be that the one has as much in it as the other." Now, this is how Wulnoth saved Edgiva from the bear, and how he won the man's tools and was appointed watcher over the Princess. And this is how Wyborga the Wise came again into the land, and showed the three children the sign of the thorn-crowned cross. CHAPTER III _How Wulnoth journeyed by the Birds' Road_ So Wulnoth became the guard to watch over Princess Edgiva, and some of King Hardacnute's warriors were wroth, and said that the thing was a shame, and that even if it were not so, a boy like Cerdic's son should not be given such an honorable task when many a young noble would have been glad to accept such trust. But though Wulnoth was indeed a boy in years, yet in stature and in strength he was a match for many above his age, so tall and so lusty was he. And old Hald laughed again when he heard these words, and he said-- "The wolf cub is almost grown; let those beware its fangs who would pull its ears." And amongst those who were angered at the King's choice was the keeper of the arms, �thelmar; and he, to spite the boy, gave him the weapons of the strongest--the heaviest spear and the weightiest sword and shield; and he in his turn laughed and said to himself-- "Now we shall see how Hald's wolf cub will bear the weight of the toys he has asked for." Wulnoth knew his weapons were too heavy, but he was too proud to seek to have them altered, and he would have borne them in patience but that Hald saw him; and the old Constable stopped and stroked his beard, and asked him who it was who gave him his man's tools. "Now, these are too weighty for you," he said when Wulnoth had answered him, "and it was but a poor trick of �thelmar's to give such to you. You must have lighter ones, my young warrior." But Wulnoth answered that since he had been given these he would keep them, and even �thelmar should see that his strength was equal to his task. "Not so," said the Constable, quietly, when he heard the boy's words. "That only comes from a proud heart, and the Princess must not be endangered because of your pride." "How could the Princess be endangered?" cried Wulnoth. "I do not see that, Hald." "Weapons that you cannot use are as if you had no weapons at all, Wulnoth," replied Hald. "How, if you had to use that long spear, which is too clumsy for you, or that sword which is too heavy? The Princess might suffer harm because you could not well protect her. We must have this remedied, my son." And Hald was as good as his word, and gave Wulnoth man's tools more suited to his strength, and he said-- "Let not pride make thee fall, Wulnoth. If they laugh at thee for having these, thou canst the better show them thy skill when the day of testing comes." At that Wulnoth was content, and though some laughed at him, he answered laugh with laugh, and never bore himself like a boaster, nor was led to talk of what he could do, but he only answered when such questions were put to him-- "One cannot say what he will do until the test comes. When the hour is, then I hope I shall not prove a nithing, and meanwhile I cannot do better than watch such skilled warriors as you who now laugh at my youth." Now, that showed that Wulnoth was wise, for had he answered angrily he would but have been laughed at the more, and would have made many enemies, whereas now the soldiers said that he was modest and well-spoken, and they taught him many things relating to war; and Cerdic his father, each day when the boy used to visit him, made him exercise both with sword and spear, and in running and wrestling; and Prince Guthred would exercise with him, so that he, too, might become a mighty champion in his day, and go to the wars with his friend. But the Prince was not so cunning nor so strong as Wulnoth, and, moreover, he was more gentle and tender; and sometimes the King his father would be angry, and say that he was more fitted to handle a distaff than to hurl a spear. But the King was wrong--the boy was gentle and kind, but his heart was brave, and he was patient, more patient than Wulnoth even, and he who has learnt patience has learnt a mighty lesson. But in all this time no sign of the sea-kings was seen, though by day and night watch was kept, and all along the coast the great beacons were piled ready for the lighting should the long ships of the pirates be sighted upon the waves. And the King laughed, and said that surely Wyborga the Wise was wise no longer, for her stories, though they were ill-omened, did not come true. As for the skin of the wood-roamer, that was made into a foot rug for Edgiva, and the head and the paws were placed in the King's hall, with a rude writing beneath, made by Reinbaldus the Scald, to tell how Wulnoth, the son of Cerdic, slew the monster with his knife. So the days passed away, and now Wulnoth was fifteen, and his little Princess was nigh five years old, and so beautiful to gaze upon that the buds of the flowers would open as she passed, so that they might look at that which was more beautiful than they were; and the wild birds would gather o'er her head, and sing their songs in honor of the fairest of children; and already the jarls spoke to their young sons and bade them strive to excel in strength and in war, so that when the time came for Edgiva to be given in marriage they might be amongst the mightiest who should strive for her hand. Now it chanced one day that Guthred the Prince, and his sister, and Wulnoth her watcher went together into the woods nigh to the spot where they had met the bear--for they feared no bear now, nor yet the surliest of the wild boars--and while they tarried in the woodland shade Wyborga the Wise came and greeted them, and asked how they fared. And Edgiva went to her side and answered-- "O good mother, we fare well, but we have not yet heard the wonder tale, nor have we found the sign--the thorn-covered cross--though we have looked long and searched far for it." "The sign will come, and the tale will come, Princess--all in good time will it surely come," was the answer; and then Wyborga gathered the three around her and told them of many things--of wonders from far lands, of the birds' talk and the beasts' talk, and things that men know nothing of; and while they talked there came a blowing of horns, and the King rode by on the chase, and reined his horse and spoke to the wise woman with kind, good humor. "Greeting, Wyborga," he said. "Our watch fires are piled, but they are unlighted; our warders watch, but give no alarm; our swords are keen, but they sing no song. Surely thy wisdom was at fault when thou didst prophesy evil for the land." "Art thou so impatient for the evil to come, O King?" she answered sadly. "It will come sure, if it comes slow. God moves not quickly." "God?" answered the King lightly. "Why, Wyborga, we have many gods, of whom Odin and Thor are the mightiest--which of them dost thou speak of? They move fast enough for me, for they ride the storm wind so swiftly that all the storm sisters are left far behind in their path. Which god do you speak of, Wyborga?" Then Wyborga stooped, and with the end of her wand which she used to aid her steps she marked on the ground, and the marks that she made formed a cross. "The God of this sign, O King," she said. And at that the King shook his head, and thought with pity that surely poor old Wyborga was mad, for of all the gods of the Northland was there none whose sign was a cross. "Now, good mother," he said aloud, "I understand not thy sign. Canst thou give me no other by which I shall know when the time is near?" Then Wyborga bent her head in thought, and was silent for a space, and after that she looked up and spoke, and said to the King-- "So be it. I will give you one sign, and when you see that, then be sure that soon the sword shall sing the death song in the land." "Good!" cried the King. "Give me this sign." Then Wyborga pointed to where Wulnoth stood near, and she said-- "This is the sign, O King. When this boy treads the birds' road, then be sure that the time has come." And at that the King laughed aloud. "Now, by my beard," he said, "if that were possible, then would I do well to slay Wulnoth, son of Cerdic, and so the evil should never come. But no mortal foot has trodden the birds' road yet, and none ever shall, so let Wulnoth live, and let the evil be far off; and now greeting, mother." "Greeting, King," she answered, and Wulnoth and the Prince cried "Skoal" to the King, and Edgiva kissed her hand to him, and so Hardacnute and his men rode on, laughing to themselves; for how could old Wyborga speak of any treading the birds' road without wings? and where was there a man in the world winged like the eagle or raven? And Wulnoth and the Prince and Edgiva went back to the hall, and they wondered also, pondering over the strange things spoken by Wyborga the Wise. And yet that which the wise woman spoke came to pass, and this was the manner of its coming. There was in the hall of King Hardacnute a young noble of Denmark, a dark, black-haired young holda, who had journeyed across the mountains seeking adventure, as he said, and had been well received and given an honorable place by the King, in spite of the warnings of his jarls, and especially of old Hald. "A viper stings sooner or later," said the Constable, "and a Dane plays false. Kill the stranger or send him on, for we want no spying Haco here." But the King answered that a man's hall must ever be open to the wanderer, and that it did not become brave men to be inhospitable; and so this youth, whose name was Osbert, tarried in Lethra--a big, bragging young giant, and over fond of the drink horn. Now, one day, as Wulnoth stood guarding the couch of Edgiva, for she had fallen asleep in the shade of the courtyard, lo, there came Osbert the Dane striding along, all flushed with wine. Now, Osbert looked upon Wulnoth with scorn, because he was a boy and a thrall, and also because he knew that his father had smitten Berwulf with his own axe in the hall of Tholk, son of Cerdic--for Osbert was of the blood of Berwulf. Therefore, seeing Edgiva sleeping there and guarded by Wulnoth, Osbert thought to make mock of the boy, and he strode up and seized Edgiva and kissed her, so that she cried out partly in fear and partly in anger at being so rudely aroused; and Wulnoth started forward, and presented his spear, and cried fiercely-- "Set down the Lady Edgiva instantly, thou rude Dane, or I will pierce thee with this spear." Then did Osbert place the Princess down, and he drew his heavy sword, and swung his shield from his back to his arm, and he laughed right scornfully. "Thou wilt pierce me, thou carl. That will we see," and with that he made at Wulnoth fiercely. But Hald the Constable was nigh, and when he heard the signs of strife he seized his great sword and strode into the courtyard, and struck the weapons apart, and demanded sternly how it came that any dared to fight in the courtyard of the King. "This dog insulted me," cried the Dane fiercely, "and for it, by Thor, he shall die!" "By Thor, he shall not die!" answered Hald, "until we know the truth of this business; but, for that matter, thou mightest find it hard to slay him, Dane." So Wulnoth told how he came to have a quarrel with Osbert, and the brow of Hald grew dark when he heard of the slight to Edgiva, who now stood weeping, and he commanded the Dane to be carried before Hardacnute, that the King might say his pleasure. And when the King heard, he said sternly-- "Osbert, stranger amongst us, hadst thou been one of my people, I would surely have had thy head smitten off. But thou art a stranger, and one who has been my guest, and I may not do this thing. Yet this I will do. Thy arms shall be taken from thee and broken as the arms of a nithing, and thou shalt be scourged with rods, a blow for every tear that the Lady Edgiva has shed, and thou shalt be driven from my lands; and if thou comest here again, then thou shalt be slain." And the King's word was obeyed, and the Dane's weapons were broken, and he was scourged with rods, a blow for each tear that the Princess had shed; and when the scourging was ended the King bade him begone as he valued his life. And Osbert, smarting with the beating, and mad with rage, spoke boldly and said-- "Perchance this scourging I deserve, O King, for letting the wine horn make me into a weakling; yet bitter shall be the price paid for it, O King. For each blow of the rod blood shall flow, and the sword sing its song. Now I go as thou hast said, for indeed I could not remain longer; but be sure that thou wilt hear of me again, ere long, O King, and our greeting will be brief." But the King laughed scornfully. "Big words from an angry boy," he said. "Get thee gone while thou art safe." And Osbert turned and went. And a few days after that, Wulnoth and Guthred and Edgiva went to the top of the great Raven Rock, from whence they could see for many a mile, and at the foot of which the sea fretted and chafed and broke itself into foam at the high tide; and here they sat watching the sea-birds circle as they trod the birds' road down to the water, and up to the crags where their nests were built. Not a sign of living man was there; all was peaceful and calm; and Wulnoth lay on the ground, watching the Princess, who had strayed to gather wild blossoms, whilst Guthred cautiously bent over the height, seeking to steal the eggs from a seamew's nest. And while thus they were all serene and safe, suddenly a shadow fell upon Wulnoth, and a dark face looked down upon him, and a strong hand seized him, and the voice of Osbert hissed in his ear-- "Thou dog of a Saxon thrall--die!" And then came the sharp bitter bite of a knife in the side, and a red mist rose before Wulnoth's eyes, and a wicked laugh echoed in his ear. And it seemed as though he were sinking into the storm-land, when a sound called his spirit back, and that sound was the scream of the Princess Edgiva. He heard also Guthred shout, and he heard Osbert cry-- "Greeting to thee, Prince. Yonder lies thy thrall friend slain, and here is the Princess, thy sister. Go and tell thy father--for this I spare thy life--that I have sent her to the storm-land by the birds' road." Then Wulnoth managed to stagger to his feet; and he saw,--oh, the horror of it,--he saw that nithing lift Edgiva the Beautiful high in the air, and send her over the Raven Rock into the angry sea so far below; and he uttered a great cry, and all his strength seemed to come back, so that he picked up his spear and hurled it, and it smote Osbert a fierce blow in the shoulder, making him cry out and turn and flee, plucking out the weapon and casting it aside as he went. "Run, run," cried Wulnoth to Guthred. "Run so that the grass feels not thy touch. Nay, not after that nithing," as the Prince was starting after the wounded Osbert. "We have more to think of than him. Run to the shore and bid them launch a boat and come to the aid of Edgiva. I go to her now." "Alas, how canst thou, my friend?" cried Guthred. "The way to the water is long and the path hard; and even if she lives now she will have died ere thou canst reach her." "The way is short and the path easy," cried Wulnoth, as he cast off his tunic. "Tell thy father, my lord the King, that Wyborga's words have come true, for I go by the birds' road." And with that he stood on the verge of the mighty Raven Rock, and he saw far below, a gleam of gold in the water, as when the salmon play in the sunlit waves; and then, while Guthred stood in wonder and silence, he dived straight and true, speeding to the perishing Edgiva along the birds' road. And this is how Osbert the Dane brought trouble into the land, and how Wulnoth fulfilled the prophecy of Wyborga the Wise. CHAPTER IV _The Coming of Hungwar and Hubba_ Down into the angry waves went Wulnoth, treading the birds' road; for only thus could he hope to reach Edgiva in time to save her. Down he went, and he smote the waves and sank, even to the very bottom of the depths, while the surges roared and thundered above him. Weak was he from loss of blood and sore pain, for the knife of Osbert the Dane had bitten deeply; but strong was he with his devotion for Edgiva, and the strength overcame the weakness. Down, down he went; then he rose and came to the surface and shook the water from his eyes and glanced around; and there, floating away now on the ebbing tide, her golden hair rising and falling on the waves, he saw the jewel of Lethra, the Princess Edgiva. Then, cleaving the waves with strong arms, though every stroke left a crimson stain behind it, Wulnoth pressed forward, swift as the sturgeon takes its way. His eyes were fixed upon the fair little face, which was now slowly sinking beneath the waves; and he gave a loud cry and leaped sheer out of the water, as the salmon leaps when it climbs the falls, and his right hand snatched at her and lifted her above the water again; and then the heart of Wulnoth was very glad, for he felt that once more he should save Edgiva. And now back to the land he turned and on he swam, but the tide ran fierce, and his blood oozed fast, and the way was long, and he was faint and could swim no more. So he turned on his back and floated, letting Edgiva's golden, crowned head rest on his bosom; and so he stayed while the sea-birds flew overhead and called to him, bidding him be of good cheer, for that help was coming. And help was coming indeed; for the Prince had run swift as the arrow flies and had cried to Hald the Constable; and now one of the King's boats was coming over the waves, and strong arms were at the oars, while Hald stood shading his eyes and crying-- "Holloa! Holloa! Wulnoth son of Cerdic! Holloa!" And Wulnoth heard as one who hears a sound from afar, when sleep presses upon his eyes; and he tried to answer but his voice was gone. But the sea-birds aided him, for they gathered over his head, screaming shrilly; and when Hald saw that, he knew that thither he must go, and he gave order and the boat sped on and came to the spot, and there floated Wulnoth, with Edgiva's head pillowed on his heart, and both with their eyes closed as in their last sleep. Strong but tender hands lifted them in, and strong hands urged the boat back; and they were taken to the King's hall and tended by the Queen herself; for Queen Wulfreda was skilled in healing. And search was made through the land for the nithing who had done this thing; yet, though they rode throughout all the King's borders, they found no trace of Osbert the Dane. And Wyborga the Wise also came, bringing medicines of her own; and so soon the sick ones awoke from their slumber, and Wulnoth was commanded to come before the King. And there, in the great hall, with all the jarls around him, the King praised Wulnoth, and asked him what he would choose as his gift, and said that now he would take the thrall's collar from his neck. But Wulnoth made answer, and his voice was low and sad, and he said that the collar should not be taken from his neck, but that instead of gifts he should be scourged, because he, being armed, and the Princess's watcher, had suffered harm to come to her. "Not honor, but disgrace, do I deserve, O King," he said; "for I have proved myself a false watcher." "Now, that may not be," cried the King, "for none would have dared to tread the birds' road as thou hast done." But to that Hald said-- "There is reason in the boy's words, O King. Therefore let it be as he says; but for his reward take the collar from his father's neck, and give Cerdic five hides of good land, so that he shall be noble." And all the redesmen said that the Constable's words were good words and that it was a wise saying. So the King commanded that Cerdic should be given five hides of good land and that the thrall collar should be taken from his neck; and then Reinbaldus the scald made a song and sang it in the great hall while the King feasted, and this was the song he sang-- Over the storm wave, over the swan bath, Cerdic the Saxon came, to Lethra fleeing From the fierce anger of Berwulf the viking, Fleeing with Olfa, and the child Wulnoth; Thus came young Wulnoth to fair Lethra. Wulnoth the boy thrall, friend of Prince Guthred, Straying with Edgiva deep in the woodland, Then came the waster roaring against them, Fierce in his anger, he the death giver. Woe for Prince Guthred! woe for Edgiva! Swift to their succor came Wulnoth hasting, Armed with a knife alone, slew he the monster, Dead now before them lies the wood waster. Nithing and traitor, Osbert the Dane came, Wounded with coward blow, Wulnoth the watcher, Cast from the Raven Rock, Lethra's Edgiva, Into the stormy waves hurled he the fair one. "Thus, tell ye Lethra's King, Osbert repays him." Laughter to sorrow turned when the spear bit him, Fleeing, like frightened hare, swiftly the Dane ran, Wulnoth's love token bore he away with him. Far 'neath the Raven Rock, in the wild swan bath, There is Edgiva, Edgiva the Beautiful-- Who from the death sleep backward shall bear her? Who by the birds' road rushes to save her? Who from the angry waves bravely doth bear her, While his own crimson blood marks out his pathway? Wulnoth, Cerdic's son, Wulnoth the watcher, He trod the birds' road, saving Edgiva, Skoal then to Cerdic's son, And skoal to Edgiva. Such was the song which Reinbaldus sang; and the soldiers and the people said it was a fair song and a true song, and that Wulnoth was worthy of honor. And they called the Raven's Rock "Wulnoth's Road," because of the great leap which he took thence into the swan bath to rescue Edgiva. Yet still Wulnoth himself felt darkened, for he reflected that he, being the Princess's watcher, ought to have been standing on guard rather than lying there taking his ease so that Osbert the Dane could come upon them; and though many strove to banish such thoughts from his mind, old Hald said-- "Let be. The boy will be all the better for thinking on it. I will warrant me he will never now be found asleep at his post, let the watch be as long as it will." But now King Hardacnute was indeed grave, for here was Wyborga's prophecy fulfilled, and he looked for the foe to come. But no enemy came, no, not for a week, nor two, nor a full month; and then, one morning, just as the King was beginning to think that it was but a fable after all, far out on the Westarweg six long ships appeared, each with its huge sail, each with its long pennon, each with its sides bright with the long rows of shields hung over the bulwarks, each propelled by banks of long oars; and from the foremost one floated a mighty banner with a great black raven upon it, so that all might know that these were ships of the sea-kings and pirates, lords from Juteland and Denmark. "Now," said old Hald, as he stood on the tower and gazed seaward long and hard, "if these be the ships of Regner Lodbrok, the son of Sigurd, it will be a hard fight and a long that we shall have; for of all the sea-kings that carry fire and sword, there is none so mighty as the dragon slayer." "Methinks 't is the banner of the son of Sigurd," said the King, who stood beside him, and old Hald nodded. "By land or by sea, O King?" he asked. And the King mused-- "By sea if it would save the land from blood," he said, "but I fear it will not. My word is, meet them on land." "And ere they land, every ship that Lethra possesses will be in flames," answered Hald. "If we must lose our ships, better to man them and lose them in the man's game than to sit like sheep and see them burn." And the King answered-- "Be it so." So the war horns sounded, and the beacons blazed, and all men came trooping in, and the women and children gathered in the King's hall, for there alone might be found safety for them. And all the cattle were driven into the courtyard, or else turned loose in the deep forest where the foe would not be likely to find them. "Guthred, my friend and brother," said Wulnoth, as he stood by the side of the Prince, "so at last we are really to see the man's game played and to take part in it! Is this Regner Lodbrok so mighty, then?" "I have heard my father say that there lives no greater warrior, and that though he is terrible in battle he is just and loves brave men, and not cruel like some--not like his two sons, Hungwar and Hubba; for where they go there is the cry of the woman and the child, and the scream of the tortured one. Thou knowest that it was Regner Lodbrok who slew the dragon?" "Nay," answered Wulnoth. "I know not the story. Tell it to me, I pray." "This is how the scalds have it," answered the Prince. "You must know that this Regner Lodbrok, the son of Sigurd, loved a lady named Thora, who was the fairest woman who ever lived--" "Not fairer than our Edgiva," cried Wulnoth jealously, and the Prince smiled. "That I cannot say, seeing that Edgiva my sister is but a child, and this lady was a woman. But be that as it may. A warlock took the Lady Thora and carried her away, and left her guarded by a fiery dragon--a dreadful monster whom no man could overcome because it belched out flames at them. But Regner Lodbrok[1] heard of this, and he swore by Thor that he would slay the monster and free the Lady Thora. So he took skins of oxen, and thereof he made clothing to cover all his body, from the feet to the neck, and thus covered he went to the cave and rushed at the dragon. The monster spat fire at him, but Regner Lodbrok held his shield before his face, and the flames scorched the skins but harmed not him, and he buried his sword in the dragon's heart and slew him, and freed the Lady Thora and carried her back with him." "How brave of him!" cried Wulnoth. "Surely 't was a man's deed, and if such a foe is coming, thou and I, O Prince, shall see some great deeds done to-day." "We may, Wulnoth, my friend," answered Guthred. "But remember what Wyborga the Wise has said. In this battle the King, my father, is to be slain, and I am to become a slave," and at that Wulnoth had no word to say, for the grief of it was too much for him. "Wulnoth," the Prince went on sadly, "if this thing is true, will you promise not to forget me? And if you may, afterwards come and seek me out and aid me. Wulnoth, we have been friends and brothers, will you promise me this?" "That will I promise, Guthred," answered Wulnoth. "As soon as my trust to Edgiva is over, I will come." "Poor Edgiva," sighed the Prince. "I wonder what fate will be in store for her." Now, while the boys talked, all was hurry and bustle, and Hald went to the ships with the sailors, and King Hardacnute gathered the army on the shore, and Cerdic, and Hith, and �thelmar, and others went into the hold to be able to succor the rest, should they have to flee, and then the war horns blew again, and the ships went to sea to meet the foe. And when they neared each other, old Hald, standing in the prow, called across the water and said-- "Greeting, strangers! Sea-kings and pirates I trow ye are, and your message is war; yet tell us whom we war against lest we shame you by saying ye are nameless men." Then a great warrior, yet a young man, standing in the poop of one of the foremost of the foe ships, laughed and replied-- "Little care we what you call us, warrior, yet know that we are the sons of Regner, called Lodbrok, Hungwar and Hubba, and we come to avenge injury done to Osbert the Dane. We come to war against Hardacnute for sheltering a thrall of Berwulf's named Cerdic and his family; and we come to carry away a fair child Edgiva, that when she is maiden grown she may mate with the best of the sea-kings' warriors. Now dost thou yield?" "Thus do I yield, you wolves of Denmark," replied Hald, hurling his spear, but Hungwar caught it on his shield, and then the battle commenced. Now, we have no time to talk long of that battle, for we have to follow the song of Wulnoth; but it was a brave and fierce one, when many hero deeds were done, and when the sword sang its death-song again and again. Yet in the end the ships of Hardacnute were destroyed and his sailors perished, and the Danes ran their own ships aground, and swarmed out to meet the forces of Hardacnute on land. And there, on land, a mighty war was waged, and many heroes fell; yet still the victory was with the Danes, and the men of Lethra were driven back, leaving many slain on the seashore. Now while this battle was raging, Wulnoth was in the King's courtyard, when a man touched him on the arm; and the man was big and brawny and shaggy like some wild berserker, and this man said to Wulnoth-- "Are you Wulnoth, the watcher of the Princess?" and to this Wulnoth answered that he was. "Then," said the man, "I have a message for thee, O Wulnoth," and Wulnoth asked whom the message was from. "It is from Wyborga the Wise," answered the stranger, "and thus she says: 'Fire and sword are come, O Wulnoth, and by to-night will Edgiva be without father or mother. Now, therefore, bring her to me, and I will shelter her in safety, for Hungwar the Dane has sworn to carry her off and to make her his slave child. If my words are wrong, then can you have her back; but if they are right, then will the King know that his daughter is spared the fate which shall befall his son.'" Now, when Wulnoth heard this, he sped to the Queen, and he told her all the truth. And Wulfreda answered and said-- "Now, if these words are true, and if the King my husband perish, then shall I rejoice to have the death-song sung to me also; and if that be so, then shall it be well that Edgiva has a friend to aid her. Therefore, take her to Wyborga, Wulnoth." So Wulnoth and Guthred took Edgiva the Beautiful, and carried her away into the forest and gave her to Wyborga, and Wyborga said that they had done well. And then said Wulnoth-- "Why should not Guthred tarry here also, good mother, so that he will be safe?" But Wyborga shook her head. "Guthred must go back," she said, "for so the lines of his runes run. But let Guthred be of good cheer and brave heart, for he shall have a kingdom and a name in the end, and ye three shall meet again." "When shall we meet?" cried Guthred. And for answer Wyborga again drew the cross on the ground and said-- "When you all understand this, then shall you meet, and then shall you be united." And that was all she could say. So Wulnoth and Guthred hurried back, for the blood was hot in Wulnoth's veins, and he longed to be in the man's game. And they got back to the hall just as King Hardacnute's men were being driven in, and there they saw the brothers Hungwar and Hubba, the sons of Regner, mighty warriors, with long black moustachios and sweeping hair, and arms like the stout branches of an oak. And also there did Wulnoth see Osbert the Dane, and he cried to him in a voice that rang over the din of the fight-- "Hi, there! Greeting to you, Osbert, nithing and attacker of little children. Come hither, for I have a greeting for thee, unless thou dost still fear my spear." "By Thor's hammer!" growled Hungwar as he heard this. "Thou must answer this, Osbert. Go thou, whilst we rest a space, and silence that wolf cub." But Osbert looked as though he liked not his task. Still he could not escape, and he advanced towards the keep; and Wulnoth sprang from the wall and ran to meet him. "Now, now, Osbert," he cried, "never have I slain a man yet, but thou wilt do for a start!" And Osbert answered with a thrust of his spear. But Wulnoth caught it on his shield and turned it aside, and then he struck once, and once only, and the blow pierced through shield and arm behind it, and Osbert gave a bitter cry and fell. "Mercy! mercy!" he cried, and the Danes howled with anger. But the wild war madness was in Wulnoth's blood now, and he drew his sword and plunged it into the nithing's throat, crying out, "So shall all nithings and Danish pirates perish!" "By Troth!" cried Hubba, "that is a gamesome young wolf. We must have him alive." But Wulnoth had fled back, and was let into the hold by the men, who cried "Skoal" to him. And then did the man's game begin again, and still the fight was with the vikings. And Cerdic was slain by a sling stone, and one after another of the King's champions went to the storm-world, and the flames burst from the roofs, and the cries of the women sounded on the air, for the vikings slew and spared none. In the courtyard Wulfreda stood by her husband's side and shielded him while he fought, and around him lay a ring of Danish slain. But he fell at last, and Hubba himself smote off his head. "This is the King's son!" cried Hungwar, seizing Guthred. "I have an oath as regards this boy and his sister. They shall be thralls in my castle." But to that Guthred answered boldly-- "Thou Danish pirate, though thou hast me in thy power, thou shalt never have my sister, for she is beyond thy reach." "That we will see," answered Hungwar. "Bind this boy with chains, and take him to my long ship." Then he caught sight of Wulnoth, who had fought as a man fights and was sore wounded, and he cried aloud-- "By my beard, but 't is our little warrior wolf!--a boy, but thou must be of us. Now, methinks, thou art the son of that Cerdic that we came to seek, for thou hast Saxon blood in thee I will swear, and thou hast thrall collar on. But thou art a man and we will spare thee, and thou shalt be my servant. What dost thou say to that?" "No servant of thine will I be, thou pirate of Denmark!" cried Wulnoth. "Thou art a champion and a sea-king, and I but a boy and a thrall, and only one of a few left of all Lethra's soldiers, yet thus and thus do I answer thee." And with that he rushed at the great Dane, and smote twice with his broken sword; and the first blow gashed Hungwar's brow, and the second pierced his arm, so that the champion of Denmark reeled backwards and would have fallen but that a soldier smote Wulnoth down with his axe, so that they thought him slain. Then did the Danes gather together all the treasure of Lethra for their plunder, and they slew all, man, woman, and child, as many as they found, and they set fire to each house and hall, and spread the red flames through the land; and then they sailed away, and of all the people they took only some fair maids and the Prince, who Hungwar had sworn should live as a thrall, for the blows which Hardacnute had caused to be laid upon the back of Osbert the Dane. Now, this is how the words of Wyborga the Wise came true, and Hungwar and Hubba carried fire and sword through the land of Lethra and took Guthred the Prince prisoner back to Denmark when they went away. CHAPTER V _Of Wulnoth's Schooling_ When Wulnoth opened his eyes again he was in a cool cave, through the entrance of which he could see the green glades of the forest, and there before him sat Wyborga the Wise, while Princess Edgiva played near by with a little wild fawn. He raised himself on his elbow and glanced around in wonder, hardly able to remember anything of what had gone beside; and Wyborga rose and brought him a cooling drink, saying gently-- "So thou art better, Wulnoth! For many days has thy spirit hovered between life and death, but thou hast turned back, as I knew thou wouldst--for thy work is before thee, and thou must help to do great things." "What things must I do, O mother?" he asked. And Wyborga took up her favorite symbol again--a little wooden cross--and planted it in the earth. "So must thou help to plant this in another land, Wulnoth," she said. And he shook his head somewhat impatiently. "Oh, good mother, I am weary of symbols and dark sayings. Tell me in plain words, for as for thy cross, I can make nothing of it." "Not yet, Wulnoth. The time is not yet," she said. "But now thou must rest and grow strong, for there is much to do." "And how went the fight after I was struck down?" he asked. "Methinks there was little fighting left to do." "All too little," she answered. "Of all in Lethra, the Danes left not one alive saving only a few who escaped to the woods. Thy father and mother, and the King and Queen, and Hald and all the mighty ones have perished, and Lethra is ruin and ashes and desolation to-day. Such is the work of Hungwar and Hubba." "Make me strong, O mother! make me strong if thou hast any skill!" cried Wulnoth. "For I will follow those pirates to the end of the world, if need be, and I will bring again Guthred, the Prince, from captivity." "Not yet, Wulnoth. Thou hast much to learn, and Guthred has much to learn, ere ye two meet again, for so I read your lives. Now sleep, and when thou awakest, I will tell thee what there is to be done first." So Wulnoth slept; and for a day and night and half a second day, he opened not his eyes. But then when he awoke he felt strong again, and he rose and said to Wyborga, who sat in the entrance of the cave-- "Good mother, I am strong, and I thank thee. Didst thou come and search me out?" "I sent one to do it, Wulnoth," she answered. "One who found thee nigh to death and bore thee hither to me." "And thou hast cured me! Now, mother, I am, as thou knowest, the watcher of the Princess, and though she has no realm to come to now, methinks she is still my Princess, and I must do my work. But then I am sworn to seek my friend the Prince. Now both I cannot do; therefore give me thy rede and tell me what to do." "Wulnoth," answered the wise woman, "the Princess is very fair, and as she grows older there will be none so fair." And Wulnoth answered that it was so. "Moreover, Wulnoth," said Wyborga, "methinks thou dost love her very much." And again he answered-- "She is my Princess, and I would give every drop of my blood for her." "Ay, truly, and methinks the Princess is fond of thee. Now, thrones and power are small things. How wouldst thou like to give up all such thoughts, Wulnoth, and to abide here, and perchance when Edgiva is maid grown, to take her for thy wife?" and Wyborga looked gravely at Wulnoth. But Cerdic's son drew himself up, and he answered quickly-- "Now, mother, that is a hard question, for of itself there would be no better thing than to live in peace beneath the green wood with Edgiva for my wife. But this may not be. For think, is it meet for a king's daughter to live her life like savage maiden? and is it right for a thrall, and a thrall's son, to ask a princess to be his mate? And is it meet that I should do this thing, even if I might, and forget my oath to the Prince, her brother? No, mother, this thing may not be." Then Wyborga smiled and said-- "Thou hast answered well, Wulnoth, and this thing I said but to prove thee. Know if thou hadst yielded still it would never have been. But listen to my words. Thou canst not seek the Prince yet, for thou wilt have far to go, and thou wilt have to go amongst the champions of the earth. Thou must learn much first, Wulnoth, and be patient in thy learning." Then answered Wulnoth and said, "What must I learn, mother, and who shall be my schoolmaster?" So Wyborga went to the door and called softly, and a shadow fell before the entrance of the cave, and there entered the wild-looking man who had come to Wulnoth on the day of the battle. "Wulnoth," he said, "I am Osth the berserker and the giant,"--and truly he was a gigantic man,--"and Wyborga the Wise has bidden me to teach thee if thou wilt be taught; but the time will be long and the work hard, for he who would gain experience must gain it at hard cost, and he who would conquer others must conquer self." Then said Wulnoth, "For how long must I learn, Osth?" and the berserker replied, "Until thou art perfect." Then did Edgiva come to Wulnoth and place her arms round his neck, and call him her good Wulnoth, and bid him go; and Wyborga promised that each new moon he should come and see them in the cave. So Wulnoth consented and went away with Osth into the high mountain, along the goats' road, which is hard to climb and weary to walk. And there in a cave the boy dwelt with the wild man, and he drank no wine nor milk, but only the clear water of the stream. And he ate wild fruit and goat's flesh; and each morning Osth set him to roll great stones up the hill, and as fast as he got them to the top they rolled down again, until at length he cried in anger-- "Of what use is this, Osth? The stones will not remain at the top, and if they did they are no use there," but to that Osth only grunted, and said he that would succeed must labor. "It shall not be my fault if I do not succeed," thought Wulnoth, and he set to work again, and rolled the stones all day long though he could not see any use in it, until one day the giant said to him-- "Seest thou yon oak tree, Wulnoth? Canst pull off a branch at one wrench?" "Neither I nor any man could do that," answered Wulnoth; but the berserker said-- "Try." So Wulnoth went to the oak, and he took a firm grip on a branch and pulled, and lo, the branch came away. "Whence have I got this strength?" cried the youth in wonder. And the giant answered, "Rolling stones. Each stone added a little, and each little joined the rest, until thou canst do this. Thou must learn another lesson now." So Osth set him to leap the precipices and to descend from point to point, until he was as surefooted as the goat, and then one day he bade him strip and wrestle. Now Wulnoth wrestled hard, but he could not throw the giant, and each time the giant threw him so that he lost heart, and said-- "What use wrestling with thee, O Osth? I shall never conquer thee." But the giant answered with a grunt-- "He who would succeed must labor," and again Wulnoth was silenced. And one day there came a bear, and the giant said, "Canst wrestle with yonder honey-finder, Wulnoth?" "Nay," said Wulnoth. "Neither can any man." But Osth answered, "Go and try." So Wulnoth went to the bear, and the honey-finder rose up and opened wide his paws. But Wulnoth took a good grip and squeezed his ribs, and threw him down, so that the honey-finder got up and ran off grunting. And Wulnoth said-- "Whence have I got this cunning?" "Through being thrown by me," answered Osth. "Thou must learn another lesson now." And he set him pulling against himself, until at length he could take a bullock by the horns and pull against it, and cast it over the hill, and so, day by day, did the giant make him work until his bones ached and his limbs grew weary, but he grew strong and mighty, and could run all day and not stop, and climb the steepest hill, and leap the widest chasm, and wield a club in either hand, and shatter a rock with every blow; and after each task in which he succeeded the giant laughed and grunted, and said that it was well. And at every full moon Wulnoth went down to see Wyborga and Edgiva, and it seemed to him that Edgiva grew more and more in grace each time he saw her, until he cried to Wyborga-- "Oh, Wyborga, tell me what this thing does mean! A few months ago and Edgiva was a child, and now she is a woman, and so beautiful that it melts the heart to look at her." Then did Wyborga laugh and answer-- "The riddle is not hard, Wulnoth. It is thus: For every moon that thou hast been yonder a year has sped. Canst thou not see that thou art a man?" "I never thought of that, for the giant has kept me so busy," he answered. "I have been seven months with him." "Seven years," answered Wyborga. "So swiftly has time flown. Thou art twenty-four, and Edgiva is fifteen now." But then did Wulnoth look wroth, and he said-- "This is all well, mother, but what of my promise? I said that I would seek out my friend, and here I have tarried playing for seven years, and he is a slave. I have somewhat to settle with the sons of Regner, and seven years have been wasted." "Not wasted," answered Wyborga. "Thou art now fitted for thy work. And now, before thou dost start, go and talk with Edgiva, for she has been learning too, and she now knows the wonder tale of which I spoke, and it has made darkness light, and sorrow has become joy, and weakness strength with her." So Wulnoth went to Edgiva and said-- "My Princess, Wyborga has sent me to talk with you, that I may hear the story which she says you know. Though before she said that in another land alone I should hear it." "Wulnoth," answered Edgiva gently, "there is hearing with the ears, and hearing with the heart; and which hearing thine will be I know not yet. But sit down beside me and listen to my story." So Wulnoth obeyed, and Edgiva told him her story, and it was such a story as he had never thought of. For she told him how the gods of the North were false gods, and how there was but one true God Who made all things. And she told how this God had sent His Son, who was the Lord Christ, and the Bretwalda of all angels; and how men had put Him to death on the cross, and crowned Him with thorns, and how for His love He had suffered and not destroyed them. And she spoke of how His subjects must be lowly and gentle and forgiving and meek, until at last Wulnoth jumped up and cried in impatience-- "What story is this you tell me, O Edgiva the Beautiful? This is a tale for nithings and cowards! What man would stand and be buffeted and spat upon if his hand could grasp a good sword and strike a good blow? I like not the tale, and I like not Wyborga for telling it to thee. The gods of our Northland were men truly, and did heroes' deeds; but as for this Lord of thine, methinks he deserved to die for the nithing and the coward that He was. Put such things away, Edgiva. I go to search for thy brother. I have sworn, and I must fulfil; and thou canst either tarry here, or, if thou wilt come with me, I will be thy servant and thrall." But Edgiva shook her head. "I want not servant or thrall, Wulnoth," she said. And he asked-- "Then what dost thou want, Edgiva?" "That I may not tell thee until thine own heart finds out, and thou wilt never truly find out until thou dost hear the wonder tale." "I have just heard it," answered Wulnoth, "and I have told thee that I like it not. Fit for women and nithings perhaps, but for men and heroes it is an idle story. Edgiva, I must go to seek thy brother." "That I know, Wulnoth," she said. "May fortune speed thy seeking. Now farewell." "But what wilt thou do?" he cried. "Wilt thou tarry here with Wyborga?" "I shall do as my Lord wills," she answered. And at that Wulnoth was angry, for who was this whom Edgiva called Lord? What lover had sought her in the woodlands, he wondered. He strode away in wrath and pain, but then he thought that after all he had no right to be angry, for he was but a born thrall, and Edgiva was a princess. Still, in those dark moments he knew that he loved her, and he felt that he must go back and tell her, and beg her to let him be her servant for ever. So back, through the moonlight, Wulnoth went to the cave and called to Wyborga and to Edgiva, but no answer came. Then he entered and looked around, and no one was there! He went into the woods and cried aloud, but only the echoes answered, and the night owl cried, and then he sat down and wept, for he thought that indeed Edgiva had gone to her Lord, and that he would see her no more. And then he went back to the cave, and there was a strange stillness in the place, as though it mourned that Edgiva had gone--as though in going she had taken all life and light with her; and he sat down and wept, and cried her name aloud, and said that he loved her and would surely die now; and then he looked up and he saw Wyborga some way off in the wood, and she called to him and spoke-- "Listen, Wulnoth," she said. "The time for work is now, and you must wander forth to seek for Guthred. As for Edgiva, she has gone where her Lord wills, and some day you will meet her again, when you have fulfilled your task." "My task!" he cried. "What task is that, Wyborga? To find the Prince?" "Nay, more than that," she replied. "You have said that the Lord Christ is weakling and nithing. Now, therefore, go and search in the world, and when you have found the strongest and the noblest, and the bravest of all Lords, then know that you will see Edgiva again, and that your task will be nearly done." "But, Wyborga!" he cried. But she had gone--the darkness of the forest had swallowed her up, and he was alone. He went back to the giant's cave, but Osth was gone also, and he was alone--alone without a single friend, not knowing whither to go to search for Guthred, nor who might be the bravest and mightiest Lord upon earth. Now, this is how Wulnoth served seven years with Osth the giant, and this is how he lost Edgiva the Beautiful and Wyborga the Wise. CHAPTER VI _Of Wulnoth's Strange Wrestling in the Place of Desolation_ For a day and a night did Wulnoth remain in that place, giving way to his sorrow, for a strange weakness had taken possession of him, and it seemed as though there was naught left to live for in this world. And in the long night hours did evil voices whisper in his ear, as though the wicked warlocks counselled him, and the storm sisters sped by on the wind, and they also seemed to mock at him. "Of what use is it to think of searching for thy friend?" the voices said. "Of what use to remember Edgiva the Beautiful, who is a king's daughter? Of what use to remember the words of Wyborga, who has mocked thee? Thou art nameless and landless and thrall born, and hast only thy strength and no wisdom. Go to the hills and join the nameless ones and the masterless men, and be their leader, and spread fire and carry sword, and make thyself a name that shall be feared, and put all these dreams from thee. There are fair maidens to capture and strongholds to take, and thus thou shalt be strong. But if thou dost wander after the friend whom thou mayst never find, or seek the great one who may never be met with, then thou shalt be known as the Wanderer only, and no scald shall sing a song to thee." And Wulnoth, seated there in the darkness of the forest, said to himself that this thing was best, and that he would go and join the nameless ones and the masterless men, and become a robber-lord to be feared. But when the day dawned and the night shadows fled, then the birds began to sing in the woodlands and the earth smiled again, and better voices came to Wulnoth and spoke in the land-breeze and sang in the bird-song and whispered in the leaves-talk; and all these voices said-- "Why tarry here, O Wulnoth, when all the work is before thee--when the hours pass and are not used? Look up, and rise up, and go forth and begin." "Yet I know not where to begin," said Wulnoth, and the voices seemed to answer-- "One step at a time, and the longest journey is completed. Rise up and search, for the seeker shall be the finder, if in seeking he weary not." "Now," thought Wulnoth, "this is surely right, for I do but waste time sitting idle, and even if I seek the masterless men, I shall not find them by staying here." So Wulnoth rose, and he plucked a stout branch from a tree for a weapon, in case any sought to harm him; and he strode through the forest and came to the road, and then he knew that it was the road he had often walked by the side of Edgiva the Beautiful--the road back to Lethra. "I will go and see the King's hall," he said. "Perchance some dwell there even now who may tell me of Guthred." But alas, when he reached the place where Lethra had flourished, all was silence and ashes and desolation. Here stood the blackened walls, and there lay beam and iron, while down at the fiord, the weed-covered wrecks of the long ships could still be seen. No living thing was there, for the work of the sea-kings had been thorough, and the vengeance of Hungwar and Hubba had been complete, and Lethra was the place of desolation now. Then a deep anger filled the heart of Wulnoth as he stood surveying the ruins, and he cried aloud-- "I will find these pirates and make them pay for this, and I will find Guthred the Prince and set him back on his throne, and I will find Edgiva the Beautiful, though I have to wander the world o'er to do it." And then a deep mocking laugh sounded, and he turned to behold who thus jeered at his words, for tears were gone and weakness had fled, and his heart burned for the man's game. And there, seated amidst the dust and black ashes of the place of desolation, he saw a man--a great and mighty man--who sat and eyed him; and Wulnoth's heart was full of wonder, for this man was so like himself that it was as though he looked upon his own form in the clear forest pool or the well's cool depths. "Why dost thou laugh at me? and who art thou who art so like myself that thou mightest be my brother? and by what name art thou called?" he cried. And the other laughed again. "I am called Wulnoth, stranger," he answered. "Wulnoth, Cerdic's son, thou talker of big words and doer of little deeds." And at that Wulnoth answered in hot rage-- "Now in that thou liest, whoever thou art, for I am Wulnoth, Cerdic's son." "Thou Cerdic's son! Thou art a nithing to weep at sorrow's touch, to faint at difficulty, and to listen to night voices. Thou Cerdic's son!" "Now," thought Wulnoth, "who am I? Has Wyborga cast some strange spell upon me, or did the night wanderers bewitch me in yonder forest? And if I be not Wulnoth, then who am I?" "Well, wanderer," this strange man said at length, "dost thou own that thou hast spoken falsely? Dost thou still call thyself Cerdic's son?" "That do I," replied Wulnoth. "Whoever thou art, thou art not Wulnoth." "Whoever thou art, thou liest," came the reply. "I am Wulnoth, and I mean to gather a band of masterless men, and in this place of desolation to build Lethra again and here to reign as king." "That thou shalt not," answered Wulnoth quickly. And the other laughed and asked him why he should not. "Because I am Wulnoth," replied he, "and because I go to seek Guthred the Prince, and to bring him here to reign in his father's halls once more." "That thou shalt not," answered the other. "It seems to me, nameless one who callest thyself Wulnoth, that there is not room for us twain in the world, and that one of us must conquer the other. Therefore cast aside thy club and come holmgang with me. Yea, here in the place of desolation, with no arms but our strength, will we fight until one shall overcome the other." "I am well content," replied Wulnoth, and he cast aside the club. "Let it be as thou sayest, thou who callest thyself Wulnoth and who speakest a lie." "Deeds, not words, thou man with a woman's tongue," growled the other; and then they faced each other, and gripped, and swayed, and strained, while the black ashes and the gray dust of the ruins of Lethra rose in clouds about them. Now Wulnoth was strong, and he thought within himself that after his wrestling with Osth the giant, and his conquering of the bear, this would be but an easy matter, but to his surprise he found that the stranger was strong as he, and knew every one of his tricks, and could match him in every way, so that Wulnoth, strive as he might, could gain no victory. All the day they fought, until the evening shadows crept from the cloudland, and then they paused, and flung themselves panting on the ground, and the stranger laughed and said-- "Well wrestled, Wanderer. Thou hast tried, but thou canst not succeed, and when the day dawns we will fight again, and I shall conquer thee, and then I will either slay thee or make thee my thrall, and thou shalt know that I am Wulnoth, Cerdic's son." "Though you conquer and slay me," answered Wulnoth, "that will I not know. You may be warlock or mountain troll who has stolen my shape and who uses magic against me, but Wulnoth, the son of Cerdic, you are not." "Tarry till the morning and I will prove it," said the other. But Wulnoth answered-- "Nay, why should we tarry; by night as by day can we fight. Come, prove it now." "I am hungry and weary, and desire to quaff from the wine horn," the other replied. "Let us do that first and fight afterwards." "Not so," answered Wulnoth. "We will make an end of this matter, and that at once." "Now, evil seize thee," growled the other. "For this I will surely slay thee. Yet fight, if it is in thy mind to do so." So they gripped again, and wrestled, and strove, yet still Wulnoth could gain no victory; and as the night deepened, it seemed that the other grew the stronger, so that he cast Wulnoth to the earth and laughed and said-- "I conquer! I conquer, Wanderer, and bitter shall be the drink in which you pledge me. Now cry for mercy." "I cry for no mercy," answered Wulnoth, speaking short and hoarse. "Come, let us make an end of this." So there on the ground they wrestled, the stranger on top and Wulnoth beneath seeking to cast him off, and so they struggled until the sun rose; and then stronger and stronger Wulnoth seemed to grow, and weaker and weaker the stranger became, until he fell, and said-- "I can fight no more. Thou hast beaten me. Yet thou wouldst not have done this save for that shadow." He pointed, as he spoke, to the earth, and Wulnoth looked and wondered; for two of the timbers of the ruined king's hall still stood, and they caught the beams of the rising sun, and upon the ground their shadows fell just where the two had struggled, and the shadows formed--a cross, the sign of the weak one whom Wulnoth had called nithing! Then cried Wulnoth and said-- "O stranger, who didst take my name and whom I have conquered, can you tell me this riddle, for I am weary of mysteries. Whence comes it that yonder shadow made me strong and you weak?" "'T is the sign of the mightiest and the strongest," answered the other, and at that Wulnoth laughed aloud in mockery-- "'T is the sign of one who was a nithing," he said; "and yet, if it made me strong, why did it not make thee strong also?" "Thou wouldst not understand even if I told thee, Wanderer," was the reply. And Wulnoth spoke again-- "Now confess that thou didst lie when thou didst take my name." But the other replied-- "I lied not, for of a surety I am Wulnoth, Cerdic's son!" "Now this passes all!" cried Wulnoth. "Then who may I be, if thou art Wulnoth?" "The Wanderer, and thou shalt wander until thy task is done. Yet remember that again thou hast rejected the Strong, and called Him the weak. Hither was I sent to meet thee and to conquer thee, and thou hast conquered me. Well for thee that thou hast conquered Wulnoth, Cerdic's son, for unless thou hadst done this, thou wouldst never have conquered others; and it was for this purpose that Wyborga the Wise sent thee to tarry with Osth the giant to learn strength." "Thou wilt bewilder me with words," cried Wulnoth impatiently. "I tell thee that I am Wulnoth. Moreover, it was Wulnoth whom Osth did teach, and since thou ownest that he taught me, thou ownest that I am Wulnoth, and thou provest thyself false." "I may not explain this to thee," was the answer. "Some day thou shalt understand it." "Some day!" was Wulnoth's angry reply. "Why are all the good things promised thus? The future must be stored with them, and the now has never a one." "The future has all golden store, Wulnoth, since so thou wilt have it. And now farewell." "Not so fast," cried Wulnoth. "I have conquered thee, and thou art my man now." "And truly so, and truly I shall serve thee even though thou mayst not know it. Yet beware of one thing--thou must watch me, for I may yet turn and smite thee. I tell thee, Wulnoth, that I am thy best friend and thy worst foe--weak am I and yet I am thy strength. Seek not to keep me now." "Oh, go thy way! Thou art like all the rest, filled with riddles and dark sayings. Yet before thou dost go tell me one thing, and plainly, if it be in thee to speak to the point." "Ask thy question," said the other. And Wulnoth went on-- "Whither must I turn to seek for Guthred son of Hardacnute, who was King of Lethra in his day--canst thou tell me that?" "By Hungwar and by Hubba was he carried off," answered the other. "From them must you seek him. Seek the Danes, Wanderer, yet in seeking hold thy counsel, for Hungwar hath a long memory, and his face still beareth a scar of a wound made by a broken sword once in this very spot. And, moreover, the names of Cerdic, thrall of Berwulf, and of Wulnoth, the son of Cerdic, might be remembered. So keep thy counsel, and call thyself the Wanderer if thou come to the Danish sea-kings." And with that this strange man turned and hastened away, leaving Wulnoth seated there wondering, yet sore spent with his fight. "Now, this is passing strange," Wulnoth reflected. "Yet the advice is good, for where shall I glean tidings of the Prince save from the Danes who carried him off?" Then he paused a moment and cried out-- "Now, by my word! Who so mighty and strong as Regner Lodbrok? There is Wyborga's rede! I will seek Regner Lodbrok the Dane, and to him will I give service." Then he rose, and lo, his eye fell upon the shadow again, and he frowned and shook his head. "There is some dark rede in all this," he mused, "and I must try and come by its meaning. 'T is but a shadow, yet as it fell upon me I grew strong and conquered yonder strange being." He stood pressing his feet idly into the dust and pondering, and presently his foot struck something buried in the ashes, and he stooped and put down his hand. And then he uttered a cry of joy, for he drew out a mighty sword with good handle, fashioned so that the fingers could grip it well, and with long, well-tempered blade, pointed and double-edged, which the dry ashes, piled high over it, had preserved bright and free from rust. "By Thor, a right good weapon!" he laughed, as he swung it round, making it sing its song in the air. "A right good weapon, and how it makes the heart rejoice to feel the fingers clasp such a friend! Now I have a long road to tread, and none can say what may befall in the journey or at its close, yet the way is clear thus far--I must seek Regner Lodbrok the Danish sea-king, and from him shall I glean tidings of Guthred the Prince." And with that Wulnoth, who called himself the Wanderer, turned from the place of desolation, carrying the great sword in his hand. Now, this is how Wulnoth wrestled with one who called himself by his name, and this is how he started to seek for Regner Lodbrok, the mightiest of all the sea-kings of Denmark. CHAPTER VII _Of the Coming of Wulnoth to the Danish Sea-kings_ For many days did Wulnoth journey southward, for though Lethra was nigh the sea, and the journey over the Westarweg was the shortest road, yet he had no boat in which to sail, and, moreover, the time of the storms was coming, and he knew that to sail alone was to seek for death. So by land he was forced to go, and the way was long and hard, and many were the times that he felt he would abide where he was, and give up this vain search. And strange was it that whenever these thoughts came to him, then also came the strange being who was so like himself, and he would cry to Wulnoth to wrestle with him ere he went farther, and only when Wulnoth had wrestled and conquered was he able to go on again. Many were the adventures which he met with, and many the perils he encountered, yet, still, in spite of all, he went his way over the long, long leagues towards the southern sea, where he must perforce take ship of some kind if he wished to reach the sea-king's land on the other side of the wild Baltic, whereon the storm-king makes his dwelling-place and rides in his flying palace of lightning and tempest. He made himself a light spear of hard wood, and with this he hunted the wild goats and the forest swine, and took their flesh for his food, and on this and on the wild berries did he live, and for his drink he had the runnels of clear water and nothing else. By day he journeyed and by night he slept in the hollow trees or in caves, living like a wild man and a berserker, and, moreover, looking like one also, since his face was all grown with a wild beard and his hair hung in tangled masses to his shoulders. In those dark nights, when the storms raged and the forest groaned beneath the buffets of the blast, evil voices called and made mock, urging him to give up so wild a journey, but in the day time the better voices always answered and encouraged him; and oft in his dreams Edgiva the Beautiful would stand beside him and smile, and beckon him on, whispering to him in tones like the sweet music of the scald's harp-- "Be brave, Wulnoth! Be patient, Wulnoth, for fame, and honor, and love, and that which is better than fame or honor or love await thee in the end." And when Edgiva stood thus, it ever seemed that she ever held that little cross of wood, bound with grass and wreathed with thorn spray, which Wyborga the Wise had fashioned in the days long past. So through the forests and across the mountains and over dreary wastes did Wulnoth go, and of those whom he met his only question was whether he was journeying towards the sea-king's land. "Thou art going aright," he was answered each time he asked that question. "Thou wilt come to the sea, and there thou must take ship. But beware what thou doest in the sea-king's land, for fierce and cruel are the vikings, and their swords sing loudly." Once, deep in a wild forest, he met a band of masterless men, who sprang up and seized their weapons and bade him stand, and then demanded his name and business. "I am nameless, and called the Wanderer," he said fearlessly. "As for my business, that is my own alone, yet this I say, I seek the sea-kings of Denmark." "Then thou seekest a right jolly company," laughed the robber chief. "Bold and daring are they, and there are no warriors to beat them. Yet I prefer to keep my feet on the dry land and to dwell with my jolly company here in the depths of the forest. Now, Wanderer, thou art a goodly man, and that great sword of thine looks a goodly sword. How sayest thou? Abide with us and be content, and thou shalt have fun and plunder enough and to spare, and hardly a day shall pass but thy sword shall sing its merry song while the red flames burst from the roof. The life of the masterless man may not be so full of adventure, but 't is also less full of peril. Not that I fear peril from the weapons of a stout foeman, but, by Odin, I care little for the thought of being sucked down into the depths of the sea for kraken and other monsters to make a meal of me. Stay with us, thou Wanderer, and be of our company." But to that Wulnoth made reply that this might not be since he had a task to do, and might not turn from it; and the robber asked him what his task might be. "I want to seek out the mightiest king and the strongest lord," explained Wulnoth. And the robber laughed. "Methinks thou hast a hard task before thee, Wanderer," he said. "For yonder in the Danish land, and beyond that in the land of the Saxons, which methinks thou must have come from, and beyond that again in the land of the Franks, thou wilt find many who cry that they are the mightiest and bravest; and yet, by the hammer of the great Thor, they are mighty only because they have the swords and axes and spears of fools who are content to shed their blood that their lords may snatch the gain. Not so do we, where all share alike." "Methinks, though, that old Lodbrok is truly a mighty man, if the stories that I have heard of him are true," said Wulnoth. And the robber nodded. "Ay, a mighty man. I know few more so." "But death is mightier than Lodbrok the dragon-slayer," cried another man. And the captain answered-- "True. To the old viking, Death, all heads must bow at last, for Death is strongest and last of all." "Death is strongest of all!" mused Wulnoth. "Then did Wyborga mean that if I would find Guthred and win Edgiva I must be ready to die? If that is so, then I need not travel far, for death may be met with everywhere." "I warn thee of one thing, Wanderer," said one of the robbers. "If thou goest to Lodbrok, the son of Sigurd, beware of his two sons, for they are merciless as the edge of the sword, and fiercer than the flames in war time. By my beard, I had rather keep beyond their reach--the hug of the bear is gentle compared with the hand grasp of Hungwar or Hubba his brother." "Though Hungwar and Hubba be terrible as the storm god and fiercer than the fire, yet I go on," said Wulnoth stoutly. "My way must be straight as the birds' road, nor may anything turn me aside." "Then go on and prosper, thou Wanderer of the stout heart," the masterless men answered, "but we abide in the woods and live our merry life." So Wulnoth, after that he had eaten and rested and warmed himself at the fire around which the robbers sat, their faces glowing red in the flame light, passed on his way, his sword in hand, ready for any dangers that might meet him on the road. And so he journeyed day by day until he came to a town, and there the people stared at him and asked-- "Who is this stranger with the big sword, who looks wild as a berserker?" And the lord of the place sent for him, and demanded his business; and when he knew that Wulnoth sought the sea-kings out, he said sternly-- "There be not ropes enough nor trees enough whereon to hang the pirates of Juteland and Denmark, who are the scourge of all honest peoples, and goest thou to join them, stranger? Now methinks that I ought to hang thee rather than let thee go on." "There may be two sides to that, jarl," answered Wulnoth calmly. "Not while I hold my sword will any one lightly talk of hanging me. Yet this I say, jarl--there may be other reasons why one seeks the sea-kings out. The flames may have burst from the roof and the sword may have sung its song, and there may be a debt to pay, lord jarl; therefore let me go my way." "And go thou shalt if that is in thy mind," answered the jarl, "though in truth thou must be a bold man if thou art going alone to such a task." "One may ofttimes accomplish that wherein a score would fail, jarl," was the reply; "therefore again I say let me go in peace, and perchance thou mayst hear a tale one of these days, and in that tale I, the Wanderer, may perchance play a part." Then the jarl sent him on his way, and at length Wulnoth reached the coast, after many long and weary days of trial; and there before him, dark and vast, the stormy Baltic heaved, and across that dark water the grim rock-bound shores of Denmark lay. Now on the rocky shore a village was built, and thither went Wulnoth to ask if he could get ship to Denmark, but not one of those who dwelt there would listen to his words. "Quite close enough are we to our neighbors," they said. "We have no desire to come nearer if it may be helped, whilst as for the sea, the storms will be sweeping it in a few days now, and we have no wish to become food for the kraken." "Now," thought Wulnoth to himself, "I am as far off as ever, for this sea I must cross, and yet I cannot get ship to bear me." And down to the foot of the dark cliffs he went, gazing across the water, and pondering upon how he might cross it; and while he stood there, yet once again there came he who had called himself Wulnoth, and he stood and mocked at him and cried-- "So, Wanderer, thou hast got thus far, and now thou art stopped. Now thou shalt wrestle with me yet once again, and I will carry thee back to the land from which thou hast journeyed and there help thee to make a name for thyself." Then did Wulnoth utter a cry of anger, and he seized this man whom he before had overthrown, and he said-- "Now am I weary of thy gibing and thy worry, thou who callest thyself by my name, and whom I have already overthrown more than once. Now we will indeed make an end, and if there is no other way, then will I swim this water, but thou shalt swim it with me." And once again they struggled there on the weed-strewn shore, and this time Wulnoth had easy mastery--for each time they had fought he had grown the stronger and the other had become weaker, and now he soon vanquished him, and he cried-- "Now thou and I will swim together, and if we perish then it is done with." But to this the other answered, crying in terror-- "Not yet, Wanderer! Not yet! I will show thee a better way." "And what is that way?" asked Wulnoth. "Speak quickly, for I have no mind to tarry." Then the other pointed out a spot to Wulnoth, and there two great bears came slyly down to make war against a great monster of the deep--one shaped like a seal but ever so much larger--larger than the largest ox, with huge tusks like unto the horns of a wild bull set in its upper jaw and protruding downwards, and with moustache like a viking lord's on its lip. "The bears will attack the sea-cow," said the strange man. "Now watch, and when the battle is fierce, take thy sword and slay the bears, and then ask the sea-cow to aid thee." So Wulnoth watched, full of wonder, and the two bears came down and flung themselves upon the sea-cow who had been sleeping there on the shore, and the mighty animal made a valiant fight and smote hard with its tusks, and the whole air trembled with the bellowings and roarings of the strife. But the bears got one on either side, and Wulnoth saw that the fight was going against the sea-cow and that it would be slain. So he drew his sword and he rushed at the bears, and smote strong strokes, so that one was slain and the other fled, leaving the track of its blood to tell of Wulnoth's strong hand. Then the sea-cow turned and spoke in deep hoarse tones, and Wulnoth wondered that he could understand its speech, not knowing that Wyborga the Wise had put this into his mind. And the sea-cow said-- "Greeting to thee, O Wanderer, and thanks for the help of thy hand and thy sword, for without that help methinks the bears would have made an end of me. Now, therefore, tell me what is in thine heart, and if it may be I will do it." So Wulnoth made known his desire to cross the water, and the sea-cow laughed at that. "It is a light task for me that you have set, Wanderer," it said. "Nor will it take long to fulfil. Now get thee on to my back and hold thee still, and I will do thy behest and carry thee to Denmark." Then Wulnoth, greatly marvelling, obeyed, and clambered upon the monster's broad back. And the sea-cow beat the waves with her mighty flippers and cleaved her way through the sea, faster than the fastest ship could sail, until the shores of the North faded and the shores of the South grew clear, and then, beating against the wind and making for the land, they saw a long ship with shields along the sides and the raven banner overhead, and Wulnoth knew that it was a vessel of the sea-kings, and he hailed it across the waves. Now in the ship the rowers sat tugging at the oars and the leaders gathered on the prow and looked across the water, laughing and jesting. A big, fierce, warlike set they were, grizzled in battle and marked with many marks of the war game; and as they talked and laughed, suddenly over the waves rang the sound of a voice, and they stared in fear to see a great man, shaggy as a berserker, with long yellow hair and blue eyes, come speeding towards them upon the back of a sea monster. "By Thor!" cried one. "'T is surely some warlock come to do us harm. Let us flee." But another, who was leader of the pirates, answered with a fierce oath and said-- "Warlock or not, I flee not from anything. If the hour of the death-song comes, it comes, therefore round with the ship and let us go to meet this being, who thus calls to us from out the swan bath." So round came the ship, and near Wulnoth approached, and he cried aloud-- "Greeting to you, viking lords; I come to meet you." "Greeting to thee, stranger," they answered. "And who art thou who sailest the swan bath in so strange a ship, and what dost thou want with us?" "I am the Wanderer," answered Wulnoth. "So am I called, for I have wandered far, seeking that which I seek, and I have come to you because ye perchance may know of that which I want." "By Thor, this is passing strange," muttered the viking lord, whilst the rowers sat open-mouthed and wide-eyed. "'T is strange, and none who have not seen this will believe it." Then he said aloud-- "Tell me, Wanderer, what is it that thou dost seek so straitly?" "The strongest and mightiest of lords," answered Wulnoth, "and so I have heard Regner Lodbrok called, and hither have I come seeking for him." "And by the beard of Beorn, thou hast sought a right worthy lord," the viking replied. "For there is none more mighty than old Regner, Sigurd's son. But he is not in his hall now. Four moons ago he sailed to East Anglia and we await his message to join him. But his sons are in the hall, and Hungwar and Hubba are names known to men. Also there is the renowned Guthrun there, awaiting tidings from Regner. To these chiefs of fame thou canst make thy story known if thou desirest. But how comes it that thou ridest the waves in so strange a fashion?" "Because I could get no man to let me have ship, all fearing to come too nigh your coasts." "Ay," laughed the vikings, "they know our greetings are somewhat rough. But what of thy steed, Wanderer? Thou hast not told that!" "The steed I found and rendered some service to, and for my payment he brought me over, as you see. Now shall I come into your ship, or shall I race you across?" "A race, a race!" cried the vikings, and they bent to their oars, and they stretched the sail, and flew before the wind. But swift though they went, swifter still sped the sea-cow, and when they reached the land, there stood Wulnoth to greet them, and the sea-cow had gone back to the depths. "Thou hast won the race, Wanderer," they said, "and never did man win in stranger fashion. Yet never mind that now. Come thou with us, and we will lead thee to our lords. And look that thou answer firmly and without fear, and in few words, for Hungwar loveth not long speech nor to be crossed, and the rod and the sword are his only words to any whom he thinks nithing." "I am well content," answered Wulnoth. "Lead the way." And so to the sea-king's hall he was conducted. Now, this is how Wulnoth crossed the swans' bath, and how he met the vikings, and was led to the presence of the Danish sea-kings. CHAPTER VIII _Of what befell Wulnoth in the Halls of the Danes_ In the great hall of Regner Lodbrok sat his two sons who ruled in his absence, together with many a great holda of Juteland and Denmark and other vikings from the North who had gathered with them. The room was long and low, and its oaken beams were black with age and smoke. Its walls were covered with skins and horns and trophies of the chase, and laden with shields and swords and other warlike gear. Great torches, fixed in iron sconces, cast a smoky glare on the scene, and on the mighty hearth a huge fire of logs burnt, and the blue smoke curled upwards to escape through a hole in the roof. The upper end of the room was slightly raised, and there, in carved chairs at a table which ran crosswise the width of the hall, the nobles sat quaffing the brown ale from their deep drinking horns. There, side by side, Hungwar and Hubba sat, older and fiercer now than when Wulnoth had seen them lead the attack at Lethra, and they had been bad enough then. Hungwar, the elder of the brothers, was shaggy as the bear, but Hubba was smooth of face save for his heavy moustache, and on Hungwar's cheek was a scar as of a sword cut. And there also sat Bacseg, King of the North Danes, and Halfdane the Fierce, and Sidroc the Cruel, and Osbern, and Frena, and Harold, all viking lords, holdas of high birth and warriors of fame, and each was clad in his war gear, and each had his weapons ready to hand; for words were few and blows quick in those days, and even the feasting might become the warring before men could understand the cause of the quarrel. Set crosswise to the table, and running down the length of the room like the longer line of the letter T, was another table, and here the soldiers and the lesser leaders sat at their feasting, and the place rang with shouts of laughter and wild jest, and ever and anon with the music of the harp and the song of the scald, singing the praises of one or other of the captains; and into this company was Wulnoth led by the captain of those whom he had met. "How now, Wahrmund!" cried Hungwar as he caught sight of the captain. "So thou hast come back, thou old wolf; and what of thy voyaging, eh?" "The voyage was quick and the task short, Hungwar," came the answer. "And the men of Osric are scattered and their homes given to the flame!" "Good!" cried the leaders as they heard. "Osric will not defy our might again." And then Hungwar went on, staring at Wulnoth-- "But what flaxen-haired giant of the South have you here, Wahrmund? Is this a captive from the foe? That cannot be, seeing that he is unbound and has his sword by his side. Who is this giant, and what does he here?" "By Thor, he is a goodly man to look upon," cried one noble, bending forward and staring at Wulnoth. "I love a man when I see one, and yonder one is." Then he raised his horn and cried to Wulnoth-- "Waes heal, stranger of the blue eyes and yellow hair," and to him Wulnoth answered-- "Drinc heal, lord." "Now, by Odin and his twelve companions," growled Hubba, "one would think that we have no men in Denmark, noble Guthrun, that thou must make so much of this berserker." This Guthrun was a brawny, broad-shouldered giant himself, and his hair was plaited in two long plaits which fell on either side his face, and on his arms he had massy bracelets of gold. He seemed a good-humored man, for he roared with laughter at Hubba's words and made answer-- "Not so, Hubba. We be men enough, and therefore we should love all men, be they friend or foe--and, by my word, I love a good foeman. As for being berserker, this stranger is none the worse for that in my eyes so that he be a dealer of lusty blows." "How came ye by this man, Wahrmund?" asked Hungwar, stopping what might have led to a quarrel. And all listened while the viking told his tale. And when he was done Hungwar turned to Wulnoth, who had stood there erect and calm, and all eyes were bent upon him. "This is a strange tale that we hear, stranger," he said. "So thou comest to us through the swans' bath, riding a sea-monster like a horse. By my faith, most of thy people--for surely thou art Saxon by thy eyes and hair--most of thy people, I say, rather shun us. Now tell us thy tale--for surely thou hast fled from some fate that thou didst deserve. Thou art nameless and landless, I'll warrant me." "Or else I should not come to those who take land with their sword," answered Wulnoth, and at this the vikings laughed, and said that surely this was a merry fellow. But Hungwar frowned, and said sternly-- "Thou hast a sharp tongue, stranger, but we love sharp swords. Thou hast a quick word, but we love quick deeds." "Blow and deed will be quick enough when the time comes," Wulnoth made answer, and he looked into Hungwar's face and noted the scar that his sword had made in the past. "For myself, I am the Wanderer, for I have wandered far in my search. For my place, I come from the North, whither I was taken in my childhood after that the sword of the Dane had harried our land. As thou sayest, I am landless and nameless, and, moreover, a thrall--though I have rent the thrall collar from my neck, having somewhat outgrown its size, and he who placed it there being dead. Yet that makes little difference to thee, seeing that it is said that thou lovest those who strike strong blows better than those who have noble blood." "Be it as it may. Thou hast come to serve under me, then?" cried the Dane. But to this Wulnoth said, "Nay. I am seeking the bravest, the mightiest, and the noblest in the world." And at that Hungwar frowned and smote the table. "Thou dog!" he cried. "Am I not he?" And at that Wulnoth laughed. "Why, Hungwar, did I say ay to that, I might have all the holdas here flying at me or falling upon thee. Nay, I seek one whose name is greater than even thine--I seek Regner Lodbrok, thy father." And at that all there cried that it was well, and that Regner Lodbrok was the champion of champions. "So thou seekest to serve my father," sneered Hungwar. "Now, by my beard, he who seeks such honor must of the honor be worthy. If thou wouldst serve none but the bravest and mightiest, thou thyself must be brave and mighty." "Wouldst that I match myself against thee, Hungwar?" asked Wulnoth calmly. And at that the holdas laughed, for they liked to see Hungwar baited; but Hungwar frowned darkly. "Thou art over bold, Wanderer," he said. "The bloodhound runs not with the wolf." "But the wolf sometimes pulls down the bloodhound, Hungwar," was the ready answer. "But enough of such talk. Thou desirest to see my strength. So be it. How shall we test it?" Then Hungwar took up a block of wood and gave it to Wulnoth, saying-- "Let us see what thy sword is worth, Wanderer. Split me that block at one blow." And at that Wulnoth laughed mockingly. "Too easy a task, Hungwar," he answered. "Far too easy. Let me see thee rend it asunder with thy naked hands." "Thou art drunk, fool!" roared the Dane. "No man living may do that." "We will see," answered Wulnoth, and placing the block carefully, he bent one knee upon it and gripped it with both hands, while all there rose to their feet to watch him. Then slowly and steadily he pulled, and the muscles of his arms and back stood out like ropes, and he thought within himself that his work with Osth was bearing fruit now. And as he pulled there was a sharp sound of rending wood, and the block fell apart in twain, while all there shouted till the roof rang at this great deed. "Now, by my beard!" cried King Bacseg, "but we have a mighty man here. What sayest thou, Hubba?" "Strong arms and strong wits go not always together. The bear is strong, but the fox beats him in cunning." "Now, that may be," shouted Guthrun, "but we love strong arms rather than quick brains. Still, methinks the Wanderer is not slow of wit either--and he brags not as some do," he added to himself. "What other task wilt thou set me, Hungwar, son of Regner?" asked Wulnoth. "Since I seek thy father's service, I am willing to prove that I am worthy of it." And Hungwar frowned, for, he knew not why, he felt hate for this stranger, and would gladly have put him to shame. "Perchance the block was cracked," he said, "and I noticed it not." And Wulnoth smiled and answered-- "Perchance it was." Then he picked up an iron mace, with the handle an inch thick, and he held it up. "Some of you strike hard blows," he said. "Which, then, will sever this with a clean cut with one blow of the sword?" "I will try," cried Guthrun, for he, like all the vikings, loved trial of strength. So he took the mace and set it on the riven block, and with bared arms he lifted his sword high in the air and smote with all his force, and the sword bit deep into the iron, but severed it not. Then tried Osbern, and after him tried Halfdane, and after him the Norse Jarl Eric, and after him Biorn Ironsides the Mighty, and not one of them could cut quite through the bar. Then Wulnoth took his great sword, and he said, "Give me another bar, for this one is much cut now, and let it be stouter and stronger." "This braggart shall not humble us," thought Hungwar, and he sent for his own mace, and the handle was nigh two inches thick. "Canst cut that, boaster?" he said; and Guthrun cried out that it was not fair since 't was twice as thick as the other. But Wulnoth swung high his sword, and the keen blade sang in the air like the scream of the gull as it flies before the storm. And lo, the iron was sheered in twain, clean cut, and the block beneath it split in two beneath the blow. "Skoal to the Wanderer!" cried the vikings. "Worthy is he to be of our number!" But Wulnoth said-- "Wilt set me another task, O Hungwar?" "By Thor, I will set thee a task!" cried Hubba fiercely. "All this is but child's play and has no danger in it. Come hither, Wiglaf." Then uprose a mighty man, with bare arms and hairy, and he laughed grimly. "What is thy pleasure, Hubba?" he asked. And Hubba said to Wulnoth-- "See here, Wanderer. This man is our mightiest boxer, and no man can stand a blow from his fist. Wilt thou exchange a blow with him?" "That will I," answered Wulnoth. "Strike thou, Wiglaf." "Not so," shouted Guthrun. "That were a poor test, for if Wiglaf strikes first, how shall Wanderer have strength to strike back? Let them fight one round if they will. By my father's name, 't will be a splendid sight to see." "So be it," laughed Wulnoth. "I care not," and he and Wiglaf the Boxer faced each other. "'T is a cruel man, Wanderer," whispered Wahrmund in Wulnoth's ear, "and he fights not over fair. Mind thyself, for he will kill thee if he can." "If he can," answered Wulnoth; and then the fighters faced each other, and the vikings forgot their drinking horns and watched breathless. For a little the pair feinted, and then Wiglaf rushed forward and smote a mighty blow like to have felled an ox. But Wulnoth caught it and turned it aside, and then he smote and Wiglaf could not avoid the blow, and though he caught it on his arm, there was a sound like as of a breaking stick, and the boxer's arm fell helpless, for the bone was broken. Now all the vikings started to their feet and roared that Wulnoth was worthy to be of the best of them; and Hubba and Hungwar frowned, for they liked not men who could do more than they dared. Then did Wulnoth rise, and he spoke and said-- "All the tasks that you have set me I have accomplished, O holdas. Now I will take a task upon my own shoulders, and if any of you dare try it, then do it first. See you yon beast?" and he pointed to the open beyond the door, where, in a fenced field, a great shaggy bull bellowed and stamped. "Well, what of him, Wanderer?" cried Guthrun eagerly. "What new wonder canst thou show us? Only be careful of that brute, for he has killed five men already." "Which of you will go and bring yon bull to his knees with hand, and hand alone?" Wulnoth asked. And Hungwar cried thickly-- "Thou fool, there is no man on earth can do it." "That will we see," laughed Wulnoth lightly, and setting his sword aside, he leaped the rails and entered the bull's field, while all there crowded out to watch him, thinking that the stranger would of a surety be slain now. And the bull glared at Wulnoth with bloodshot eyes, and lowered its massive head, pawing the ground and roaring deeply. Then, like a bolt, it charged, and the onlookers gasped, for they thought that now the daring man must perish. But quick as the bull moved, quicker still was Wulnoth, and he sprang aside and let the monster pass. Then round wheeled the animal, but Wulnoth was ready at its side, and he gripped the wide-spreading horns and stood, and the bull stood pushing against him, both motionless, man and animal. "Now, by Odin!" shouted Hungwar, "the man is in a poor case, for he cannot let go." "And, by Odin!" shouted Guthrun, "he does not desire to let go. Look, look! who ever saw the like of this?" For now Wulnoth put out his strength and did as he had been taught of old by Osth. First he pushed the bull backwards, and then he gripped tighter and swung mightily, and the bull was jerked off its feet; and then he twisted sharply, putting out every bit of his might, and the great beast cried in its pain and fell upon its knees, and all the fierceness was gone out of it. Then did the vikings leap up and run to Wulnoth and lift him, and carry him round on their shoulders, crying "Skoal" to him. But Hubba frowned darkly, and bent towards his brother and whispered-- "I like not this fellow who has come to put us to shame with his strength. We must look to this, brother." And to that Hungwar nodded, and answered back, "Even so. But the dagger may turn greater strength than this man's into weakness." So the brothers spoke, and only Guthrun noticed and heard the words they said. Now, this is how Wulnoth showed his strength before the Danish holdas, and this is how Guthrun knew that the sons of Regner planned evil towards the Wanderer. CHAPTER IX _How the Sea-kings sailed for East Anglia_ So Wulnoth tarried in the Danish camp, and the vikings greeted him as one of themselves, but old Wahrmund took him aside and whispered more than once that he should beware of Wiglaf the Boxer as soon as his arm was well. "Wiglaf forgives no injury," he said, "and the greatest injury which thou canst do to him is to beat him fairly. Therefore beware of Wiglaf, O Wanderer." "Surely a brave man should feel no bitterness against him who overthrows him in fair fight!" answered Wulnoth. But to that Wahrmund only said again-- "Beware of Wiglaf when he is recovered." And that was not the only warning that was received by Wulnoth, for Guthrun the viking lord met him, having sought such a meeting, and he said to him grimly-- "Wanderer, I love a man who plays the man's game well and truly, but some there be who love thee not; and if thou takest my advice, thou wilt not tarry with the sons of Regner too long. Yet if thou hast desire for service, my ships have places for such warriors as thou art." And with that he went his way. "Now," thought Wulnoth to himself, "truly this is a hard case for me. If I tarry here, I am like to come to harm; and if I tarry not, how shall I either meet with this champion Regner Lodbrok, or learn tidings of Prince Guthred my friend? Truly the Lord Guthrun seems more noble than these sons of Regner, and yet with them I must abide, methinks." So for a week Wulnoth stayed there, and none sought to do him harm, and even Hungwar spoke fairly to him, having somewhat conquered his anger at Wiglaf's defeat. But it was with Wahrmund that Wulnoth spoke most, for a friendship had grown between them, and very cautiously did Wulnoth question the viking, not letting him know the cause, and ask him if he remembered aught of the conquest of Lethra. "That do I," answered the warrior, laughing deeply, "seeing that I fought there from first to last. And that same King of Lethra was a hero, and fought a good fight. Methinks sometimes that 't is a pity there is so much sword-singing between brave men. 'T is our trade, yet sometimes I think that peace time is the best. Yea, I remember Lethra, and I mind me of the anger of Hungwar because a boy--who by the way was a Saxon thrall to Jarl Berwulf--smote the champion with a broken sword, and left its kiss upon his cheek, as thou seest until this day. 'T was my hand that cut the boy down, but by Thor, he was a proper lad, and I have been sorry for it since." "But there was another boy there, comrade!" said Wulnoth eagerly. "A son of Hardacnute. What was his fate?" The viking looked at him sharply and pondered a moment. "Wanderer, thou knowest far too much about Lethra for thy health, if thy questioning come to the ears of the holdas," he said sternly. "Thus I counsel to question none save me, and if thy questions may be answered with honor, then I will answer them. Dost know thou mindest me of that Saxon boy, full grown now? It might be ill for thee didst thou remind some we know of in this same way." "Wahrmund," said Wulnoth quietly, "thou art a brave man and true, and now I will place my life in thy hand, for of a truth I am that boy--Wulnoth the son of Cerdic. Yet know, Wahrmund, that Cerdic was no thrall to Berwulf, for Berwulf murdered the Saxon jarl Tholk, and Cerdic refused to serve the Dane. And when Berwulf had him whipped, then he smote him with his own axe and fled, and, by Thor, 't was the deed of a man to do that!" "Perchance so," answered the other, and then Wulnoth went on with his story-- "Now, Wahrmund, in those days did the son of Hardacnute make friendship with the outlaw Saxon boy, and they swore to live as brothers; and on the day when the evil came to Lethra--this was prophesied by a wise woman--Guthred the Prince made me swear that I would seek for him and aid him if might be; and for this reason am I come to the camp, that of him I might learn tidings if he is still alive." "I remember the boy," the Dane answered. "And surely 't was a hard thing that was done to him by Hungwar and Hubba, for they sold him as a slave, though he was a king's son; and I have heard that his master took him to the land of the Anglo Saxons, though in what part of that land he dwells, if he be still alive, is more than I can tell." "I thank thee for thy words, Wahrmund," answered Wulnoth, "and I trust thee with my story." "Thou mayst trust me with it, Wanderer," answered the Dane. "So long as thou art true while thou dost stay with us, that is all I ask. If thou go into battle with us, fight for us and not for our foes; and if thou dost ever desire to depart, depart without striking secret blow--" "As to that, the rede that I follow directed me to seek this camp and serve Regner Lodbrok; and so I have no desire to fight for your foes or against you." "Regner tarries long in Angleland," the Dane said gloomily. "I would that he were back to lead us himself, for the camp is broken with so many holdas, and there is like to be mischief done ere long." "Wahrmund," said Wulnoth, "canst thou tell me this? Dost thou know any people who worship not the gods of the North, but One who died on a cross?" "Ay, that do I. 'T is the religion of most of the Anglo Saxons now. They have forgotten their old faith, and turned to this strange one. Yet it is a strange story, and one that touches the heart, Wanderer," he went on; "and it hath wondrous power with them, making them merciful to the foe and calm in face of torment and death. Some of our men have put their captives to sharp torture to make them renounce this God of theirs; but I have not known one succeed. They have killed their victims, but in dying the Christians--for so they call themselves--have sung songs of triumph. They are men indeed who can fight, and suffer, and die, and yet this creed is the creed of a nithing. 'T is beyond my poor wits, who know nothing of aught save the storm-sea and the sword-song." "And this religion is in Angleland, and Guthred is in Angleland, and Regner Lodbrok is in Angleland also! 'T is strange. It points to my going there also"; and Wulnoth was silent, and mused on what he heard. Then said Wahrmund, pointing out to the water: "What ship is this which comes speeding towards the land? Let us go down and see who these may be who come over the swan-bath thus." So down to the shore they went, and the ship drew near; and it was but a small one, with a few rowers, and no shields hung on its sides; and yet as Wahrmund looked he started and cried-- "Now here are evil tidings; for of a surety yonder man at the helm is Bern, and Bern was the man of Regner Lodbrok." Then the boat reached the land, and the men laid aside their oars and came ashore, and stood with drooping heads, as those who carried heavy tidings; and the viking cried-- "Oh, thou who art Bern, man of Regner Lodbrok, why comest thou thus, as they that flee in battle? and where is thy master, our Holda?" "With those who feast in Walhalla," answered the seaman. "Lead me to Hungwar, or to his noble brother, for I have heavy tidings to tell; and the soul of Regner Lodbrok calls aloud for vengeance, for the nithing deed and the shame deed that were done to him." "Now, by Thor," cried Wahrmund, "he will not cry in vain; for, if aught of wrong hath been done to Regner the son of Sigurd, the vikings will have a song to sing and a fire to light"; and, with that, Wahrmund turned and guided the man to the vikings' hall; and Wulnoth followed to hear what had befallen Regner Lodbrok. And in the hall the holdas feasted; only some looked weary, for their souls hungered for the man's game, and they tired of tarrying on land; and when Hungwar saw Wahrmund enter, he cried-- "Greeting, Wahrmund! Whom dost thou bring, and why dost thou turn thy spear head down, as if evil had come to some?" "Evil hath come, Hungwar," answered Wahrmund. "This man is Bern, who sailed with thy mighty father, and he hath ill news to tell to thee, O jarl." And then the chiefs looked up, and all voices were hushed; for they knew that the death-song had been sung for Regner Lodbrok, the old sea-king. And then Hungwar said, while Hubba sat silent by his side-- "So the son of Sigurd is dead, and the death-song hath been sung. Then I will warrant that he died as a mighty hero, and that his sword sang merrily ere he fell, and the Valkyrs were busy. Is it not so, silent one? Speak and tell thy tale, lest I open thy lips with a touch of fire." "I will tell my tale, Hungwar son of Regner," the man answered. "But it is a heavy one, and the telling of it is hard. No hero death did Regner die, but such a death as a nithing would have deserved; and yet he died a hero, and sang his death-song. By treachery and falsehood was he conquered, O Hungwar, and for vengeance does he cry to thee and to all thy people." "Tell thy story, man," answered Hungwar grimly, "and be sure that the son of Sigurd shall not cry in vain. Truly, our swords are weary of idleness and our ships yearn for the waves. Tell thy story, and tell it true, all of it, neither more nor less." "I obey thee," answered the man; and this is the story that he told. Eastward to Angleland had Regner Lodbrok sailed, with only a few men, chiefs of fame, for they had not meant to tarry in the land, but to see for themselves if it was a good land and fair, and worth the attacking. And on the eastern coast a great storm had come, and driven them on shore, so that the ship was wrecked and only a few escaped death. They were in the land of the East Angles, whereover one Edmund is king; and he at first received Regner and his companions with friendship, and gave them gifts. Yet some of the people murmured because of the Danes being there; and Regner heard how in the north dwelt one Ella King of Northumbria, who was himself of Danish blood; and thither to greet him Regner went. But Ella liked not the coming of the stranger; for the Danes, who had settled in the north and taken possession of the land, desired that no more of their numbers should come to share the prize with them. So this Ella, though he received Regner with soft speech, yet purposed to do him harm, and plotted to take his life; yet in what manner to do so he did not know. Now the King had built him a high tower, called Ella's Tower, and beneath this tower was a dungeon dark and drear; and into this dungeon did King Ella cause a number of deadly vipers to be let loose--for he had a mind to shame Regner Lodbrok as well as slay him, because that this Regner boasted, and made much of his having slain the dragon and rescued Thora the Fair from its power. So when Regner and his friends sat at feasting, the soldiers of the King of Northumbria came upon them and put them to the sword; but Regner they took and bound, and cast into the vipers' tower, bidding him, since he had slain the dragon, slay also the snakes, which were less than the dragon. And the vipers bit the old sea-king deep and sore, so that he knew that his death was nigh, and none were there to sing his death-song. And alone in the dungeon, with the biting vipers, Regner Lodbrok sang his own death-song; and the name thereof is Krakamal; and that song is known to this day amongst the sagas of the Northland; and that song he sang, while the darkness gathered, and the Valkyrs carried his spirit to Walhalla.[2] Such was the tale that the messenger told in the hall of the sea-kings; and when the story was finished there was silence for a short space, and then uprose Hungwar, and Hubba rose and stood by his side, and Hungwar spoke and said-- "Oh, holdas of Denmark, ye have heard this story, and it is a shame tale; and the spirit of the son of Sigurd calls to my brother and to me, and bids us take vengeance on his foes. Now, those who list come, and those who will tarry, tarry; but, as for Hubba and me, we will cross the Westarweg and carry fire and sword into Angleland; and from south to north will we harry it. Now, viking lords, and sea-kings, who comes with us?" Then did all there start to their feet, and then did their great swords flash out, as they cried Skoal to the memory of Regner Lodbrok; and with one mighty voice they answered and cried-- "We will come, sons of Regner. We will man our ships and come; and from south to north we will follow the footsteps of Regner Lodbrok, and leave a pathway of ashes and death; and then will we take this land for our own. But as for Ella, King of Northumbria, better for him that he had never lived, than that he fall into our hands. For each sting that the son of Sigurd received, he shall receive a thousand pains." Then all was bustle and hurry in the realm; and each lord went his way to summon his own men, and to make ready his long ships; so that never before in all the land was so vast a fleet prepared, nor so great an army gathered, and in no history is there a full list of names of all the sea-kings who sailed to Angleland at that time. There were Frena, and Guthrun, and Sidric the elder, and Sidric the younger, and Hungwar and Hubba, all jarls of fame. And there were Kings Godron and Halfdane, and Bacseg, and Hamond, and Oskettle--five kings of might; and Biorn Ironsides and many champions, so that one knows not all their names. And with them came many young warriors, the sons of holdas, seeking to make a name, and many old vikings who had spent their lives on the sea, and whose play was the man's game; and landless men, and nameless men, who had joined the vikings to seek their fortunes in land afar. Never was such a scene; never did so many long ships lie like black snakes on the water; never did so many shields gleam like suns, as the light played upon them. And in Hungwar's own ship they placed the great banner of Regner Lodbrok, which his daughters had woven and made in the space of one noontide; and thereon was the Raven of Odin, worked in cunning work; and it stretched its wings and stood erect, and all men shouted that the omen was good, and that victory would be theirs. For this banner was supposed to be of wondrous might; and if defeat was to come then the raven's wings drooped and its head hung; but if victory was to be their portion, then its wings were raised, and it stood defiant. Such was the story; though whether any man ever saw the bird change cannot be told. Yet afterwards, as you shall presently hear, the men of Wessex took that banner and slew Hubba, and still the raven's wings were spread and its head raised; so perchance the power of the magic spell had fled from its folds. And then all the war-horns blared, and all the sails were hoisted, and out over the dark, rolling sea the rovers sailed; so that the ships were as many as the forest leaves on the stream when the wind blows among the trees. And some sailed for Northumbria and some went south to Wessex, and some shaped their course to land in Mercia; but Hungwar and Hubba and those who followed with him sailed on towards East Anglia, where their father, Regner Lodbrok, had landed at the first; and over the ship the great raven banner streamed, and around the seamews circled and screamed; and the wind blew the salt foam into their faces. Yet on and on they went, until, far ahead, they saw the land lying like a cloud upon the horizon; and Wahrmund pointed towards it, and said to Wulnoth, who stood beside him-- "Yonder, Wanderer, is the land to which you desire to go. Yonder is the land of the Christians; and it is a rich land and fat, where much spoil may be gathered; and the people are soft and easy to conquer. Skoal to the Angleland, and Skoal to the landing; for heroic deeds will be done, and the man's game played long, and the sword sing a merry song, ere we put to sea again, and turn our faces to Denmark." Then nearer and nearer the ships drew; and at last they dropped the sails and the vikings swarmed to the ships' sides, and there, ahead, they saw the sands, golden yellow; and the warriors of the land drawn up to drive them off. "Now," laughed Wahrmund, "why do not these fools have good ships and come and meet us; so that we fought on sea and kept the fire from their land? These fools will never conquer us until they learn to fight in ships, as we do." So said Wahrmund; but little did he think that even then there was in the land of the West Saxons a young man, one whose face was pale and pain marked, who pondered the same thing, and who afterwards caused such long ships to be built, and not only beat the Danes at their own game, but laid the foundations of that navy, by which, in after years, this Britain of ours has kept her proud boast and ruled the waves. Now, this is how evil tidings came to Hungwar and Hubba, and this is how Wulnoth sailed with the sea-kings to the land of the East Angles. CHAPTER X _Of the Slaying of Edmund, the King of the East Saxons_ Then the war-horns sounded their harsh defiance, and the vikings gave a great shout of glee, and threw themselves into the shallow water, and rushed to meet the Saxons, who also ran to drive them back. And the battle was fierce, and great deeds were done; and from least to greatest every man was a hero. Yet the fight was with the Danes; and when the evening came the conquered Saxons broke and fled, and the sons of Regner encamped with their men on the field of slaughter not far from the coast. And what happened in East Anglia happened elsewhere also; for the people of Angleland were divided amongst themselves, and one king warred with another, and each was jealous of his neighbor; so that they were like a bundle of sticks when the binding is broken, and each fell away from the rest. But the Danes came in mighty hosts, and if one host was beaten then two came in its place; and all through the land they carried fire and sword and death. For these Danes were cruel and terrible, and knew nothing of mercy; and neither youth, nor age, nor weakness appealed to them. The young and the old they slew, and the fair maiden, and the old wife; and they took the tender babes and beat out their brains, or cast them from one to the other upon their spears. Death, and death alone, marked out the pathway which they had trod. Nor was this done in Angleland alone, but in every country where the White Christ was worshipped. For these Danes were pagans, and they looked upon those who had forgotten the old gods of the North as nithings fit only for death, and despised them for the Lord they worshipped, and for the priests they obeyed; and they had sworn that they would sweep over the whole world, and wherever the worship of the Christ was found, there they would stamp it out, and make all men bow to Odin and swear by Thor--the gods of the North. And near to doing this they were in Angleland and, indeed, they would have done it but for one man, who was strong enough and patient enough to resist them; and of that man Gyso the Gleeman speaks in his song of Wulnoth. Twenty thousand chosen warriors were in the camp of the sons of Regner that night, and deep they drank and well they feasted; yet the sentinels kept ward, and each man slept with his weapons by his side. And Wahrmund and Wulnoth lay side by side by the fire, and talked of the deeds that had been done that day; and from the distance, through the night air, and above the sound of the sea, there came the ringing of a deep-voiced bell and, faint and sweet, the singing of a solemn song; and Wulnoth asked his companion what these strange sounds might mean. "'T is the calling of the Christians to prayer," the Dane said carelessly. "And the song you hear is that which they sing to their God, that He may give them the victory on the morrow. By Thor, I had rather trust to a good sword and to a strong arm than to any god that rides the storm wind." "Yet these men fought well to-day, comrade," Wulnoth answered; "though they were few in numbers, compared to our host." "Ay, they fought well," replied Wahrmund. "But now let us sleep, for there will be work to do when the day dawns. The air is shrewd to-night." "Take my cloak," answered Wulnoth. "For I have no mind for sleep, and will watch by the fire." "More fool you," replied the other; yet he took the cloak and wrapped himself up and was soon asleep, while Wulnoth sat listening to the distant song, and wondering where Guthred could be and what could have become of Edgiva the Beautiful. And then he arose and went to the edge of the wood and listened again; and he thought that surely Wyborga the Wise had been wrong, for how could this Lord, Whom the Saxons worshipped, be strong, when He let His people be put to the sword? And while he mused thus, sleep began to steal upon his eyes, until it seemed to him that a voice spoke, and it was the voice of Edgiva crying to him to awake; and he opened his eyes and saw a man's form bending over his comrade Wahrmund, and holding a knife high in the air. "Wahrmund, awake!" he cried, in warning, and the man started up. But then like a flash Wulnoth cast his spear and smote the midnight wanderer fair in the chest, and he fell back dead. And Wahrmund started to his feet, and others of the soldiers, and looked to see who this might be; and lo, it was Wiglaf the Boxer, the man of Jarl Hungwar! "That knife was meant for thee, Wanderer," Wahrmund said; "and I, by wearing thy cloak, came nigh to getting it in my ribs. I owe my life to thee, Wanderer, and I shall not forget it." Then when the morning broke, the war-horns sounded and the men prepared for battle; and the great ships, with their crews, stood off to go back to Denmark; and the vikings laughed and said-- "There is no going back now. Go forward we must; and if we conquer not, then we perish." And it was told to Hungwar concerning Wiglaf, and he laughed darkly, and said that Wiglaf was ever good at paying his debts, and that he was a good man slain; but he said nothing of the shame of the nithing's deed. Now in the morning came messengers to the Danish camp, saying that they were sent by Edmund, the King of East Anglia, to demand why strangers came to his country with fire and sword, and what was the cause of quarrel between them. "King Edmund seeks not war," they said. "So now either give hostages that you will dwell peaceably during your stay, or else begone." Then loud and long laughed the viking chiefs; and Hungwar answered-- "This Edmund of thine will treat us as churlishly as he did the son of Sigurd! Now go and bid him come and do homage to us. And tell him to pull down his churches, and to scourge his priests away and to worship Thor; or, by Odin and his friends, there shall be ruin and death in all the land; and what we have done elsewhere, that will we also do here." And then Hubba spake, and said-- "This Edmund desires hostages, and hostages shall he have"; and he commanded that the heads of all the messengers save one should be struck off and put in a sack. Then he cut off the ears of the last one and bade him go back and give the heads to his king, as a present from the sea-kings, and tell him that so he would be served, if he gave not up his false god. But the Saxon was noble and brave; and, though he was alone and in sore pain, and the vikings all around, he cast the shame in Hubba's teeth, and he said that neither the King nor his subjects would worship pagan gods or turn from the Lord Christ, let what would follow. "Drive him from the camp," said Hubba; and the brave messenger was scourged away, amidst the vikings' laughter. But Wulnoth did not laugh, for his soul was heavy and his heart troubled; for it seemed to him that this was a shame deed to slay messengers who did but their duty; and he could not but think that the Saxon who had thus answered seemed nobler and grander than the mightiest of the vikings. Then the Danes put the battle in order, and they marched inland; and on the next day they saw the army of the East Saxons drawn up, and they waved their weapons, and cried in joy-- "Greeting, worshippers of the White Christ. Let Him fight for you this day, for you need aid." But the Saxons answered not; only as their priests passed along their ranks they bowed their heads in prayer, while the Danes mocked. Then the battle commenced, and the slingers cast their stones, and the archers sped their arrows, and the light spears whistled as they were hurled; and then the ranks of the warriors closed, and the sword sang, and the shield received the blow, and fierce the fight raged; but still the Danes were victorious, and drove the forces of the Saxons back, so that they were scattered like the leaves before the wind; and at last King Edmund himself took to flight, while the vikings, with many shouts, spread over the land, slaying all whom they found and sending the red flames through many a roof. And some chosen warriors pursued the King, and Wulnoth was amongst the number; and so hard did they press him that, at last, he sprang from his horse and sped down the bank of a stream, and hid beneath a bridge, hoping that the foe would pass on without seeing him. And now happened a sad thing for Edmund the King; for there came a young man and his wife, and they had but been married that day; and as they crossed the bridge, seeking to escape from the Danes who were everywhere, they espied the moonlight shining on the golden spurs of the King; and the man crept down and saw who thus lay in the water; but the man was a nithing who knew no shame. For the King made him swear that he would not betray his hiding-place; but the man and his wife fell in with the pirates, and they were seized and brought before Hungwar who questioned them, whether they had seen the King; and the man, to save his life and the life of his wife, led them to the place where King Edmund lay hidden, and there the Danes caught him and made him prisoner. And the King when he knew who had betrayed him spoke, and laid a curse on the bridge, and said that whoever crossed it to get married should have that curse fall on their shoulders. But the man who had betrayed the King did not escape, for Hungwar ordered both him and his wife to be slain--so little was the word of the viking to be trusted. Then the Danes carried King Edmund back to their camp, and heavy chains were placed upon his arms and legs, though he was a king; and he was placed in the holdas' hall, where the chief jarls and the kings gathered; and there they made mock of him and laughed him to scorn, and asked him where was his Christ in Whom he trusted? And Wulnoth was there, leaning on his spear nigh the door; and he looked upon the face of the King standing there amidst his foes, and thought how calm and noble he looked. For this Edmund had the blue eyes of the Saxon, and the long yellow hair that Wulnoth remembered so well; and his mien was lofty and calm, and his manner that of one who feared no death, though he grieved for the loss of his people. And when they asked him where his Lord was,[3] Edmund the King looked up and smiled, and his smile was one of peace, and he pointed to the sky and made answer-- "There, in His glory, sits the Lord," he said, "and He alone is God"; and at that Hungwar cast his glove and smote him in the face. "Thy God cannot deliver thee from even that; and how shall He deliver thee from our wrath?" he shouted. "Now, Edmund, who wast king of this land, I am minded to spare thy life on certain conditions. First, thou shalt strip all thine altars and cast them down, and give the gold to me; and if thou do it not, then be sure that I shall. Then shalt thou do homage to me here in my camp, and call me thy overlord; and, lastly, thou shalt sing a song to Odin and to Thor, and to the gods which were worshipped from of old by the people of the North. How sayest thou?" "Thus do I say, O Hungwar," answered the King calmly. "I will do none of these things. I will not give thee the gold from God's altar; and be thou sure that though He holds me unworthy to guard His house, He will find a champion to do so. I will not call thee my king; and I will not worship Thor or any false gods, for there is one God alone, and the Lord Christ is His Son." "Now," thought Wulnoth, "this man is mad; for what does it matter what god a man calls on so long as he saves his life?" Yet, for all that, he thought it shame that his captors should treat the King so. But that was not the worst that the Danes did to Edmund of East Anglia; for, after his words, they led him out into the midst of the camp, and, though he was a king, they beat him and scourged him with whips till the flesh was torn and the blood flowed; and then they asked him whether he would deny his Lord and worship Odin as Hungwar ordered. But the King spoke, and his voice was heavy with pain, but his reply was without hesitation-- "My Lord was scourged for my sins," he said, "and I will be scourged for His sake, and rejoice that it is so." "Now," thought Wulnoth, "this beating of a brave man is a nithing deed, and these Danes are but as ravening beasts, while this is a man indeed." Yet he was powerless to do aught, for he was one amongst twenty thousand. And when the reply of the tortured King was heard, then Hungwar added torture to torture. And they twisted his chains and placed sticks beneath the links, until the flesh was all bruised and the bones broke; yet still the King would give no answer, but that he bore all for his Lord's sake. "Surely the man is a fool," growled Wahrmund; "for why else would he bear this torture?" But Wulnoth answered-- "Surely the man is a hero, and he defies his enemies and will not let them triumph over him; while, as for these holdas who stand by and see a man put to such shame, I think little of them." "Thou hadst best say less than thou thinkest, then," said Wahrmund significantly, "or we may have thee taking thy place beside yonder tortured man." "Is there no pain can wring consent from thee?" said Hungwar darkly when again he knew that King Edmund had defied him; and the King answered him bravely-- "There is no pain shall make me deny my Lord." "Now be not foolish, man," cried Guthrun, who liked not this sport. "A word will save thee." But the King answered-- "That word I will never speak." Then Hungwar the Dane gave command, and they carried King Edmund out and tied him to a great tree; and the vikings took their bows and their casting spears and made him their target; and the task was to wound the King and bring blood with each arrow or spear cast, yet not to hurt him so that his life would be endangered. From the morn till the afternoon did they thus torture him, until his poor body was so cut and marred that it could not be seen for wounds and blood; and the King's head drooped, and his eyes closed from weariness and pain. Now Wulnoth stood near the King, and he was filled with wonder, and with pity, and with disgust that a brave man should be so treated; and when the vikings rested from their sport he drew near, and he said in low tones-- "Listen to me, O King. Save thee I cannot; but I can make an end for thee. I will stand and cast my spear, and I will take care that it pierces thy heart, and so sleep shall come to thee." But the King lifted his head, and opened his patient eyes, and said-- "Nay, friend. I know that to do this would cost thee thy right hand; and for me the end is not far off, and I can be patient. My Lord was smitten with a spear for me, and I will suffer the spear for His glory; He Who is stronger than the strongest will strengthen me; and from my death will good come, for the Holy Church is watered with the blood of her sons." Now all this was as a dark saying to Wulnoth, and he could make nothing of it. Only he knew that this man, who was now no more a king, and who was now nigh to death, had something which he possessed not, something which made him grand and glorious, and strong even in weakness, and patient in suffering; and the King looked at him again, and spoke once more-- "Seek thou unto Him, friend," he said. "For He giveth peace and joy for sorrow and labor, and with Him death's darkness turneth to light." And then Wulnoth looked again, and he saw that around the King's neck a little cross hung. And the King asked him to lift it to his lips that he might kiss it ere he died, and Wulnoth, wondering and fearing, obeyed. Then from his hall came Hungwar, and with him came Biorn Ironsides, and Sidroc, and Frena, and many jarls, and he stood before the King and asked him again whether he would agree to worship Odin and deny the White Christ. But the King opened his eyes again, and he said calmly-- "Trouble me no more, Hungwar, son of Regner. Thou hast done thy worst, and thou hast had thy pleasure, and I have borne in silence. Now make an end and trouble me no more, for, had I fifty lives, and each could take a lifetime in dying, I still would not do this thing which thou dost command, thou bloodthirsty and wicked pirate of the Northland." Then Hungwar stamped his foot, and he dashed his fist in the calm face, and he ordered his men to take the King and smite off his head. For Hungwar was weary of seeing King Edmund resist, and moreover some of the Danish holdas who were more noble of heart than he, said that this was a shame deed which was being done in their midst, while Guthrun said openly that though he loved to slay a man in fair fight, he had no love for serving a hero shamefully, and that if Hungwar liked not his words then they two would go hold holmgang together. But that was no part of Hungwar's plans. He had no wish to have his force divided and quarrelling as did the Saxons, and so he gave the word; and Wulnoth was amongst those who saw the King die. "You are to die," they told him, and King Edmund answered-- "To die is to live again." Then they smote off his head, and so sleep came for the King of the East Saxons. Now, this is how the Danes beat the men of East Anglia, and put their king to the torture.[4] CHAPTER XI _How Wulnoth met with Wyborga again_ Now after the slaying of Edmund the King, the Danes cast his body into a field as though it were but the body of some base-born slave, and even those who had cried shame forgot all about it, and went back to their feasting; for what was one foe more or less? And as to burying the body, the viking lords were too busy slaying to think of burying, and the dogs and the crows would soon make an end of the corpse. But the heart of Wulnoth was heavy within him at this murder, for so he felt it was, and he thought within himself that these Danes were ill masters to serve. Yet he would not leave them, because he knew not whom else to follow, and also because he felt in his heart that there was a matter yet to be settled between Hungwar and himself; and moreover, unless he tarried, how should he ever learn the fate of Guthred his friend? Now that night all over the land there shone the glare of flames, telling of the work which was being done by the Danish bands, but in the camp the leaders stayed and feasted. Some were for pushing on at once, but Hungwar was too cunning for that, and he said that it was ill to put too great a distance between themselves and the sea until their ships returned with more of their men, seeing that they were safe where they were. "The army of the East Saxons is destroyed," he said, "and will not come against us again; therefore here will we abide for the time, and the people shall serve us, and presently we will march into Mercia and join our brethren there." Most agreed to this, but some grumbled, and in the end left Hungwar and marched inland, and amongst these was Hubba, but that was not yet. Now on the night of the killing of the King, Wulnoth took his spear in his hand, and, with his sword by his side, he wandered into the darkness, for his mind was full of restless thoughts, and he cared not whither his feet bore him. And as he went he thought of Wyborga and the little cross she had made, and the wonder tale which Edgiva had told him, and of the way in which the King had died for his Lord; and he wondered also whether the tales of the gods of the Northland were true tales or false, and he wondered whither he must go to seek the strongest and the mightiest lord, now that old Regner Lodbrok was dead. And as he wandered he came to a wood, and he entered its darkness and solitude, for he had little fear of meeting any foe, all having fled far from the Danes, and only the churls remaining, and they would be more afraid of him than he need be of them. It was quiet here, and reminded him of the woods in distant Lethra, where he had walked with Edgiva the Beautiful in the happy days. And the Danes had destroyed Lethra and laid it in ruins--and yet he was serving with the Danes! Wulnoth shook his spear at that thought, and he said aloud-- "Yet for the while I will tarry, and presently I will speak a word with the sons of Regner for the deeds they have done to those dear to me, and then shall Hungwar know who the Wanderer is and why he has joined him." And then he paused and stared in wonder, thinking that some night hag must be playing with him, for from the darkness came the voice of Edgiva the Beautiful, and it said-- "Greeting, Wanderer, who wast called Wulnoth!" "Who art thou who callest to me with the voice of my Princess?" he cried. "Whoever thou art, good or evil, show thyself I command thee by the name of Thor." "Little care I for that name, Wanderer," the voice answered, and then there was silence, and he called again and again, but without success. Then just as he would have turned back, another voice spoke and said-- "Greeting, Wulnoth!" and this time he made out a figure coming towards him. And he sprang forward and caught at it, saying-- "Now who art thou who walkest by night and callest greeting to me?" "One whom thou hast known as a friend, Wulnoth," came the reply, and Wulnoth knew the voice then for that of Wyborga the Wise, and he cried, trembling with eagerness-- "O Wyborga, is it thou? How dost thou come into this land? Then I was not deceived when I thought that my Princess spoke to me not long since! O Wyborga, lead me to her, for I have sought her with a long and weary seeking, and my heart failed me at last." But Wyborga answered-- "No, Wulnoth, for it has already been told to thee that you two will not meet again to abide until thou hast learnt the wonder tale, which thou hast till now rejected." "The story of the White Christ?" said Wulnoth. "Oh, Wyborga, I have heard that tale, but it seems to me an idle saga and fit for nithings." "Wulnoth," said Wyborga gravely, "there was one in yonder camp of murderers who was not a nithing, and yet who believed in that tale." "The Saxon King!" he said. "Ah, Wyborga, I dare not ask thee how thou dost know that, for thou knowest so many things, thou woman of mystery. But this I say--that King was a brave man, and they who put him to shame are cowards even though they are brave in the war game." "Tell me how he died, Wulnoth," said Wyborga. "Tell me all." And he obeyed, while Wyborga listened with bent head and with many a sigh. "So does the Lord desire of His people," she said when he finished, "and so does Edmund gain a better crown than the golden one of earth." "I understand not your words," Wulnoth made answer. "They are still dark with mystery--all the world is a puzzle to me now, and where to seek for Guthred the Prince I know not. Cannot you speak clearly to me, Wyborga?" "Edgiva spoke clearly, Wulnoth, but you could not understand her tale." "But that was of the White Christ," he cried. "Does everything refer to Him?" And Wyborga said-- "Everything is to Him." Then there was silence for a space, and Wulnoth spoke again and asked of Edgiva; and Wyborga made reply and inquired whether he would like to see her. "To see Edgiva, O Wyborga!" he cried. "I would do anything to see my Princess again." And Wyborga nodded. "Now I will test thee, Wulnoth, and there shall be nothing of dishonor in my request. Tell me first, where is the body of the King?" This Wulnoth told to her, and then Wyborga said-- "Now listen, Wulnoth. Thou art to stand here without moving, and there will come to thee a man. Him thou must lead stealthily into the camp, and if any meet thee, thou must pass him off as a companion. Canst thou do this?" "Easily can it be done, Wyborga, for the camp is feasting now, and only the watchers are at their posts." "That is good, then," the wise woman replied. "Now thou must guide this man, asking no questions, to the place where the dead King is thrown, and thou must help him to bear the body without the camp. Wilt thou do this?" "Yea, Wyborga, for there is no harm in it; and if, as I suppose, this man is the King's man, seeking to do honor to the dead, then will I gladly do it. But how may I see Edgiva?" "When thy work is done the reward shall be sure, Wulnoth. The man who will go with thee will tell thee how and when thou shalt see the Princess." But then an angry suspicion came to Wulnoth, and he cried-- "O Wyborga, of old the Princess told me that she had a Lord. Now is this man her lord, or was the dead King her lord, that she is in his country?" "Set thy heart at rest, Wulnoth," replied Wyborga. "Edgiva's Lord is the Lord for Whose honor the King died. Thou art hasty and foolish, and therefore trouble has been thine. Be patient now, and remember that as of old, I am thy friend." "I will trust you, Wyborga," Wulnoth answered. And then Wyborga called softly thrice, like the cry of the wood owl, and a step sounded, and through the bushes a man came and greeted Wyborga. "Thou hast called, good mother," he said. "Then thy mission is successful, and thou hast found some one who can guide me, and who will help me?" "I have found some one," answered Wyborga, and then again she turned to Wulnoth and addressed him by his name of Wanderer. "Wanderer, this is the man I spoke of; and were it not that I know thee to be brave and true, I would not have trusted thee, for though thou knowest it not, thou hast a great treasure--ay, the hope of this land in thy hand. Wanderer, guard this man as thou wouldst guard thine own life--nay, more closely even, for thy life thou wouldst risk, but this man's life thou must not risk. Only because a holy duty is to be done shall this danger be run." "Now," thought Wulnoth, "this must be some son of the dead King who will seek to reign in his stead. But that matters not. I will guide him and so shall I see my Princess again, and if any try to hinder me, well, it will mean hard blows will be given." Then he loosened his sword in its sheath, and he turned to the man, saying simply-- "Come with me, stranger, and tread boldly. To do otherwise might be to make suspicion. Thou art one of the soldiers returning with me, and thou must laugh and sing and be merry; so shall we pass through the camp without fear." "Atheling!" cried Wyborga in alarm. And Wulnoth thought to himself-- "So I am right! We have a prince here," for so the word meant in the Saxon. But the man laughed and said-- "Have no fear, my good mother, for the way this good man advises is the best. 'T is often safer when we wish to hide something to place it where all may see it, and the best disguise may be to appear to desire to be seen. Come, Wanderer, since so you are called, and we will go about our work." "I am ready," answered Wulnoth. "Farewell, Wyborga, and greet me to my Princess. 'T is for her that I undertake this work to-night." "Thy Princess greets thee, Wulnoth, but not in the name of Thor." It was Edgiva's voice again! Then she was somewhere near at hand, hidden in the darkness of the forest. Wulnoth stopped, but the voice spoke again, bidding him hasten to his task, and so, muttering to himself that all this was too deep for him to understand, Wulnoth accompanied the stranger from the wood towards the Danish camp. And when they drew near to it he said to the other-- "Now there is much danger here. Shall I go by myself and bear the body out to you?" "Nay, friend," came the quiet answer. "I have faced danger before. Do thou lead the way and I will follow." "So be it," answered Wulnoth, and they went in, passing the guard who, knowing Wulnoth, took no notice of his companion. There was little to fear. The Danes knew that no foe was near, for their bands had come in with the report that they had driven the East Saxons far afield, and now all were resting from the labor, and telling their tales of the fight, and but few were away from the camp fires. So on the two went, talking as though they were friends, and the stranger acted his part well and laughed as though he had been in the war game himself, though when they passed a watch fire Wulnoth noted that his face was stern and his eyes gleamed, and he thought that presently this man would indeed be in the war game and avenge the story of that day's fight. A young man was he and without the girth and strength of the viking men. But his face was noble and his brow high, and a crisp red-brown beard graced his mouth and chin. So they reached the place where the body of the dead King had been thrown, and lo, a man stood there guarding it, and at sight of that Wulnoth gripped his sword. But the man rose and spoke, and it was Wahrmund's voice, and he asked who they were and what they did there; and to him Wulnoth answered-- "Wahrmund," he said, "thou art a brave man who loves not to see a hero put to shame." "And for that cause am I here, Wanderer," the Dane replied. "For there was a sneaking wolf howled, and methought that so brave a man should not become wolf's food. Therefore, to-night I watch, and to-morrow will I bury the body of this hero, so deep that no wolf can dig it up." "Wahrmund, there be others who would bury the body of this man with the honor due to a fallen hero," Wulnoth made reply, "and I have such a one with me. We come to carry this body without the camp, that it may be given honor and have a death-song sung." "And thou hast brought a stranger within the camp, Wanderer," was the stern retort. "That is not right." "Then to-morrow let me pay for it, if you think it wrong, comrade. But for the sake of a brave man who died well, let him now take the King's body away." Then gruff old Wahrmund smote his spear into the ground and swore a lusty oath. "Now, Wanderer, my mind misgives me that we two are doing that for which our heads may leave our bodies," he growled, "but still it shall be done. So lend me thy aid and we will lift this hero from his humble bed and bear him away." "I knew that thou wert a true comrade, Wahrmund," said Wulnoth. But the Dane answered-- "I knew that thou wert a fool, Wanderer; and thou dost make me one, and, by Thor, perhaps I love thee the better for the doing of it." Reverently did the young stranger take the severed head from Wulnoth; and he bowed his head for the moment over it, while the other two lifted their heavy burden. "Now, how shall we bear this through the camp?" mused Wulnoth. And his friend answered-- "We will not bear it through the camp; we will cross from here to the forest. There are no sentries on this side that I know." And so quietly the two carried their burden, the stranger walking beside them with the head, and when they reached the shelter of the wood they laid the body down and asked what next was to be done and whither it was to be borne. "Leave it here with me," answered the stranger, "and all will be well. For you, kind foe, my best thanks." This he said to Wahrmund, who growled again, feeling perhaps a little ashamed of himself that he had been led into doing this thing; and the stranger turned to Wulnoth-- "To you I am bidden to say that if you wait here to-morrow night, about this hour, that which you most desire shall be, and a messenger will be here to guide you." "Thou wilt give yon hero honor?" growled Wahrmund. "He should be buried with honor." And the stranger smiled-- "If thou dost want to see that, warrior, come thou with thy friend to-morrow and see for thyself--" "How do you know that you can trust me, and how do I know that I can trust you, Saxon?" the Dane asked mockingly; and the Saxon answered calmly-- "I can trust a man who is noble enough to watch by the body of a shamed hero through the long night hours." "Good," said Wahrmund. "Then how may I know that I can trust you?" "You may trust me," answered the other, "because for that which you have done I am grateful. Not even to a foe does a true man repay kindness with ingratitude." And again Wahrmund said, "Good." "I know not who you are, stranger; but I know you to be a true man," he said. "One day we may meet face to face in the war game, but to-morrow night we will meet, as thou sayest, in peace." "Till then, farewell," said the stranger; and then the two turned and went. And the stranger called like the wood owl, and from the shadows came silent ones, who lifted the dead King and bore him away, with sound of weeping and lamentation. Now, this is how Wulnoth met Wyborga the Wise in the woods of East Anglia, and this is how the body of King Edmund was carried from the camp of the Danes. CHAPTER XII _How Wulnoth and Wahrmund visited the Christian Church_ Now, on the morning after Wulnoth had aided in the carrying away of the King's body, there was trouble in the Danish camp, because one who had gone into the field to view the remains of the victim of Hungwar's cruelty found no trace left; and this he thought strange. And, though the Danes were fierce and cruel, there were some amongst them noble enough to reverence a brave man who could suffer in patience as King Edmund had done; and these, like Guthrun, declared that Hungwar's deed was a shame deed, and one to be repented of. And these, when they heard that the body was gone, declared that this was the work of the gods, because they were angry that the King had been slain. And some said that they had seen the King fly up into the clouds, borne along by the storm sisters; and others declared that he had stalked through the camp, his head in his hand, and had vanished into the forest. But then, there are always people ready to fancy that they have seen such wonders as these, and others who will say that they have seen, even if they know it false; so the Danish leaders shook their heads and laughed when they heard, and said that the warriors had drunk too deeply from their ale horns the night before. But Hungwar was troubled and angry, for he liked not to hear such tales; and he felt, moreover, that some treachery was abroad, or that foes had been in the camp and taken the body away. "Why trouble thy head about it?" laughed Hubba, his brother. "The carrion is gone. The wolves have eaten it." But to that Hungwar answered-- "Wolves leave bones, brother, and there be no bones left here. There is treason amongst us, brother, and woe be to the man who is guilty if I find him out." "Wanderer," said Wahrmund to his friend, that same morning, "methinks we played a daring game last night, and methinks that if it were known to our leaders, our tarrying in this world would be short and painful. Art thou determined to go through with this business to-night?" "I am determined," answered Wulnoth firmly. "But come thou not, friend, if thou art minded to keep away. I will see this thing to the end; for there is one I seek to see, and I will give my life in payment, if need be." "Thy princess, as thou dost call her, comrade?" laughed Wahrmund. "Ah! I know. So do a pair of pretty eyes lead brave men to danger and death. But hark to me, comrade"; and he lowered his voice. "I tell thee this because I love thee for a brave man, and because I read things quickly. There was some talk of a beautiful child in those days when we destroyed Lethra, and much was Hungwar angered that he could not find her. Now, if this princess of thine be she whom I suppose, look to it that Hungwar hear not of it, or there will be trouble. She is not a child now, but maiden grown; and Hungwar would not do the hunting and leave thee to take the spoil. Look to it, Wulnoth, for the son of Regner is crafty, as well as fierce; and there may be trouble for thee and thy princess yet." Wulnoth thanked his friend for his counsel, and he thought to himself that if ever things came to that pass there would be trouble for Hungwar also; but that thought he kept from his comrade, for Wahrmund was of Hungwar's band, and Wulnoth would not do aught to make him false to his oath. All day long the Danes roamed, hunting and sporting; and often, alas, hunting human game, driving, harrying, slaying, all the unhappy churls with whom they met, and burning their poor houses to the ground. For this was the leader's counsel--"Here we must make a stronghold," they said, "and none but our own men must remain in the land. Then, when we have played the war game, and driven our foes before us, we will make the Saxons become our thralls, and they shall labor for us while we live at ease." And, truly, in East Anglia it seemed as if this would be; for the people had become filled with fear and hopeless, and they thought no more of fighting these fierce strangers, who came in swarms, as the gnats rise from the pools, but they either fled and left all or else came and offered service, begging for life only. Now in the evening, when the shadows grew, and the holdas gathered in their hall, and told their tales and drank their brown ale and wine, then Wulnoth and Wahrmund went their way towards the forest, thinking that no man would notice their absence. But Hungwar, as he sat with his friends, glanced with quick suspicious eyes adown the hall, and he saw that Wulnoth and Wahrmund were away, and he remembered that they had been away the night before; and he said naught, but resolved to watch them closely, for he hated Wulnoth, he knew not why, and he knew that Wahrmund was his friend. And into the forest the friends went, spear in hand and sword by side, for no man might go safely unless he bore his weapons; and presently, when they came to the place where they had parted from the stranger the night before, a low hooting of the wood owl was heard, and from the deep shadows a man stepped and saluted them. "Greeting, Hacos, both," he said, in low tones, using the name by which the Saxons call a stranger from the Northland. "Ye are to follow me." "Hold!" cried Wahrmund, ever a wary old soldier. "That is all very well, my friend. But how do we know it? We indeed came hither to meet one, but that one you are not; and how are we to know that you come from him and are not a foe seeking to lead us to our doom?" "The thorn-crowned cross," answered the man. "The Wanderer will know of it." "In truth I do know," cried Wulnoth. "We may follow, Wahrmund; for if he were not sent by my friends he would not have given me that token." "Follow then," growled the Dane, shouldering his spear, "and follow close; for, by Thor, this darkness is such that a man might walk into the presence of his worst foes, and be none the wiser until the sword or knife told him of it." "The way is somewhat long," the guide said calmly. "Of that I warn you, and it is hard to tread." "Little care we for that," was the answer he received. "We have trodden no easy paths of late. Lead on, and we follow." So through the forest they went, and in the shadow a voice challenged and their guide answered. And thrice did this happen, showing to them that, after all, the soldiers of East Anglia still remained in the land and kept watch and ward over the secret paths. Then they came from the woodland, and saw before them, in the dim light, pools and streams of water stretching all around; and the guide said-- "Follow closely in my steps, for there is death here for any who stray." And Wahrmund grunted, for he liked not the road they trod, where the feet sank into yielding soil at every step, and the air was full of the croakings of frogs and the cries of night birds. And here again they were challenged twice, and the guide gave answer ere they were allowed to proceed; and so going they came to the water's edge where, silent and motionless, men awaited them with a boat. "Ah!" grunted Wahrmund, "this is better. The water is the viking's land, and better than those forests or the swampy plains. Have we far to go, guide? for methinks that time passes." "You shall be safely back at your camp ere the dawn breaks in the east," answered the guide. "Now be silent and prepare to see sights of which you know nothing yet." The boat crossed to an island, and here they stepped ashore, again being challenged; and then, in the centre of the isle, which was but small, they saw a building, surrounded by trees to screen it from the passers-by, and here the guide paused and uttered his cry again; and at that, from the yawning portal a man emerged, clad in a gray robe which reached to his feet. "Who are these, my son?" he asked. And the guide replied-- "Those whom I was bidden bring, father. Now I leave them in thy keeping." "It is well. Follow me, friends, and be silent and solemn; and, moreover, remember that ye go into the presence of the Most High." There was something awe-inspiring in his solemn words; and he, without awaiting their reply, led the way into this building, passing along a low, narrow way, arched o'erhead, and pausing at a door whereat a man sat. "Enter," he said, "and once again I pray you be silent, and remember that it is only because the Atheling and a royal lady have desired this, that we let your eyes behold our worship. Enter," and stepping aside he suffered them to go in. And what a strange place it was! For the moment their eyes seemed blinded by the light--light that came from a hundred lamps. Then, as they grew accustomed to the radiance, they were able to look around and examine their surroundings. It was not a very spacious apartment, but it was very beautiful. Massive stone pillars in long rows supported the arched roof, and the windows were ornamented with curious carvings in stone work. But it was not at columns, nor roof, nor at windows, that they looked, but at the scene directly facing them, for such a scene they had never viewed before. There uprose above five stone steps a lofty altar, draped in white and crimson and gold, and many a gem and much precious metal in its workings; and there, directly in front of this, was a bier, upon which rested the body of the martyred King Edmund. Calm and dignified did the royal face look in death, and all the pain and weariness had left the features. The hair fell on either side of the wax-like brow, upon which his golden crown now rested; and behind the bier, rising over it as though it were guarding the sleeping King, rose a cross. Ay, a cross, yet not an empty one, for on it hung One nailed there by hands and feet. All the skill of the sculptor, all the cunning of the painter, had been expended upon that work; and as the two rough Northmen looked, they held their breath in awe, for the blue eyes, so gentle and yet so kingly, seemed to glance across at them; and the whole attitude of the Sufferer seemed to speak of infinite pity and love, so that Wahrmund drew a deep breath and whispered to his companion-- "By Thor! 'T is a god yonder. 'T is Balder the Beautiful, who watches from yon cross, over the couch of death!" "Hush!" answered Wulnoth in the same tone--he could not take his eyes from that figure. Without word being spoken to him he saw what a poor blind fool he had been. If this was the image of Him Whom the Christians worshipped, He was no coward and nithing, but the greatest, the grandest, the noblest of all the sons of men. Then they noticed yet another thing--the body of the King was guarded, for on either side of the bier a man knelt--a young man, clad in royal attire, and upon the head of one of the two glittered a kingly crown. "Yon kneeling man is he we saw in the wood last night--he whom we aided," whispered Wahrmund, and Wulnoth nodded. But now came a sound of soft music, sweet and strange, now sinking into a whisper, now rising into a flood, and with it the voices of singers raising a death-song. But a strange death-song, truly, for the death-songs of the North were to the honor of the heroes and spoke of their deeds, but this song was to the White Christ and to the God of Heaven, and it spoke no word of praise about the dead king, but only told of humble trust in the Crucified One. Then into the building the singers swept, all veiled in long robes--some men, some graceful maidens, and-- Wulnoth started and fixed his anxious eyes upon one of that throng--surely he knew that voice--surely he recognized that figure--surely beneath that robe the beauty of Edgiva was hidden! But if it was the Princess she gave no sign. The singers slowly passed up to the altar and divided into two parties, one on either side, and the two watchers rose up and stood by the bier, as kingly a pair of young men as the eye might look upon, though he whom they had spoken with the evening before looked pale and as if sickness had been his portion. Then there came other men, priests, led by one tall and dignified, and they sang praises to God, and offered prayers, and spoke of the Crucified as Lord of Lords and King of Kings. And the two watchers stood there with hearts filled with wonder and awe, for though they could not understand, yet there was something both grand and dreadful in this worship, and yet, withal, it was winning, like the sweet scent of the flowers or the song of the birds, or the whisper of the sea upon a summer's day. It was something which seemed to get into their hearts, and made them long for they knew not what, with a longing which was sweet and painful. And then the aged priest, for such they divined the man to be, stood and spoke of the dead King and the work which he had tried to do, and how he had been tried and was faithful, choosing rather the tortures of the Danes than the denying of his Lord, and how, though he had passed through the gates of death, yet in his Lord he lived and reigned in glory forever. And then he paused and turned to the two young men, and called them the hope of the Church, and bade them be strong in the Lord and gird themselves for battle. "Strong are the foe and terrible," he said. "Many as the sands of the sea and mighty as Bashan, but in the Lord Jehovah is everlasting strength, and He Who could strengthen Gideon, and make Jephthah conquer, shall also make you mighty. Go forward, hope of the Church--go forward, avengers of the noble Edmund--go forward and quit yourselves like men, and the Lord shall give you the victory, and deliver His Church from the powers of darkness and from the violence of the spoiler." Then the two young men knelt again, and the priest placed his hands upon them and blessed them; and then the men in long robes came and took up the body of the dead King and carried it away. And in one portion of the building was the dark entrance to an underground vault, and into this they lowered the bier, while all there sang hymns of victory to God for victory over death. And this was the burying of the King of the East Saxons. Then two by two the procession was formed, and, headed by the priest, they swept all round the building, coming nigh the spot where Wulnoth and his companion stood in the shadow, and the eyes of Wulnoth followed that one figure, his heart telling him that this was Edgiva the Beautiful. And then, just as she reached the spot where he stood, for one moment a tiny hand appeared from beneath the shrouding cloak, and a fair blossom dropped at his feet. Then, ere he could speak or move, she had passed on, and the church was empty. "Now," said Wahrmund, speaking in low tones, "we have seen strange things over which a man needs ponder deeply. But methinks, comrade, all is done now, and we had best look for our guide." Then, ere Wulnoth could answer, a curtain was drawn aside from an arching doorway, and the man with whom they had come hither stood before them. Now, this is how Wulnoth saw the burying of King Edmund, and this is how he looked upon the image of Him Whom he had called a nithing. CHAPTER XIII _Of How Wulnoth met with Edgiva again_ The man held the curtain aside and invited them to follow him. "The Atheling bids you come," he said. "And he says to him called the Wanderer that not yet has he received that reward which was promised to him." "Come, Wanderer," laughed Wahrmund, "we may as well go through with it now. By Thor! 't is strange that I, a Dane, should be amongst these Saxons, but I feel inclined to see this to the end. How sayest thou?" Little need to ask Wulnoth such a question, for the one desire of his heart was to see his Princess. Therefore the two followed their guide, and were ushered into an apartment where sat the two men whom they had seen watching in the church. And the younger, he who did not wear the crown, came to welcome them and said-- "Greeting, friends, and again thanks for the aid you rendered me in securing honor for King Edmund's body." Then he turned to the other, and went on-- "Ethelred, my royal and dear brother, these are the two of whom I told you, and to their help are we indebted, for otherwise it would have been a hard matter to gain the body of the martyr." "We thank you from our hearts, strangers," said the one called Ethelred. And Wahrmund whispered to his friend-- "By Thor! 'T is Ethelred, the King of the West Saxons. He is son of the noble Ethelwulf the Bretwalda, and the other must be his brother, the Atheling Alfred." Then did the King continue, looking hard at Wulnoth, and he said-- "But what is this? We have no Dane here, brother! This hair and those blue eyes are surely of the land of our fathers!" "That is so, royal brother," answered Alfred. "According to all I have heard from the wise Wyborga, this man is of the noble house of Cerdic, he from whom our own house also traces its descent." "Is that so?" the King cried. "It is good in one way, and yet 't is strange to think of one of such royal blood joining our foes." "Strange is this man's story, my brother," Alfred replied. "I have it as it was told to me," and he told the King how Wulnoth came to Lethra with his father and of all that had happened since. But the King shook his head as he listened, and said that this did not explain how Wulnoth came to be in Hungwar's army, seeing that it was Hungwar who gave Lethra to fire and sword. So Wulnoth spoke, and told how he had two tasks to do--one to find Guthred the Prince, and the other to find the mightiest and the strongest. And at that Alfred the Atheling smiled gently. "Now, brother," he said to the King, "this is a task for priests, and perchance a fair teacher whom we two wot of, and not for us. Thou seest how this man chances to be with the Danes, and thou seest how 't is but a step to discovering that for which he seeks. Let this good warrior"--and he pointed to Wahrmund--"tarry here with us and let the other go to his reward." But the King looked grave and he said slowly-- "This man is a thrall, and Edgiva is a king's daughter." "This man is of our blood, and can noble blood be debased because a thrall collar is placed upon the neck? My word is pledged, brother, that this man shall see the lady, and I pray you to allow it." "Let it be so," said the King, and the Atheling laughed. "Follow me, O Wanderer," he said to Wulnoth; and as the Wanderer obeyed, he heard the deep laugh of Wahrmund, and the words-- "Of a truth, O King, a wondrous thing is love. You might offer yon man a golden crown now, and he would not take it in exchange for a few moments with a fair maiden." The Atheling led Wulnoth to another chamber and bade him wait there, and presently there came a light step, and Edgiva stood before him, holding out her hands with a smile upon her lips. And when Wulnoth saw her all his strength seemed to go, and only a great love seized upon him so that he dropped on his knees and took her hands and kissed them, and cried, as if he had been a weak woman and not a mighty man, and he said-- "O my Princess! my Princess! I have wandered far to see you, and my heart has grown weary with longing. Why have you hidden yourself from me all this time, and I was your watcher who guarded you? Oh! why have you done this thing, my Princess?" And Edgiva bent over him, and in her beautiful eyes there were tears also as she bade him rise and come and sit beside her. But Wulnoth shook his head and answered that might not be, for she was the King's daughter and he but a thrall. "Now nay, Wulnoth," answered Edgiva. "Even if what thou sayest is true, then it would be mine to command and thine to obey. But this is not so. Thou and I are friends as we were in the dear old days when we were in Lethra--" "But I angered you, my Princess," he said. "I angered you in the woods when I spoke of Thor." And Edgiva looked grave. "Nay, not angered, Wulnoth," she said gently. "I was grieved, but I knew it would all come right in the end. Now, Wulnoth, tell me, for we have but little time, and perchance we may not meet again yet--" "Not meet!" he cried. "Oh, my Princess, thou wilt not send me away again!" "Wulnoth, thou hast thy work, and I have mine," she answered, "and we must fulfil our tasks. Now listen then to my words. Thou hast longed to find me again?" "I have longed to find you, O Princess," he answered. "For I am thy watcher." "And only because thou art my watcher?" she answered softly, and he made no reply. "Canst thou not answer my question, Wulnoth?" she asked again. "Hast thou longed to find me only because thou art my watcher?" And then he looked up, and his strong face was full of light, yet his voice was full of pain, and he said-- "Oh, my Princess, that is the first cruel thing that thou hast done to me, for why wilt thou have me tell my heart's story to thee, seeing that thou art so far away from me? Yet if thou wilt have it so, it shall be. I have longed for thee, Edgiva, because I love thee--because not a maiden in the world has moved my heart as thou hast done; because in my dreams thou hast smiled upon me. I love thee, Princess--I who am thrall and thy watcher--and now that the matter is told, send for thy servants and have me cast out." And then, while he knelt there with bowed head, one little arm crept round his neck, and a dear, gentle voice spoke in his ear saying-- "Oh, thou great, strong, hero-hearted, foolish Wulnoth! Had it been my wish to cast thee forth, dost thou think I had let thee see me, or speak such words as thou hast now done? Wulnoth, they are heart music to me. Thou foolish Wulnoth, to be jealous as thou wast in the forest! Thou loyal Wulnoth, to resist the temptation wherewith Wyborga tempted thee to tarry there with me! Kiss me, Wulnoth, my great bear of a lover, for truly thou art as big and as strong and as shaggy as a bear, but thou art my love, and no other love have I had, save my Lord Whom I serve." Then all music came into Wulnoth's soul, for he knew that Edgiva loved him, and he felt that nothing else mattered in this world now, and he asked her how it was since she loved him that she had fled away from him in the past. "Canst thou not see, Wulnoth?" Edgiva answered. "It was because I loved thee. But I had learnt to love the Lord, and thou didst know nothing of Him, and hadst thou made me thy wife then, I should have followed thee and have forgotten my Lord." "Yet I am not a Christian now, Edgiva," he said. "And not even to win thee would I call myself one unless I could do so honestly." "I know that, Wulnoth," she answered. "But the time will come when thou dost understand. Tell me, dost thou still think the Lord a nithing, and His worship fit only for weaklings?" And at that Wulnoth shook his head. "Princess," he said, "I am like a man who walks in a wood having lost his way, or like those who are caught by the sea fog off a rocky shore. I know not what to think. For of a truth it seems strange for strong men to suffer wrong when they have swords by their sides; and yet I have seen the King die, and--it was more than I could fathom; and I have looked at the image in the church yonder--the image on the cross, and it seemed to speak to me. I know not what to think." "And hast thou found the mightiest leader yet, Wulnoth?" she asked. And he shook his head again. "Nay, Princess. I sought old Regner Lodbrok, for he was called the mightiest, but he died here in this land, and thus it is that I come to be with those who are doubly mine enemies, seeing that they are Danes, and those who ruined Lethra's kingdom--" "So Wyborga told me that you would," Edgiva said. "She is wise and can prophesy, and it was she who foresaw your coming, and that the Prince should meet you in the forest. It was she who said that you should be in the church to-night, and it was she who said that I might see you. And, Wulnoth, if you have longed to see me, I also have longed for you, and comforted my heart that we should meet again." "But oh, my love," he answered, "thou art beautiful and a king's daughter, and I am--" "Of the Royal House of Cerdic--of the same stock as the King of the West Saxons. Thou must do mighty deeds for me, Wulnoth, and earn me a name, and then I shall be proud of thee." "But how can I, Princess? I am of the Danes now. I must leave them and come to my own people--" "Nay, Wulnoth. Wyborga told me of this thing. She said that thou shouldst not do that, for the parting with Hungwar and his brother would come without seeking it in that fashion. Go back to the camp and wait; and now know, Wulnoth, that I do love thee, and that I shall love none other. Yet we cannot be more than friends until thou hast finished thy quest--" "And found Guthred?" he asked. "Nay, but found the mightiest, and the bravest, and the grandest amongst men," she answered. "Dost thou know, Edgiva, that it hath been told to me that Hungwar still remembers thee, and that he would fain find thee?" Wulnoth asked. And she smiled. "Ay, I know that, Wulnoth," she answered; "and indeed I should be afraid, but that I know thou wilt be near me now, and while thou art nigh, I fear not Hungwar." Then they were silent, standing side by side, hand in hand, and love in their hearts. And it was peace time in their souls, when all the world seemed fair, and when all nature was singing, just as it had done in the past when, as children, they wandered with Guthred in the flower-laden fields, or the shady groves of Lethra. And Edgiva lifted her face to him and smiled, and her eyes spoke words that her lips uttered not; and Wulnoth bent and kissed her, and in that kiss their souls seemed joined, so that none might come between them forever. Then did Wyborga come and bid Wulnoth join his friend again, for the way was long, and the hours were fleeing; and Wulnoth came and Edgiva with him; and when Wahrmund saw the Princess, he stared open-mouthed, and he cried-- "Thora, beloved of Regner, the son of Sigurd, was called the most beautiful of women; but here is one more beautiful. Not Freya herself is more fair than thou art, Princess." "Thou art a flatterer, Dane," laughed Alfred the Atheling; but Wahrmund answered-- "Not so, Prince. I speak what I think; and I counsel thee, if counsel I may, to keep this pearl from the sight of Hungwar and his friends; for surely they would burn this land into gray ash to secure such a treasure." "Methinks our royal sister looks far more gay than she has done for many a day, brother," said the King with a smile. And Edgiva answered steadily, and with never a blush-- "That is true, royal Ethelred, for I have found again my hero." And at that the King laughed again. Then did the Atheling turn to Wulnoth and ask him of his search after the mightiest, and where he would now look, seeing that Regner Lodbrok was dead; and Wulnoth answered that he knew not where to look now, unless he went afar to Rome and sought the Emperor. "Now, Wulnoth," the Atheling said, "let me be thy redesman in this. Thou didst think that Regner Lodbrok was the mightiest warrior?" "Then, by my beard, he was not far out," cried Wahrmund. And the Prince smiled. "So! Yet this Regner is dead, and there is no king but must die in the end." "That is true, Prince," Wulnoth said; and Wahrmund nodded. "Then death is mightier than the mightiest," said Alfred. And Wulnoth looked puzzled. "Does that mean we should follow death, Prince?" he said. "By my word, we soldiers do that all our lives, methinks." "Nay, Wulnoth. 'T is true we follow death, for 't is our call; but there is one mightier than death even." "Mightier than death!" cried Wahrmund. "That is hard saying, Prince; for what, or who, is mightier than death?" And to that the Prince answered-- "Life is mightier than death. Do not thy own sagas tell thee that the heroes live again in Walhalla, and that they perish no more?" "Ay," answered Wahrmund. "Though whether it be true or not, I cannot say." "Wulnoth," the Prince went on, "thou didst see the image of Him Who hung on the cross? He Whom thou didst once call nithing, I hear." "I have seen, Prince," Wulnoth answered. "Then know He is the Lord of Life; and to conquer death He died, and He rose again. Death and He went holmgang, and He conquered. He is the mightiest, and by Him shall we drive out our foes and conquer Thor and his followers." "Do not be too sure of that, Prince," growled Wahrmund, not liking to hear his people spoken of so; but the Prince went on-- "Nay, I mean not to offend you, brave soldier. I only speak what I feel. Have you not told me that you wondered to see how King Edmund braved the worst torture and pain?" "That is so," the Dane answered. And once more the Prince went on-- "And how did he do this? He was strengthened by the Lord; and He Who had suffered succored him in his suffering. Now, it is to Him that you must turn. But now," he added, "the morning draws near, and you two must be back at the camp ere day breaks; so let us bid each other farewell, and perchance we may meet again." So they clasped each other's hands, the Saxons and the Dane; and Edgiva smiled on Wulnoth, and whispered her love-parting; and then he and Wahrmund set out, guided by him who had brought them, until they reached the forest. And when at last they were alone, the Dane stopped and stroked his beard, and he said slowly-- "Comrade, we two have seen strange things to-night, and heard strange things, too. But beware how you speak of them to me where other ears may listen; for there are three things which Hungwar would be glad to have." "What are they, Wahrmund?" asked Wulnoth carelessly; for he was so happy that he cared little for Hungwar and his wants. "Wanderer, the son of Regner would like the gold from yon Christian altar; and he would like to have that Atheling in his power; and he would like to have the Lady Edgiva also." "He shall have my axe ere he has one of the three," said Wulnoth; and the Dane laughed grimly. "Bold words! But the son of Regner is no nithing nor weakling; and he has some warriors around him, Wanderer. Thou mayst be strong, but thou art not strong enough for that; therefore, I warn thee be discreet and hold thy tongue." Now, this is how Wulnoth found his Princess, and how the love tale was spoken, and this is how Alfred the Atheling told Wulnoth of the Mightiest and the Bravest of Lords. CHAPTER XIV _How Wahrmund the Dane gave his Life for Wulnoth_ Now, though Hungwar the Dane had evil thoughts respecting Wulnoth and Wahrmund, he held his peace and kept his own counsel at the first; and in the morning, when the two were in the hall, he greeted them with a dark smile, and he said-- "Greeting, Wulnoth, and greeting, Wahrmund. You are cunning warriors; for while we have been feasting and drinking and listening to the songs of the scalds, we have missed your faces; and methinks, surely, that ye have been spying out the land, and seeing where the foe hide." "We have been wandering, O chief," answered Wulnoth. And Hungwar laughed loudly. "What should the Wanderer do but wander?" he cried. "Thou art not content with doing the deeds of ordinary men, thou rider on sea monsters and thou doer of great deeds. But take care, lest one day thou do a deed too many, and a little thing, like a spear or a sword, make thy strength become weakness." "Death comes to all in time, O chief," Wulnoth answered; and again Hungwar laughed. "True, O Wanderer; yet sometimes he comes to some sooner than to others--and there are other ways of dying than by the man's tools." "Look you, Wanderer," growled Wahrmund, when the two were alone, "we are in an evil case, we two; for Hungwar suspects, and when he is suspicious he puts an end to doubts with the sword or the axe. We are surely in an evil case, Wanderer." And to that Wulnoth answered-- "It may be as thou sayest, Wahrmund, for this son of Regner is to my mind more of a nithing than a hero." "That is but partly true," answered Wahrmund, jealous for the honor of his chief. "True, he is cruel and merciless, but when it comes to playing the man's game, where the blows are the hardest and the sword sings the loudest, there, be sure, will Hungwar be found. Still, we are in an evil case, and I see not how to advise thee. My rede is that thou flee at once, lest evil befall thee." "I flee not," answered Wulnoth; "I am no nithing. Edgiva told me that Wyborga, who is a wise woman and a prophetess, declared that I should abide here until I received a sign, and I see no sign yet." "To my mind," answered Wahrmund, "Hungwar's words are sign enough for any man, and you will be wise to take them." "Do you flee with me?" Wulnoth asked. And the Dane swore a mighty oath by Thor that he would not. "I have followed Regner Lodbrok since I was a boy," he said, "and I will follow his son, unless he attempts my life or does a shame deed to me. If that day comes, then I will fight my last fight with back to wall, and some shall go with me to Walhalla." "Then if thou dost not flee, I do not flee," answered Wulnoth, and there the matter ended for the time. Yet Wulnoth had much to think of; and the more he thought, the more he felt that the gods of the North were false gods, and that the God of Christians was the true God; and that it was by bearing that conquest came. And yet that puzzled him, for he felt that a warrior should war; and he knew that if Hungwar tried to do him harm, then he should fight and make his big sword sing a good song ere he was vanquished. And more than once did his friend urge him to escape, saying that he was sure that Hungwar thought evil against him, and would seek soon to do him harm; but to all the pleading, Wulnoth answered that while Wahrmund stayed, he would stay also. Yet Hungwar did plot evil against Wulnoth, and in a cunning way. He knew that the Wanderer looked with anger upon the killing of King Edmund, and he thought to have that done which should make Wulnoth speak rashly, and so bring him into his power; and thus it is that he did it. One of the bands of Danes which had roamed the country brought tidings of a village hidden away amidst the marshes, where old people and women and little children dwelt; and the chiefs, in cruel sport, said that they would go against this village themselves, and teach the churls the way to the storm-land; and Hungwar called upon Wulnoth and Wahrmund to be of his party. Now, Wulnoth was troubled at this, and yet he knew not how to escape the going; and he comforted himself by thinking that when the sword sang and the red flames danced, then he might be able to save some of the poor victims and aid them to escape. So the Danes went out on their cruel errand, and the village was surrounded, and the houses given to the fire; and the people were collected and brought into the midst of the Danes. And then Hungwar and Hubba, raging like wolves, ordered the men to be tortured, and the women to be burnt, and the children and the maidens to be put to death by the warriors; and Wulnoth felt a great anger coming into his heart, and his blood began to tingle as it beat through his veins, and the spirit of the berserker came upon him; and at last he could stand idle no longer; and just then Hungwar called to him and mocked him, saying-- "Ah, Wanderer, thou art a sluggard. Thy sword has had no drink, and thy axe is dry. To work, Wanderer, to work, and join our sport." "Patience, Hungwar," answered Wulnoth grimly. "Sword and axe shall have their fill. This murdering of prisoners is a nithing's game, fit only for such dogs as thou and thy companions. This is better sport for me." And with that he struck a mighty blow with his fist at one viking who had speared a little child; and, though he hit but with his fist, the man dropped dead. "Thou dog!" roared Hungwar. "Dost thou dare to speak so to me? I will have thy tongue cut out for this insolence." "Come and do it thyself, Dane," answered Wulnoth. "Or shall I come to thee?" and he strode towards the chief. But men ran between them, and a score of weapons were raised against him, and many voices cried out that he should die. "Now this is a man's game," he laughed. "Pity 't is that Hungwar will not play in it"; and he swung his axe high, and made it play like a circle of fire around his head, and wherever that axe fell there fell a viking of Denmark. "Do not slay him. Take him alive," cried Hungwar, keeping out of reach of danger himself. "And take Wahrmund also, for he is a traitor, and the two know of the treasure of the Saxons and where the West Saxon King is. Take them alive, and the torture shall make them cry for mercy." "Now, by Thor!" growled Wahrmund, when he heard that, "for forty years have I warred for Denmark and followed thy house, O Hungwar; and I looked to go to the storm-land doing so. But thou takest me not prisoner, and thou puttest me not to torture. And now I tell thee, as the Wanderer has told thee, that thou art a nithing and a coward, and more fit to lead ravening wolves than to direct heroes. Come thou hither and take me, thou coward." But Hungwar only answered--"Take them alive. Do them no hurt," and he foamed at the mouth like an angry bear, and shook his fists in the air. "Now, Wanderer, there is a game to play and a song to be sung," cried Wahrmund, as he reached Wulnoth's side. "Stand thou beside me and let us see what we may do in this case." So side by side they stood, their faces to the foe; and the Danes circled round them, seeking to find a place for spear thrust or sword stroke. But ever the shields received the blow, and ever the axes answered the stroke, and men fell shorn and gashed, and still the two champions stood unscathed. And then, when the foe gathered for a greater rush, Wulnoth's strength came, like unto madness; and he rushed forward and caught a warrior in each hand and whirled them round as if they were flails, so that the vikings drew back in horror and fear, for they had never seen men strong like as Wulnoth was. Then loud the Wanderer laughed, and he cried to his friend-- "'T is a good fight, Wahrmund, comrade, and one worth the fighting. We have slain many. Now shall we make an end and rush upon them, and take this Hungwar with us to the storm-land?" But Wahrmund answered-- "Hast thou forgotten Edgiva the Beautiful, Wanderer? She will weep for thee, and, moreover, thou mayst yet be needed to watch over her. I see no sense in staying here to be slaughtered. Let us retreat side by side, and since these holdas cast us out, seek the Atheling and lend him our aid." "Now surely thy words are good words, comrade," Wulnoth answered. "For if this is not the sign for which I waited, then I know not what may be. So shield in front and axe ready, let us step backwards, comrade, and then, if we can reach the forest, all may be well." Then the two heroes began to step backwards, still facing their enemy, and around them swarmed the host of the foe, pressing hard and sore, until at last Wahrmund cried to Wulnoth that they should run. "No scald can say we are nithing or weak," he said, "for we have fought a good fight. But fain would I see thee live, Wulnoth, since that is thy real name, for I see thou hast a word to say to Hungwar yet. As for me, I know this is my last fight, for I am sore wounded--" "Say not 't is thy last fight, comrade," cried Wulnoth. "If thou dost tarry, then I tarry with thee." "Think thou of Edgiva," said Wahrmund. And Wulnoth answered-- "I do think of her. I think I should be shamed to look her in the face and say I deserted a wounded comrade." "I wish thee to live that thou mayst avenge me," Wahrmund said. But all that Wulnoth would answer was-- "I will avenge thee, ere I die by thy side." Now, Wahrmund perceived that Wulnoth had the berserker spirit upon him, and that he was as one mad, who would listen to no reason; and yet he was minded to save him for the sake of Edgiva the Beautiful, so he said-- "Now come, then, and run, for nigh this spot is a deep ravine, the which is crossed by a single plank, and if we gain that, we can there hold our own and make a good fight." "So be it," replied Wulnoth, and together they ran, though Wahrmund was sore in pain and wounded deeply, and soon the bridge was in sight. It was but a log laid across a cleft in the earth, and the cleft was so wide that no man might hope to leap it, and so deep that it was death to try to descend its sides, and the trunk was but laid on the earth. "Cross thou first, Wulnoth," gasped Wahrmund. "Cross, and hold the other end steady, for it rests on a stone, and I fear I should fall if I tried to walk over first." The Danes were now hard upon them, and to the soldiers were joined many chiefs of fame, all full of fury at the deed that had been done. Wulnoth, thinking nothing of what was in his friend's heart, rushed across and turned to hold the log steady, but Wahrmund stopped at his end and he seized the log with both hands and hurled it down into the chasm so that none might pass to Wulnoth, and he could not return to them. "What hast thou done, Wahrmund, my friend?" cried Wulnoth in despair, but Wahrmund smiled and waved his hand. "Flee thou, comrade," he answered. "I did this on purpose, for I knew thou wouldst not leave me, and I am minded that thou shalt escape. Wulnoth, the death shadow is upon me, and when that is so men see far ahead. I tell thee, thou son of Cerdic, that thou hast a big work to do, and thou must live; while as for me, my work is done, and I go to the storm-land." "Oh, skoal to thee, thou hero!" cried Wulnoth. "Would that I might cross again and stand by thy side!" "That thou canst not do," answered Wahrmund; and then he turned, standing with his back to the chasm and his shield advanced, and thus he met the rush of the foe, and made his axe sing a good song and bite deeply ere he fell himself. And Wulnoth stood on the farther bank and watched the fight, and he cried aloud in his grief and called upon the Danes to fight fairly. "Oh, nithings!" he cried. "Oh, slayers of little children and weaklings, is there not a man amongst you now? Does no hero soul dwell in Denmark? Not so would Regner Lodbrok have dealt with a brave man. Oh, cowards and nithings that you are, would I were with my friend, to stand by his side!" But little did the Danes heed his cries. They pressed upon brave Wahrmund, seeking to take him alive. He was bleeding from a score of wounds, and his strength was all gone. He tried to cast himself into the chasm, but they laid hands upon him, seeking to drag him away; and he turned his face towards Wulnoth, and cried to him-- "A boon, comrade--a boon for friendship's sake! Thou hast thy spear. A cast, comrade--a good, true cast, right between the shoulders. Better death from a comrade's spear than torture by Hungwar." Then, as he made an end of speaking, he turned back to the foe, gripping them and holding them at arm's length, planting his feet firmly and standing with his back towards Wulnoth. And Wulnoth understood, and he raised his spear. "Skoal to thee, hero amongst men," he cried. "Art ready?" and Wahrmund panted-- "Skoal and farewell. I am ready, comrade." Then, straight and true flew Wulnoth's spear, and it smote Wahrmund right between the shoulders and stood out a hand's breadth in front, and the old viking fell, dragging two of his foes with him down into the chasm into which he had cast the log. Then did Wulnoth stand on the other bank, and some cast their spears, but he caught them on his shield, and he cried to Hungwar and said-- "Listen to me, thou nithing, thou wolf that eats up little children, thou fearer of grown men. There is a mark on thy cheek, and I put it there--I, when only a boy; and had it not been for this man whom thou hast watched die, I had surely made an end of thee on that day with my broken weapon. I am Wulnoth, son of Cerdic, thou Danish nithing, and of a surety one day thou and I shall meet again, and then shall a deed be done and a word said between us twain, Hungwar, son of Regner; and until then, farewell." And with that Wulnoth turned and plunged into the woodlands, and the Danes returned to their camp. Now, this is how Wahrmund the Dane gave his life to save his friend, and this is how Wulnoth the Wanderer made himself known to Hungwar, the son of Regner Lodbrok. CHAPTER XV _How Wulnoth came to Alfred_ Now, on through the forest pressed Wulnoth, and his heart was heavy within him because of the dying of Wahrmund his friend, and he thought to himself that now he would seek the West Saxons and fight for them, and that this would be right, seeing that he also was Saxon. "This Hungwar has cast me out," he mused, "so none may say that I am false in the doing of this; for a man must side with some, and since it cannot be with Hungwar it must be against him." And then he thought that all this must be fixed from of old, and he laughed. "No cause have I to love these black Danes," he said, "and no cause to love the sons of Regner Lodbrok. I will seek this Alfred, and perchance I may find him mightier than Hungwar, and so my rede will be read." But then he thought that Alfred himself had said that the White Christ was the mightiest of all, and at that he frowned. Not yet did Wulnoth feel any love for that Lord, and he was too honest to pretend to a faith which he did not possess--not even for Edgiva would he do that. "A man's word is as a man's honor," he said, "and a man's honor should be as a man's life. I will not tell my Princess that I love her Lord until I can feel that He is my Lord indeed." "Then there you are foolish, Wanderer," said a mocking voice in his ear, and he turned, his hand on his sword, to see beside him that strange being so like himself, who had taken his name and fought with him in the past days. "You here!" he cried sternly. "Have I not bidden thee leave me and trouble me no more?" "As well bid your shadow leave you, Wanderer," was the answer he received. "Said I not to you that I would be with you--that I would be your servant? Now you have been foolish, and much trouble has come from it. Of old you might have possessed this Princess, and now you may do so--for what matters it what faith you profess, seeing that they all are equally vain. Go to this Alfred, declare you are a Christian, marry the Princess, and all will be well." "Thou tempter, so like myself that thou seemest my very double!" cried Wulnoth. "I will not listen to such base words." "Base words! Foolish thought! Does not the wise man get that which he covets in the easiest way? Still, if thou art so tender in thy conscience, I will tell thee another way--a way like unto that which heroes have practised from of old." "What is thy way?" asked Wulnoth suspiciously, for he liked not this man's counsel. And the other answered-- "This is my way, Wanderer, and 't is counsel fit for hero to hear. As thou goest on thy road thou shalt find a band of masterless men, good fighters every one. Now make thyself leader of these, and be no man to Saxon or Dane. There is land to be won by strong hand and keen sword, and thou canst carry off thy Princess, as many a jarl has carried off his wife." "Now, out on thee for a base churl!" cried Wulnoth angrily. "What! I carry off my Princess? By Thor, we fight again for that!" "And, by Thor, I will win thee," laughed the other. "For here we have no light to throw crosses on the ground. 'T is my time, and my hour, and I will conquer, and thou shalt carry off the Princess as I have said." So there again these two fought, as they had fought so often before, and now the stranger seemed much the stronger, strong though Wulnoth was, and he laughed aloud, and cried-- "O Wanderer, thou hast denied the White Christ and called Him nithing, and His sign shall not help thee now." "Who art thou who hast my name and my form?" gasped Wulnoth hoarsely. "Who art thou who thus seekest to war with me though I have beaten thee before? This time I will kill thee." "Nay, that thou wilt not. Because thou hast beaten me, therefore fight I still. When I have conquered, then we will be at peace. As for who I am, I have told thee that I am Wulnoth, son of Cerdic, and if thou art also Wulnoth, then we are one, and Wulnoth is Wulnoth's foe. So read my riddle if thou canst--and now I have conquered." And with that the stranger threw Wulnoth and rested on him, one knee on his chest and one hand at his throat, and his dagger gleamed high in the air. But Wulnoth stretched out his hand and gripped his sword, which he had let slip. And lo, he picked it up blindly and held it aloft, and it was hilt up, and the hilt was crossed after the manner of a champion's weapon. "'T is the White Christ's sign!" he gasped, as his eyes fell upon it; and as he spoke his strength seemed to return, and he flung the stranger from him and rose joyfully, and the stranger fled away into the darkness, crying as he fled, "Lost! Lost! Lost!" "This sign is a wonderful sign," thought Wulnoth. "I must think more of it, for how can the White Christ be so weak if His sign is so powerful? I must truly think more of this." Now, for a night and a day did Wulnoth wander, seeking to find the way to the lake and the island whereon was the church where the dead King was buried, but he searched in vain and his heart grew weary. It was a dreadful country in which he found himself--flat and broken with many a stream, and marshy, so that the feet sank in ooze, and at night white mists rose, like ghosts from the fens, and encircled all things, and chilled him to the bone; yet still he pushed on, seeing only ruins and the handwork of the Danes. And so he journeyed until he came to better land, where he found people. But none could tell him of the island with its church, or if they could, they would not, for all looked upon him with suspicion, and many cursed him for a Northland haco and bade him begone, lest he find his death-sleep through tarrying. Sometimes Wulnoth felt angry at this, but he thought of the hard things these people had suffered, and that it was but natural they should view him with distrust, and so he went his way. Yet not all spoke so; some were kindly and gave him shelter, but none could tell him of the King of the West Saxons beyond saying that they had heard how he and the Atheling had travelled swiftly back into their kingdom of Wessex. So on Wulnoth pushed, asking his way, for since he could not find Edgiva, the next best thing to do was to find Alfred. And in a dense wood he came, as the stranger had said he would, upon a band of masterless men seated around a fire; and they started up and asked him who he was, and demanded his money, at which Wulnoth laughed. "Why, friends," he said, "if you never get richer than I shall make you, you will stay poor, for of money have I none, who am but a wanderer--a nameless and a landless man." "Then thou art as a brother to us," the others said; "and come thou and join us, for thou dost look a likely man, Wanderer." Then the Wanderer sat down by their fire, and he looked upon their bold, rugged faces and saw that they were men hardened in war, and fighters each and all, and he said-- "Fain would I join you if you would join me." And at that they asked him what his words might mean. "This do I mean," he answered calmly. "There are strangers in this land playing your game, and playing it better than ye can. The Black Strangers give the land to fire and sword so that the flames run from east to west, until they slack their thirst in the farther waters; and the heart of this people is weak as water. Men are wanted--fighters--and, methinks, to stay here and harry those who are harried, and rob those who are robbed, is but a nithing's game, and with no glory in it. I go to find the King of Saxons, and offer my sword to him. Come ye with me and be men, and strike for your land instead of warring against it." And then did he tell them of the cruel works of the Danes, until they started up and said that it was a good word which he had spoken, and that they would go forth with him and offer their swords to the King. "But where is the King?" one asked; and another answered-- "He tarries nigh Welandes Smithan, with Osburga, his lady mother; and there, close to the White Horse, shall we find him."[5] "Then let us go forward at once," cried the rest. "Only we go not nigh Welandes Smithan by night, for 't is an evil spot and haunted by night-hags and ghosts. Long should I walk, if I had to wait for riding until the elf smith shod my horse." "Who, then, is this Wieland, that ye fear?" asked Wulnoth, curiously; and the robbers answered that none knew, that none ever saw him, but that if any man went to his forge, which was only a number of mighty stones set on the bleak moor, and placed a piece of money on one stone and tied his horse to another, and then went his way, that when he returned, if he had been faithful and had not sought to pry, there the horse would be shod, and the money gone, though never a man could there be seen in the place. "The good Lord shield us from all such wizardry," cried one robber; and Wulnoth stared at that. "The good Lord!" Then these robbers held that the White Christ was greater than the wizards and night-hags and the ghost smith of Wieland's forge! "Where tarries the King himself?" he asked. "Surely 't is he whom we should seek, and not the Atheling." "The King is gone to his house at Winchester, I hear, there to take counsel with his thanes and ealdormen in the Witenagemot. For, mark you this, Wanderer--if these black strangers come into our good Wessex, they will find us fiercer fighters than were those of East Anglia." "Ay, that is your fault," said Wulnoth. And the robbers looked surprised. "Our fault? What--that we fight well?" "Now, nay," answered Wulnoth, with a smile, "for that is no fault, but that ye are so divided amongst yourselves into East and West Saxons, and men of Mercia and Northumbria. These Danes come as one, and they come like clouds of flies, and they will eat up one place at a time, when, if ye were all bound together, they could not stand before you. There will be hard work before us before we drive them out, and there will be hero deeds and death-songs for many a one." "And what could man want better?" laughed the robbers. "Come, let us march, and--the best song for the best man." So Wulnoth, instead of being alone, now found himself with fifty good fighters, and though he was not their captain, they were going at his advice, and that was something. For six days they marched on, mostly by night, and through the wild lands; for, as the robbers said, they were nameless men, and if any ealdorman or thane heard of their presence near his hold, he might sally out and make an end of them for being robbers, and hang their leaders on the nearest trees, without waiting to hear of what they were thinking of doing. "Not but what they make us what we are, ofttimes," growled the captain. "For, look you, I am a Sethcundman. For four generations, father and son, we held our five hydes, and each hyde of a hundred good acres; and if that does not make us Sethcundmen and gentle, then what does? Yet down on our land came Seward, son of Beorn,[6] son of the bear, and he seized our holdings and drove us out. What wonder that we reply by robbing, since we have been robbed? Look at Sigwad yonder--he could not pay the tax when the King's house-carls called for it; and lo, they sold all he had, and his wife died on the wayside. Thus do we, who are of the people, grow discontented, and meet violence with violence, giving blow for blow." "But while the rich oppress you, you oppress the poor, your brethren," answered Wulnoth; "and that is but a poor thing in my eyes. But perchance now, if we do our part in this business, those who are great will see that those who are beneath them are men. Why, yonder black strangers would not hold together a month if the chiefs looked down on the warriors. But hark, methought I heard the sound of a horn in the woods yonder. What may that be?" "Some following the hunt, most like," came the answer; "yet we will wait awhile and see what goes forward." So amongst the bushes they sank down; for there was nothing to be gained in going forward, if that meant going to struggle with their own countrymen; and Wulnoth, accompanied by the captain, went on to spy out the peril ahead. On through the glades they went; and presently they came to one wherein they saw a great boar, a waster of the woods, standing savagely at bay, the while two gallant hounds stood before it. Brave dogs were they; but one was sorely ripped by those gleaming tusks, and the other stood over him, barking defiance. "An unequal fight!" cried Wulnoth, lifting his spear. But the robber caught his hand. "Thou fool!" he said. "Most like some great thane hunts the boar, and do you think he would thank you for slaying it? Wait. See, here he comes." A young man sprang into the glade, cheering on his dog, but the boar broke upon the hound and tore it, and then came towards the man, who awaited it, spear in hand. "Why!" cried the robber--"see, 't is the Atheling, and his sickness is upon him. See, see--the boar has him now, for sure." And Wulnoth, looking, saw the Prince place his hand to his head and stagger, as one who has been too long at the ale horn; the point of his spear dropped, he made an effort to recover himself, and then he fell to the earth, right in the track of the waster! "He is dead now!" cried the robber. "That brute will have the hope of the West Saxons, and nothing can hinder it." "That we will see!" answered Wulnoth, and he made a cast, a mighty cast, such as, of old, Osth the giant had taught him to throw; and his spear sang, and smote that foaming, ravening monster full in the flank, and passed on and split his grim, savage heart in twain; and the waster fell, its great snout just reaching to the senseless man's breast. "By Thor, a good cast," cried Wulnoth, drawing his knife and leaping forward. "Follow me, friend, and let us make sure the brute is dead." They ran to the spot, and they saw at a glance there was nothing to fear from the boar; so they knelt over the Atheling and raised his head and loosened his tunic, when a band rushed forward with fierce shouts and seized them, crying out that they were robbers who had slain the Atheling. "Little need to have slain your Prince," laughed Wulnoth, pointing to the boar. "Yon beast would have done it soon enough had it not been for my spear." And at that the men stopped and looked, and said that it was not the spear of the Prince that stood out from the boar's side. "See! he opens his eyes. Now shall we know the truth," one man cried. And the word was true--the Atheling sighed and raised himself, looking round in bewilderment. "Good friends! How comes it that I am unharmed?" he said. "I fell as the boar rushed at me. Who saved me, and who are these men whom ye hold?" "Greeting, Prince," said Wulnoth. "It was I who saved you; and these hold us because they think we are robbers who have done you harm." "What--Wanderer!" cried the Prince, with a kindly smile. "No robber thou; and so thou hast saved me. But," he added, and his face grew stern, "thy companion is a nameless man, for I know his face." "True, O Prince, and a nameless man wants a name, methinks. I met this companion and his merry lads, and together we have journeyed to see thee; for there are fifty strong arms waiting to draw sword, and they had better be for thee than against thee, methinks." "Is this so?" asked the Prince, turning to the robber. "Do you truly desire to fight as honest men should, against our foes?" and the robber bowed his head, and replied-- "It is even so, Atheling of the West Saxons. When foes carry fire and sword, ill it becomes the children of the land to do so also." "Spoken like a man," cried the Prince. "Go and call thy men hither, and we will see that there is work enough for each and all. And for thee, Wanderer"--and the Prince turned to Wulnoth--"good is the gift thou hast given me, and good the service thou hast done me; so come thou, and let us talk, and receive thou the thanks of the Lady Osburga, my mother." And, thus saying, Prince Alfred took Wulnoth's arm and led him away. Now, this is how Wulnoth met the masterless men, and how he saved the life of Alfred, the Atheling of the West Saxons. CHAPTER XVI _How the Men of Wessex fought the Danes_ Right heartily did Alfred welcome Wulnoth after he had heard his story, and warm were the words of praise which he spoke of Wahrmund the Dane; and of him he said these words-- "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend." And when Wulnoth heard that he answered-- "Now, that is a true word and a wise, O Prince. What great scald or redesman uttered that?" "The greatest Scald and the greatest Redesman that ever this world saw, O friend," answered the Prince. "That is one of the sayings of the Lord Jesus." "Now," said Wulnoth, "I cannot understand, but everything good and true seems to come from Him--" "Whom thou thinkest a nithing, O friend," answered the Atheling. And Wulnoth was silenced. And with the Atheling there tarried his mother Osburga, the wife of the noble Ethelwulf--a gracious lady, so full of sympathy and wisdom, with mild, beautiful eyes that yet had a light in them as of a sorrow never forgotten; for grief had been hers, though she was a king's wife and the mother of kings. Here also was Asser, the writer, and Alfred's bosom friend, and Ealdorman Ethelred, and Osric, both mighty warriors and great heroes, and with them Abbot Hugoline, and Bishop Eadred; and these wise ones talked much of holy things, and Wulnoth listened and learnt much, and asked many questions. And best of all, while he tarried with the Prince there came Wyborga and Edgiva, together with holy women from the church on the island, saying that they had fled because the Danes were moving and pressing forward into Wessex, carrying fire and sword with them. Sweet were the moments which Wulnoth spent with his Princess, yet brief were they, for there was much work to do, and he and his companions, the fifty nameless men, were busy marching hither and thither, and calling on all the men in the place to take their arms and gather at the King's command beneath the banner of the Atheling. Every day there were martial exercises, and those who were least skilled with the bow or at casting the spear had to work from morning until night; for, as Alfred said to them, "They needed to be men who could slay--not men who were ready to be slain only." Now between the Atheling and all his soldiers, even to the lowest, was there friendship, and not one but could be sure of being received and listened to did he wish to speak to his Prince. And each day more and more men came in, and the forces under the Prince's command grew larger. But one day did Alfred speak with Wulnoth, and he said to him-- "Wanderer, not only brave men and skilled warriors do we need to defeat these Danes. We need what they have, and what our fathers on the other side of the sea had--good ships, stout ships, long ships that can match the best of theirs. Upon the sea must we learn to meet them and so keep the fire from our land." "Why indeed, Prince, that is the very word which my comrade Wahrmund spake to me upon the day on which we first sighted these shores--'Not till they learn to fight us upon the sea shall they hope to beat us.'" "He spoke a true word," replied the Prince thoughtfully, "and if God spare me I will see that this England of ours has such ships--the best that can be built. I will see that since the seas wash our shores, of those seas shall she reign mistress." Such was Alfred's vow, and afterwards, when he was king, in face of such difficulties as might have well appalled the stoutest heart, he kept his word and built his ships, and beat the Danes at their own game upon the deep waters. But that is not for now--now we have to tell how that first battle was waged against the Black Strangers, in which they were to learn that there were other swords as sharp as their own and other hearts as brave. For messenger came after messenger, speeding to Alfred and saying that unless he advanced to meet the foe they would penetrate to Winchester itself, where the King's house was. So Alfred sent messages to the King, urging him to come and lead the battle in person lest the glory should be taken from him. For Alfred, though he was wiser and braver than his elder brother, never forgot that brother was his king, and in all things he honored him and gave him willing service. So King Ethelred marched, and all his host with him, and they joined forces with the Atheling where he tarried; and the Lady Osburga, and Elswitha, Alfred's wife, and the Lady Edgiva, and all their train, retired with a small guard towards Winchester, for though they were brave enough to face the perils of war, their presence would have but hindered the army, and given increased cause for care to its leaders. Sad was the parting, and yet joyful, for these brave Saxon ladies cheered the warriors and urged them to great deeds, and sang to them songs of how they were going to free their dear England from the power of the oppressor. And then, with many prayers and with smiling lips and tearful eyes, they parted and went their way, while the King and the Atheling caused their banners to be displayed and marched to the eastward to meet the Danes under Hungwar and King Bacseg. For tidings came that Hubba and Biorn Ironbeard, and others had gone northward; and Guthrun stayed at the old camp, awaiting the return of the ships, for since the matter of Wulnoth and the killing of Wahrmund there had been quarrels amongst the holdas, and they parted one from the other. Still, it was the main force that was now advancing into Wessex, and many were the chiefs of fame accompanying it. The Saxon force was nothing like as numerous, but so great was the charm of Alfred that all there held together, forgetting their private quarrels and seeking only each to aid the great business of making the land free once more. The King had seen Wulnoth and had greeted him well, and though he did look askance at the nameless ones, he was glad of their presence, and he said with a laugh that since Wulnoth had brought them, Wulnoth must be responsible for them; and so, while their own captain led them, Wulnoth was their commander; and because he himself was nameless and landless, the robbers greeted him well and obeyed his wishes, as otherwise they would not have done. And they marched past the dreaded Welandes Smithan, and the Atheling himself pointed out the spot to Wulnoth and showed him the great flat stone on which the silver penny must be laid, and he said that none could tell by what power the shoeing was done, but that the body of the Wise Wieland lay at rest beneath those stones. And other strange piles of stones they found on their march, each of which had some dreadful legend of ghost or elfin power attached to it, but which, in these days, we know to be only the tombs of a strange people long since past away. And so, at last, they came to a place called Ashdune, a wide sweeping plain, with but one single tree in it, and that tree a great straggling thorn bush, growing nigh the centre. And there, on the verge of the plain, they encamped for the night, and on the opposite side they could see the watch fires of the invaders, and count their banners waving to the wind. Wild were the shouts from the Danish camp that night, for the holdas drank deeply, as was their custom, and they called out the names of their dead heroes, and the songs were sung in their honor by the scalds as the warriors drank to the war game and the sword song, and vowed that with the rising of the sun they would make an end of the men of Wessex, and lay the land low in fire. Such was the way in which Wulnoth had been wont to spend the night before the battle, but in the camp of the Saxons it was not so. Sparingly the soldiers drank, and the Atheling took nothing but water; and while watch was kept the Abbot Hugoline came amongst the ranks and prayed, and the men knelt and crossed their hands upon their breasts, and the monks sang to Him Whom they called "The Lord God, great and terrible, and mighty in battle"; and that made Wulnoth the more perplexed, for he saw not how the gentle Lord Christ could be terrible in battle. And then did he see Bishop Eadred all girt in armor, and with a mighty mace in his hand, and thereat he wondered more than ever, for he had not thought to see a priest armed to fight like a warrior. But the Bishop laughed and said, "Who should fight for the Church but those who are her most loving servants? Who should fight for the sheep against the ravening wolves but those who are set over the flock as shepherds?" And Wulnoth said to himself that this Bishop was a man, and that he saw the service of the White Christ did not make a man become a nithing. And also he looked at the Prince, and the Atheling looked mighty in his war gear. Usually he looked pale, seeing that he had a sickness which forever kept him in pain; but now all thought of pain was gone, and he laughed right joyously as he looked abroad at the field whereon the battle would be waged, and he said-- "Now, truly, this is a sight for the heart of any warrior, and great deeds will be done to-day, and yonder heathen foe will be valiant. Yet remember, soldiers, that we fight for much--not for life only, but for freedom, for our hearths and families, for our wives, our sisters, our mothers, and daughters. Strike for them a good blow and true, and never let it be said of one 'This man was a nithing.' See yonder"--and he pointed across the plain--"see, there waves the magic banner of Regner Lodbrok--there the raven of Odin flaunts his wings. But here is the sign of the Lord," and he pointed to the cross which a priest held, "and we will see which is mightier this day--Odin or our Lord." "Now," thought Wulnoth, "that is a sign, and we will see, for truly the foe is the greater and should beat us, for there are many holdas of fame there. Well, we may see, and may I come near to Hungwar, Regner's son, this day." Then did the war-horns blare and shriek, and the armies moved forward. And first the bowmen sent their arrows hissing like hail, and many a barbed shaft bit deeply and drank its fill of the red blood, but the warriors held their shields and caught the arrows thereon, and laughed, and no nithing was found in the ranks of either side. Then, as they drew nearer, the spears began to hurtle through the air and join the arrows, and the Valkyrs--those grim storm sisters who love the battlefield and who wait to carry the souls of the heroes to the storm-land--gathered, and floated above the field of slaughter, where the thirsty earth already began to turn red as the victims fell. But this was but the beginning--the game was hardly started--the fierce, mad sport was to come later. For now, sweeping forward, came ranks of champions armed with axe, with sword, and shield, and they ran to meet each other, and the strokes fell like hail, and the pikes gored like the horns of angry bulls. Now Wulnoth had schooled his men, and they drew together in shape like a wedge, with Wulnoth and the captain at the point of it; and so a long line of shields linked each to each, a long line of axes rising and falling, or swinging upwards from beneath, they drove into the heart of the Danish ranks, and then, opening out, swept the vikings into a mass of struggling disordered men, who hardly had room to move and who mixed friend with foe in their fury. Oh, great were the deeds done that day, and truly did the Atheling behave like a hero in the fight as he led his men, crying encouragement, pressing wherever the game was the hottest, and seeming to be in a score of places at once. And bravely fought the King, and he singled out the great Danish champion, King Bacseg, and he called to him and said-- "Greeting, King! I would fain talk with thee." And thereat did the Dane laugh and answer-- "Greeting! Blithely will I listen to thy talk." Then these twain fell to, and they smote each other lusty blows and made their swords sing a loud song; yet the King of Wessex was the mightier in the conflict, and he smote King Bacseg to the ground, and smote yet again, crying-- "Die, thou fell pirate of Denmark! Die, and let this good English soil find thee a resting-place." Now, this took place nigh to the thorn bush, and there was a rush of the Danes to rescue the body of their dead King, so that King Ethelred was borne backward, and was like to have been slain himself but that Wulnoth and his fifty came sweeping down, and formed a wall between the King and the foe. Then thither hastened all the mighty ones of both sides. There stood Bishop Eadred, and his mace dripped with Danish blood; and there stood Ethelred the Ealdorman, and Osric; and there, against them, as the waves rush against the rocks, came the heroes of Denmark. There came Sidroc the elder, and his son; there came Osbern and Frena; there also came Oskettle and Harold, and not one of them but had made his name a terror, and had carried fire and sword to many a fair spot; and now they came raging towards the spot where the body of King Bacseg lay, crying for vengeance against his slayer. And thither also came Hungwar, foaming like a bear and rolling his angry eyes, and behind him rose the banner of Regner. And when Wulnoth saw him he cried aloud-- "Ho, tarry, thou Danish pirate, thou killer of children. For now I will give thee such a greeting as thou hast never had before. I have a message to thee from the dead King of Lethra, and from Wahrmund my friend, and thou hast still the mark of my weapon upon thy face. Stay, Hungwar! I call to thee to stay, as I called to Osbert in the days of old!" And Hungwar heard, and he raged like a berserker, but he came not to Wulnoth, for in his heart he feared him more than all the warriors of Wessex. And now the fight went against the Danes, and Bishop Eadred smote down Sidroc the elder, and Osric smote down Sidroc the younger and Oskettle. And Ethelred the King, he smote Frena; and Alfred the Atheling laid Osbern low. And all around that thorn tree the dead lay piled high like unto a wall, Saxon and Dane, still clutching each other in the last fierce hand-grips of death. And the fighters were weary with slaughter and the swords tired of their song. And then, for the first time in any decisive battle since their landing, the Danes broke and retreated, and Hungwar led them, galloping off on his war-horse and waving his arms as if the evil spirit had entered into him. And so ended the battle, and the Saxons were the masters of the field of slaughter. And yet it was at great cost, for many were slain, and while the Danes could bring a score for each one dead, the men of Wessex were few, and the men of Mercia and Northumbria were jealous of them, and would have joyed to see them beaten, and would not come to their aid. So back went the King and the Atheling and their soldiers, and the eagles and the crows gathered over the field of slaughter, and the wolf howled for joy from the forest as he called his brethren to the feast, smelling the blood from afar. But Wulnoth looked to where, far away, he saw the Raven of Odin in retreat, and he looked to the cross which the priests carried before the army, and he remembered his words and felt that the White Christ was the strongest, and that they who served Him were no nithings, when it came to making the sword sing and playing the man's game. Now, this is how the Danes were beaten by the Saxons of Wessex on the field of slaughter which is called Ashdune, and this is how the Raven of Odin fled from the sign of the White Christ. CHAPTER XVII _The Passing of Ethelred the King_ Now, though the men of Wessex had beaten the Danes with a great slaughter at the battle of Ashdune, little rest did the weary land have from the war-song, but day by day the sword gleamed and the red flames roared, and the Black Strangers came in foraying bands. Like the leaves before the wind, like the snow on the northern blast, so did the Danes seem to gather, until even the boldest and the bravest felt their hearts fail, and asked each other what could be done to free the land from these savage, barbarian invaders, who seemed like to swamp the whole world and plunge it back into paganism again. And now the men of Mercia, and those of Northumbria and Cantua, had occasion to lament that they had not joined with Wessex, and, forgetting their own quarrels, striven side by side against the common foe. For to every part of the fair land the Danes marched, and their pathway was death and ruin, and of them the English said-- "Of what use is it to war against them, for if there be thirty thousand slain to-day, there will be twice thirty thousand in their place to-morrow?" Yet, for all that, did Ethelred the King, and Alfred his brother, fight as brave men should, calling upon all their men to trust in the Lord and be of good cheer; and, whilst in other parts of the land the invaders were striking terror to all hearts, in the land of the West Saxons they were frequently driven back and put to flight. But it was hard work and sad; for the hands of the strongest must grow weary, and the hearts of the mightiest must fail sometimes; and there was no rest for King or for Prince. To-day they would face the foe in one place, and the next they would be in rapid march to strike an unexpected blow in quite another direction. But the land wept, for there was no corn sown and no harvest to reap, because men said that there was little wisdom in sowing fields that were to be trampled down in the war game, or in storing in barns, through which the red flames might leap. Oh! those were sad days, when hunger and despair and battle were on every hand; and still, on and on the Danes pressed, and their long ships were on every coast and barring all the rivers, and even floating up to London itself. And a merry game did Wulnoth and his robber companions play, though alas, now of that fifty but half remained. To-day here, to-morrow there, hurrying at the King's behest, enduring fatigue and peril with laughter, and doing hero deeds that rivalled the best of the Danish holdas' achievements. Little of Edgiva did Wulnoth see in those days, but at night, when he rested with his band in the forest depths, or lay counting the watchful stars, then he would think of his Princess, and in fancy see her face, and he would dream a good dream of the days that should be, when England was England once more. Yet never did he forget the friend of his boyhood and the promise he had made; and he wondered when and how he should ever obtain tidings of Guthred the Prince. "I can go but one step at a time," he murmured to himself. "This helping of Alfred is the first thing, and afterwards we will think of what may follow it." And then he would sit by the watch fire, while his rough companions lay around; and he would think, and think, of the White Christ, and the wonder story of His great love, and His death on the cross; and now he no longer called it a nithing tale, but thought it beautiful as the best of the sagas; and though he said naught of it to any, nor even let Edgiva know when he saw her, Wulnoth was beginning to understand, and to see that the Lord Christ was the mightiest, and the greatest, and the best, and indeed the very Bretwalda of all the angels. But little time was there for thinking even on that matter; for it was fight, fight, day by day; now hunted, and now hunting--at this moment the Raven of Odin victorious, and the next the banner of Ethelred triumphant. And in one battle did the forces meet at a place called Merton, not far from Ashdune; and there, while they strove, and now to one side now to the other the victory inclined, Ethelred the King was smitten by a spear, and fell wounded from his horse; and Wulnoth, and Osric, and Alfred, raised him up tenderly, and bore him from the field of slaughter, and then rushed back and threw themselves upon the foe, fighting fiercely until, when the evening shadows came, the Danes were glad to retire; for they had met with those who could strive as well as themselves. And then did the Saxons take their wounded King; and, commanded by Alfred, they retreated swiftly and silently, and with hearts bowed down by sadness, so that they might find a place where the King could rest in safety. And then did the King call his brother the Atheling to his side, and he spoke with him tenderly, and bade him be comforted. "How could man die better than face to foe, striving for his country, and for the blessed Truth, dear brother?" he said. "Now I am wounded sore, and my spirit tells me that I shall die; and for that my heart rejoices, for by dying shall I gain a better crown than one of earthly power, and by death shall I enter into life." And Alfred bowed his head and wept, for his heart was very sore now; and Wulnoth stood by, for his it was to guard the King's tent, and he wondered yet more and more; for here was a second King dying, and he also, like as Edmund had done, spoke of victory and life, and seemed glad and happy, and not like those of the Danes and the Old Saxons, who only spoke of going to the dark storm-land. But they could not tarry long where the King lay, for the foe pressed too hard; and so they hurried southwards, and the army broke into small parties, that they might travel the more swiftly and securely. And so they came south by Winchester, the King's town, and even there they did not stay, but passed on into the land of Durnovaria, or as we now call it Dorchester. And there did the King tarry, for he was too sick to journey farther, though there was some talk of reaching the sea, and sending him afar into safety. But his wounds were bad, and his strength was gone, and his mind weary for his kingdom, and for the land at large, and for the faith of the Lord; and he knew that he must soon pass hence, and be at peace. And to him came his aged mother Osburga, whom neither grief, nor peril, nor weariness could conquer; and she, and the Abbot Hugoline, and Alfred, they tended the King in his last hours of pain and sorrow, and whispered words of good cheer to him, while Osric, and Ethelred the Ealdorman, went back with the forces, and made another stand against the foe, who pursued hard upon their track. And there did King Ethelred breathe his last, and commit his soul into the keeping of his Saviour; and from there did they carry his body to the minster at Wimborne, and there did they bury the King. And Alfred the Atheling had the crown placed upon his head, and became Alfred the King; and of all Saxon Kings, did he prove the best, and the bravest, and the wisest; so that in after days his fame was sung and he was called "The Great Thane" and "The Bretwalda of the English" and "The Shepherd of his people." Yet on that very day whereon he was crowned did Wulnoth the Wanderer come upon him in the church; and lo, he knelt, and he prayed, and as he prayed he wept; and Wulnoth spoke with the King, for Alfred made a friend of the Wanderer, and he asked him why he wept. "Thou art King now, and thou hast a kingdom, and thou hast men to fight, and thou thyself art a warrior; wherefore, then, dost thou weep, O King?" "Heavy is it to be a King, friend," the monarch answered, "and weary is the land wherein battle is ever raging; and great is the stewardship which I have. Therefore, I kneel in humbleness, and with tears I ask Him for help and for grace, that I may do my work and receive my reward." "O King!" cried Wulnoth. "If thy God is the mightiest of gods, why does he not drive out the Danes, and scatter their host? I am puzzled, of a truth, O King, for I understand not this thing." "And couldst thou understand all God's ways, then wouldst thou be as wise as God. Does the warrior understand all his captain's plans? Nay, he receives his order, and he obeys his command, and he trusts his captain enough to know that each order is given for a reason. So is it with us, O Wanderer. We trust and we obey, and the end is with Him. His ways are greater than our ways, and His thoughts than our thoughts." Sad and solemn was the crowning of the King, for there was no pomp and stately show now, as there had been of yore. Scarcely had he thanes to stand around him; scarcely had he people to aid him; there was no time for such empty things as pageant now; for almost ere the body of King Ethelred was laid to its rest, there came tidings of new and fresh hosts of Danes sweeping over the land. And bitter was it for Mercia then; for the Black Strangers became as a terror to the bravest, and all men trembled at their name. Across the country to Lindum[7] they swept; and from the sea other hosts poured into the land. They attacked and drove out King Burhred, and placed one named Ceolwulf in his place, as under-lord. Black and bitter was the treason of Ceolwulf the Thane, who had been Burhred's thane; for he, a Saxon, became a servant of the Danes; and of him it is said that he was fiercer than his masters, so that the land was laid waste. And farther north, in Northumbria, the whole land was covered with the foe; and there Halfdane, whom some called Hungwar's brother, led his forces and destroyed without ruth as he went, burning every church and monastery, and even the beautiful cathedral of Lindisfarne; and while the flames roared, and the sword sang, the wail of women, and the shriek of tortured little children, rose to mingle with it, and hope and faith died out in the land. But down in Wessex, still the light shone, and still brave hearts resisted; though often it was hard and bitter work, and from being able to stand before the Danes, the forces frequently had to hurry, driven from place to place, yet ever inspired by the King to fresh courage and endeavor. And in those days did Wulnoth do mighty deeds, and earn himself a name amongst men, for being a hero; so that the Danes knew and feared; and Hungwar himself trembled; for he knew that the day would come when he and Wulnoth would meet face to face; and then it would be a bitter day and dark for him. Now, this is how King Ethelred was wounded in battle, and died of his wounds; and this is how the crown passed to Alfred the Atheling, and the whole land, from north to south, was overrun by the Black Strangers, and given to fire and sword. CHAPTER XVIII _Of the Coming back of Guthrun_ Now, for nigh five years after King Alfred was crowned, did the land groan beneath the sword of the invaders; and everywhere there was battle; for when the Danes had none other to fight, then did they fight amongst themselves. And for nigh five years did Wulnoth lead amongst the King's chosen champions, and beat the foe back. Seven years now had the Wanderer been in England, and yet he had gained no tidings of Guthred the Prince. Edgiva he saw several times, and sweet were their greetings, and dear the hours they spent together; but all too brief the time that was theirs. Beautiful, with a wondrous beauty, was Edgiva now; and yet, though beautiful and a King's daughter, she was true to her lover, and would listen to no other suitors. Yet still she would not give him her hand, nor did he ask it; for not yet had he owned that the Lord Christ was the greatest and noblest of all, and not yet was the land at rest; and Edgiva would not have him think of aught save his duty to his King and to the land. "Oh! Wulnoth, my hero," she would say to him, "hard is thy task, but truly thou dost do it. And Wyborga, who grows wiser as she grows older, reveals to me that harder yet shall it be; and the King shall flee as a nameless man and a landless man, and thou shalt abide with him. But be brave, for through it all shalt thou come to victory and honor." Then did Wulnoth kiss her fair hand, and answer, and say--"My Princess, I am thy watcher and thy servant, as I am thy faithful lover, and all that thou dost command, that will I strive to do." Thus did the days pass and grow to years, and the years grew until five had passed; and then came Guthrun and a mighty host, marching towards Exeter, near which city the King lay with his forces. And when the army started to march, then from the mouth of the Thames their fleet sailed to the West, and from the sides of the long ships gleamed the shields of many warriors. Now, the King of the West Saxons heard news of the marching of Guthrun's host, and of the sailing of the long ships, and he called his thanes and captains to counsel, and he said-- "Now we have two forces to meet, one by land and one by sea. Those on land march to Exeter, and those by sea will seek to land at the nearest spot." "Wise are the Danes, O King," answered Wulnoth bitterly. "They know the weakest spot at which to strike. For this Exeter, is it not now menaced by the Britons from West Wales, and will they not help our foes?" "We must trust in the mercy of the Lord, Wanderer," the King answered. "Would to God that all the inhabitants of this unhappy land would fight as brethren. We should soon thrust the Danes out then."[8] "Little good to wish that, O King," cried one gaunt old warrior. And the King smiled. "Ay, we will not waste time in idle wishes. Now this is my rede. Thou knowest that I have caused to be built long ships, like those which the Danes use. Now these lie at the coast towns; and I counsel that we man them and put to sea, and there trust to our God to give us the victory over this foe." "And, meantime, the foe on land, O King?" cried Wulnoth. "They will have reached the city, Wanderer, and there will they surely tarry, seeking perchance to make league with the Britons, and waiting for their friends to join them. Now mark you--if we are favored by Heaven, and can defeat the ships, we will play their own game. We will land from our ships and sweep towards Exeter, and give the city to the flame, and put them to the sword." "By the bracelets of Odin, King," laughed Wulnoth, "thou art marking out a big task for thyself. But if this is in thy mind, I for one am well content to try it; and methinks I shall love to feel the ships leap over the waves, and to join in a sea-fight again." So, all the thanes agreeing, the King and his forces hurried southward and got to their ships, and were ready to go on board and set sail, as soon as the foe appeared. And presently, from afar, the sails appeared, and the hearts of some sank as they saw the number; yet the King prayed to Heaven for help, and made haste to prepare for battle. In years long after, there was another little fleet of ships not so far from that very spot, waiting while a mighty armada came, stately and confident, up the Channel; and what happened then, happened also in the reign of Alfred the King. For, as the fleet of Danish warships drew near, dark clouds gathered in the sky, and the tempest roared, and the wind blew, and the great waves grew, and thundered against the white cliffs, and the King pointed and cried-- "See, O friends, Heaven does not desert us; and what we are too weak to do, that God does in the strength of His might. Look, and doubt no more." And indeed it seemed as if the King's words were true, for the Danish ships were caught by the tempest, and the great sails were rent, and the strong masts shivered, and many were engulfed, and others dashed on the rocks; and the remainder turned to flee, and were pursued by Alfred's ships, and vanquished; and thus it happened that for the first time the Saxons of Wessex gained a sea-fight, and taught the proud invaders a lesson. Then did Alfred and his soldiers hasten back to Exeter; and there they found Guthrun and his host, and they set a siege about the city, and put the Danes into a hard case; so that Guthrun besought Alfred to make peace with him, and he swore by the bracelets of Odin, and by the hammer of Thor, that he would keep truce. "Now," said Wulnoth, when he heard of this, "if thou art counselled by me, O King, thou wilt make no truce here. Thou hast them in thy hand, and I would make an end of them. The pledge of a Dane is as a rune written on the sand. You may search for it, and it will not be found." But the King was so noble that he believed not that a holda like Guthrun would break his word; and, moreover, he was afraid to tarry long before the city, for fear he should be cut off by other bands who might come. So a truce was signed, and the Danes departed from the neighborhood, and for a little while the land had peace, and the King busied himself in building more long ships in case of need. But soon the King was to learn that Wulnoth was right when he said the Danes were not to be trusted, for suddenly after a few months, and when the Winter held all the land in its iron grip, and food was hard to come by for the soldiers; back, sweeping like a flame over the land, came Guthrun and Hungwar with him, and a vast force, greater than ever; and Guthrun and Hungwar had sworn by Thor, that they would make an end of Alfred, who had worried and resisted them so long, when all the other Saxon kings had bowed to their sway. And tidings were brought to the King as he sat in his hall, and then did Wulnoth laugh and say-- "Now, O King, if there is any power in thy God, let it be shown; for this time there will be no mistake. Hungwar and Guthrun have made friends again, and they march together, and I tell thee that from end to end of thy kingdom they will leave nothing but ruin and death. Thou shouldst have crushed the head while thou hadst it in thy power to do so, and then perchance the tail would have died. Now head and tail are joined, and there comes a terror to the land, O King. Of a truth there comes a terror." "Let us not meet trouble till it comes, Wanderer," the King answered. "Ho! my thanes, go forth and summon me all my bands--all who can bear war gear and carry lance--and this time, as the Wanderer says, an end shall be made." So the thanes went forth, and they came back with a sad tale, which they told with hanging heads. The fear of the foe was in all the land, and men were weary of being harried and marched to war, and every one was fleeing. Churls and thralls, thanes and sethcundmen, all alike had gone, fleeing. Many of them had gone across the narrow waters to the island beyond--the Isle of Wight--while others bowed in submission to the invaders; and Alfred the King found himself a King without a people, with hardly any whom he could look to, with his best soldiers melting away, as the snow melts when the sun shines upon it. Oh! bitter was it to the King, and bitter was it to the brave hearts who loved him; for now it seemed as if the kingdom of Wessex would share the fate of the rest of the land, and groan under the rod of the pagan. And then spake Wulnoth again, and he said-- "Now up and let us act, for these Danes will give us little rest if they once come up with us; and though I fear not death, I have somewhat to do ere I close my eyes. I have a word for Hungwar, and I have a quest to make. Come, King, and come, comrades, and never be discouraged. We must flee for the time, but it will not be forever that we are to remain hidden. "The sun may be hidden by a cloud for the time, O King, but it is not lost forever." "But what shall we do with our dear ones, our tender ones?" cried the King. "With whom shall we leave them?" "With whom dost thou think they will tarry, son, save with those they love?" answered Osburga, speaking stoutly. "Do we fear the cold, and the wet, more than the risk of being taken by the wicked Danes? Nay, son, I, thy mother, go with thee, for one; and so does thy royal spouse Elswitha, and her attendant, the Lady Edgiva, herself a royal princess." "This may not be," cried the King; but the others said that the words were wise words, and that so they would have less care than if the Queen were left unprotected and alone. So by night a little army, such a poor little force, was gathered; and with the Queen, and Osburga, and Edgiva, and old Wyborga, they journeyed by forest and wild, and on till they came to a wild and desolate place[9] where two angry streams met, with wild moors and dreary swamps extending for many a mile, over which none might with safety pass, unless they knew the pathways that were sure. And here in this desolate place did the King, who now had no hall, abide in humble huts which they built with their own hands; and often did he and those with him have no food, unless they first caught it by their own skill. Fish they snared from the waters, and wild deer they chased across the moor, and they lived like outlaws and nameless ones. Hard was it then for the King, and sorely did he grieve for the unhappy land; for ever and again his spies came with reports of the grievous work of the Danes, and of the suffering of the people, and his heart was full of pain. Scarce could he go from his hiding-place because of the foe, for he knew that they were gathering closer and closer, searching for him to make an end of him. Sometimes he had to wander quite alone, without a single attendant, and dressed in the poorest garments of a churl, and yet never in all did the faith of the King fail, and never did his mother or his wife fail him in his need. Now the King had a jewel[10] which he valued, and which he hung round his neck; and this was a stone of polished crystal, two inches long, and cunningly wrought with gold and green enamel; and seated thereon was a figure with a lily spray in each hand, and surrounding the jewel was a gold band on which were written these words-- ALFRED MEC HEHT GEWYRCAN. (Alfred had me made). And in his wanderings amidst the bogs and the fens, this jewel was lost, so that the King grieved sore, and said it was a bad omen, and that his kingdom was lost to him also. But Wyborga came, and spoke, and her words were heard by all, and she said-- "Grieve not for the thing which is lost, O King, for in other days will it be found. Rather rejoice, for thou shalt have a better jewel than that which is lost, and thy crown shall yet shine bright, and thy fame remain for all time, so that no hero shall have more renown and none do better deeds." "Thou dost speak good words, Wyborga," answered the King, but now he spoke a little wearily. "May they come true!" And Wyborga answered, "They will surely come true." "Wyborga, didst thou say that to comfort the King only?" asked Wulnoth, when he saw the wise woman alone. And she smiled-- "Wulnoth, have not all my words come true to thee? But now I have a work for thee to do, and a journey for thee to go, seeing that here the King needs thee not." "What is thy work, Wyborga?" asked Wulnoth, "and whither must I journey?" "Take with thee of thy band those who are left to the King," the old woman said, "and journey thou southward towards the sea." "For what purpose, O Wyborga?" he asked. And she explained-- "Wulnoth, I have seen a vision; and in the vision I beheld long ships come over the sea; and in one of them floated the raven banner of Regner, and beneath it stood Hubba, and Biorn Ironsides, who have returned from their work in Mercia. I saw these ships come to shore, and I saw a band of heroes, and thee amongst them; and the banner of Regner fell to thee, and Hubba was slain, and the Danes fled. Go now, and see how this may be, for methinks the vision was sent to me, that I might tell thee, and that the work might begin. The King's exile shall soon be done, and the darkness shall flee away." "Now by my beard," Wulnoth cried, "this is the best news thou hast told me for many a day, and right gladly do I go to do thy bidding." "Tell not the King," the wise woman said, "else he may desire to come with thee, and evil may come of it. Go thou, Wulnoth, and may success be thine; and I will make excuse to the King for thine absence." So Wulnoth called to his companions, and they started off on their journey; and the heart of Wulnoth beat high with hope, and he felt that Wyborga's word would be a true word, and that he would slay Hubba, and capture the famous raven banner, which struck terror to the hearts of all men. Now, this is how Guthrun the Dane came again with his host and forced the King to flee, and this is how Wulnoth started for Devonshire at the bidding of Wyborga the Wise Woman. CHAPTER XIX _Of the Capturing of the Raven Banner_ Now, away went Wulnoth and his companions, of whom but twenty now remained, but of that twenty not one but was a warrior indeed, proved in many a fight. Fully armed were they, and in the best of spirits, since the Wanderer had told them that he was going to seek adventure and glory, and the man's game; and they were weary of hiding amidst the marshes, like herons in pools. After leaving Athelney, they crossed into a dense forest; and here, in one of the glades, they came across a party of Danes, who evidently were searching for the King. The Black Strangers were resting, and their horses grazed near by; but when they saw Wulnoth and his men they sprang up, seizing their weapons, and bidding the comrades stand and declare their business. "Ye are nameless men it seems," the leader said sternly, "and therefore we have no desire to do ye any harm. But say, have ye heard aught of the hiding-place of this Saxon King, Alfred, for him do we search for." "I think," began Wulnoth, then he stopped; and the leader demanded what it was that he thought. "Well, I think that we are weary, having to walk while ye have horses," the Wanderer made reply. "Moreover, I think 't is a shame that Saxons should walk, while Danish thieves ride, especially when they ride Saxon horses which they have stolen." "How, knave!" roared the viking leader. And Wulnoth laughed-- "I think, moreover," he went on, "that we will have those horses; and as the land will be well quit of such pirates, we will slay you, ere we go on our way. To the game, Danes! to the game! for there are blows to be dealt." Then his own men drew their weapons, and the Danes, nothing loath, made ready also; and the leader said to Wulnoth-- "Since thou hast talked so much, I will speak a word to thee, and it shall be thy message to the storm-land." "Speak then," laughed Wulnoth, and he raised his axe, and smote a mighty stroke, and the Dane fell stricken, as an ox falls before the flesher's blow. And then did the fight commence, but it was not long; for Wulnoth was as a berserker now, and he smote such blows as none could withstand, so that soon the Danes were in flight, and the band had horses and casting-spears, and were speeding on their way again. "By Thor! 't is more pleasant to ride than to walk," laughed Wulnoth, "and when it is riding on a good Saxon nag taken from a Danish thief, why, then 't is doubly enjoyable." And at that the others laughed gleefully, as they cantered on. Green and fresh were the woods, and fair to look upon; but the eyes flashed and the brows frowned, when the band left the woods and rode across the country, and saw homestead after homestead burnt and ruined, and the bodies of the murdered ones left there for the birds and the wolves to feed upon. It has been laid to Alfred's charge that he showed no mercy to his prisoners when he captured the crews of two warships that had been driven ashore; but in truth there was little call, or room, for mercy, for the Danes had made sure of their work, and left only revenge in the hearts of men. And as the companions rode on in something of gloomy silence, feeling as though these sights of desolation fell iron-heavy on their hearts, suddenly from afar came the shrill shriek of a woman in pain or fear, and the sounds of strife; and Wulnoth placed a finger to his lips in warning, and galloped quietly forward in the direction of the sound, followed by his companions; and each man loosened his sword, or grasped his spear, while there came into their eyes a look, like the hungry light in the eyes of the starving wolf when he smells blood from afar. And there they saw a cottage, with some dozen Black Strangers before it; with an old man lying dead, and his old wife panting her life away, while three of the cruel ones were placing a noose around a young man's neck, and some of the others were tying a fair maiden to a tree, to use her for a target. The Danes halted as they heard the horses dashing forward, but little time had they to think, little time even to defend themselves. With a shrill Saxon shout the companions were upon them, and the murderers were smitten down, not one getting away to tell the tale; and then Wulnoth sprang from his horse and lifted the poor old woman's head, while the others speedily unfastened the girl and set the youth free. "How is this?" they asked. "What had you done to offend them?" And the young man laughed bitterly. "What had I done?" he cried. "Know you so little of the Danes, as to think that one need do anything, for them to make excuse for murdering? Our cottage chanced to be in their way as they passed, that was enough. They needed some sport, and what better sport than burning and murdering?" "Well, comrade, they have got sport of another kind now," laughed Wulnoth, "though I fear they have done mischief enough here; for this poor old dame is surely dying." "Poor mother," the young man said with a sob, while the girl in silence bent over the dying woman. "Yet 't is best for her to follow father; for since these Danes have come, 't has been naught but hunger, and fear, and suffering; and now she will be at peace." "Do you fight the Danes?" The question was asked with terrible intensity, and the men looked at the girl as, supporting the dying woman, she glanced up-- "Ay, maiden, that is our business in life; and we hope to do a little more of it, ere long." "Then, Garth, go you with them. Go," and the girl turned to the young man. "There is nothing for you to do here. I and others will bury these poor bodies; you, a man, need not tarry for that. Go, and let each day see a Dane slain in memory of this work. Revenge is sacred now. Go, brother." "But you!" cried the young man to his sister. "Besides, these warriors may not care for a youth to be of their number." "By Thor, that is wrong, lad. We will take all the strong arms we can secure, and then we could do with more. And if this maiden can care for herself for the time, then we will take you. 'T is the work every honest Saxon should be doing now." "I can take care of myself; go you, Garth," and she looked at the lad again. Then did the young man come near to Wulnoth, and he said in low tones-- "Stranger, who hast helped us, and slain our foes, and who art going to fight the Danes, I also have made up my mind to do that, and there are others of like mind, only we lack leaders. Now, what would you say to a hundred youths who can each shoot, and hit the clout four times out of five?" "What would I say!" cried Wulnoth heartily, "I would say that they were worth their weight in gold at this time. Boy, there is a King who needs to have his crown placed firmly upon his head once more, and thy hundred youths with their bows, might have much to do with settling it there." "I care less for the King than I do for revenge," was the fierce answer. "Ah! I know our good priest would have told me that was wrong. Well, they have killed him, and killed my love, and I want revenge. The hundred shall be thine, if thou wilt tarry a few hours." "We will wait," answered Wulnoth, "and while we tarry we will aid the maiden to bury the dead. She speaks like a redesman. That is her part. Thine it is to strike blows." The young man turned and disappeared amidst the trees; and the companions in their rude yet kindly way performed the solemn offices for the murdered man and his wife, the poor old soul having breathed her last; and then back came the lad Garth, and with him groups of stout young fellows, sturdy carls who had fled from the foe, and who, having no work now, thought but of one thing--that one thing which all Saxons throughout the land desired--_revenge_. So that evening Wulnoth set forward again, with a hundred of archers in his train, and they marched till they came to a masterless band, and the leader put his men in array and prepared for battle. But Wulnoth halted his force, and rode alone, and gave the robber greeting, and spake to him and his men of the wrong in the land, and the need that was, and showed how his comrades were part of just such another band; and the Saxon outlaws talked together, and then threw in their lot with the Wanderer, so that now he had a hundred archers, and sixty horsemen at his back. And into Devonshire they came; and there the stout old Ealdorman Borric came out with his men, and demanded who they were, and whither they journeyed, and Wulnoth told him that they journeyed to the coast, to watch for the coming of the foe, and oppose their landing. And at that Borric laughed grimly, and looked with bright eyes from beneath his shaggy brows. "So thou wouldst oppose the Danes with thy handful!" he cried. "Hast any idea of how many these foes are?" "I ought to have," answered Wulnoth coolly, "since I came over with them, serving under Hungwar." And at that the Ealdorman stared harder, and said grimly-- "That word needs explaining, my friend." So Wulnoth told him part of his story, and how he had left the King, though he told not where the King was. And Borric smote his hands together, and he cried-- "Now thou dost shame us, Wanderer, since that is what thou callest thyself. All too slack have we been in this matter. We have sat still and let the foes come. Now I will send messengers throughout the land, and we will see what force we can gather, and we will make one fight, a good fight, and a true fight; and if we die we die, and if we drive these vile pirates off, then we will thank God for it." "Now," thought Wulnoth, "this is strange! I set out with a score, and not knowing where another would come from; and here I am like to have an army ere long. Truly there is something in Wyborga's rede to me." So Wulnoth and his force, and some more who joined them, pushed forward towards the coast; and the people, as they went, joined them, for they were all weary of the slaughter, and determined to make another try to shake off the Danish yoke from the neck of beautiful England. And for days they waited, and each day brought more and more strength, and each day Wulnoth, like a wise leader, made his men exercise and keep watch; and he placed beacons all along the coast, to give warning if the foe came by night; and then, one day, as the sun rose and scattered the white sea mist, they saw coming down towards them, the long row of stately long ships; and, as Wyborga had prophesied, there floated the raven banner of Regner Lodbrok. And at that some grew afraid, for they looked upon the banner as being of magic powers; but Wulnoth laughed and told them how he had seen it fleeing from the field, and how it was foretold that it would be captured in that very fight. And now, in towards the shore the ships came, and the Danish leaders stood and laughed right scornfully, as they saw the Saxons drawn up to receive them; and they cried-- "Tarry there, O Saxons. Tarry till we come, for our swords are thirsty, and we lack foes to satisfy them!" And then Wulnoth answered-- "Be sure that we will tarry, son of Regner. Be sure of it, for we have journeyed long to reach here in time; and also I have a word for thee which shall be as my word to Wiglaf thy boxer, Hubba, thou nithing." Then Hubba knew that it was the Wanderer who spoke, and he turned to Biorn Ironbeard--him who before had tried to cut the iron mace handle--and he said, grimly-- "By Odin's twelve companions, Ironbeard, yonder is that Wanderer of whom we have heard before. There will be rough play where he stands." And Ironbeard laughed with glee, and gave the word to lower the sails. Down came the sails, and round came the ships; and from their sides rained the arrows and the casting-spears; but from the shore came others in reply, and wherever the arrow of Garth sped, there a Dane went to the storm-land on its point. Then into the sea foam the warriors sprang, and rushed forward with shields upraised and swords bare, and the man's game began, and the wounded fell on both sides. And there strode Biorn Ironbeard clearing him a pathway with his wide-sweeping sword; and to him went Borric the Ealdorman, and Borric took a mighty mace, and he smote once, and Ironbeard staggered; and he smote twice, and Ironbeard fell on his knees; and he smote yet again, and Ironbeard fell dead. Then did the Saxons cry in triumph, and Wulnoth shouted to the Ealdorman,--"Thou hast had thy prize, O friend, may I also have mine!" "And that thou shalt have, if I am thy prize," shouted Hubba, and he came striding on, his banner behind him; and all the forces of the Danes, and the people of the land met, and surged around, and for the time drove them apart. But then Wulnoth whirling an axe in either hand, as he had been taught of old by Osth the giant, dashed against the Danes, and they shrank back; for to them he looked like a wild berserker, he raged so; and he reached the place where the banner of Regner waved, and with one blow he cut down the banner bearer, and with another he smote back his champion watcher, and then he hurled one axe away, and waved the banner aloft, and cleaved himself a road through the Danes with his weapon. And then the vikings cried to Hubba that his banner was stolen; and the son of Regner came, raging like a bear, towards Wulnoth; and so at last these two met, and Wulnoth laughed right joyously-- "Oh! greeting, greeting, Hubba. Long have I sought thee. Now, greeting!" But Hubba spake not, but he aimed a mighty blow at Wulnoth's head, and cut clean through the wing of his helm. "A good blow, Hubba, a mighty blow," laughed Wulnoth. "Yet methinks this is better. Dost remember the mace which belonged to thy brother, and how I cut its handle in twain? Look now, Hubba, and say is this blow as good?" Now while he spoke, three blows, mighty blows did Wulnoth turn with his shield; and then he smote, and men said that never was there such a blow, for neither shield nor mail could turn it, but the axe sped through all as if 't were but thin bark; and it fell on Hubba's side where the shoulder fits the neck, and it cut through bone and muscle, and the arm fell, and the axe went on and bit deep into the side; and Hubba fell as the oak falls before the lightning, fell at the feet of Wulnoth the Wanderer, while all the Danes cried out in dismay at what had been done. But the people of Wessex, they pressed on cheering, for their hearts were encouraged, and they felt that the Danes were being defeated; and the fight rolled this way, and that, now towards the sea, now towards the land, and great deeds were done, and many a warrior fell. But the Danes gave way slowly and stubbornly, and at last they were beaten, and they turned and fled back to their ships--beaten as they had never been beaten before, save at the field of Ashdune. And they took the body of Hubba the son of Regner Lodbrok, and they sang many a death-song for him, and made lamentations, as for one of the mightiest. And they buried him in a warrior's grave, with honor, and with all his weapons; and they raised over him a heap, and set stones about, and called it after the dead Chieftain--Hubblestanes--by which name the place is still known to men. And the people of Wessex drove the Danes from the shore, and took much plunder, and returned to their homes rejoicing. And Borric the Ealdorman went back to his stronghold, and he said to Wulnoth-- "Ye are going back to the King, O Wanderer. Now tell him that this must not stand as it has done before. Victory must be added to victory; and I will send word through all the kingdom, and gather men everywhere; and when the King is ready, we will march to meet him, and may God be for us again." Then Wulnoth parted from Borric; and with his own company, and the archers, and the band of masterless men, he set forward to rejoin the King at Athelney. Now, this is how Wulnoth slew Hubba, and carried the banner of Regner Lodbrok away to King Alfred. CHAPTER XX _Of the Hunting of the Ring_ Now, after that Wulnoth and his companions had set forth on their journey into Devonshire, the Danes, who were led by Guthrun and Hungwar, began to press on, spreading over the whole face of the country, searching for King Alfred, whom they were determined to capture and put to death. At first, hidden away amidst the marshes of Athelney, he was fairly safe; but bit by bit the forces drew nearer and surrounded the whole place; and they who tarried with the King knew not what to do, for they liked not to leave their monarch and seek their own safety, and yet they saw that did they tarry long, so large a band would be certain to draw the attention of their foe to their retreat. More than that, it became increasingly difficult for them to obtain supplies of food without being discovered, and so their hearts sank within them, and they felt that the battle was lost, and that the cause of their Lord would fall and the pagan worship of the Norse gods be established. And Alfred the King pondered over this, for he also saw these things, and he knew that his few were trusty and loyal, and would sooner perish with him than desert him in his hour of need. So he called a council of his most wise and devoted thanes, and to that council came also Osburga his mother; and there, in the dreary and deserted marshland, they sat round their fire and talked of what should best be done. "The Danes are as the leaves," they said, "and for one killed many come. Who can deliver us from them?" Then said Abbot Hugoline, and he spoke in calm tones, as a man who had faith in that which he said-- "O thanes, and you our royal Alfred, let us not be downcast; for if no earthly power can aid us, still God is able to deliver us from the Danes, as he delivered his servant Daniel from the lions, and the three Hebrew children from the raging fiery furnace." "Thou art right, Abbot," answered the King, "and while we have him to look to, we will not despair. Now this is my rede--Here together we cannot tarry, since our numbers will betray us, and our foe is too powerful for us to stand against. We must separate--" "Nay, now nay, O King," they cried. "We will not leave you." "Now hear me," answered the King. "If I never more might have need of you, I might say tarry here and let us make an end of our misfortunes and die as men should. But I do need you--I shall need you to fight with me for this our country and for our faith. For a little while the clouds darken our sky, but presently the time will come, and we shall need all the aid we can obtain." "The Wanderer and his men have deserted us," murmured some; but the King answered that Wulnoth had done what he wished all to do; he had gone to gather men, and prepare for the time when they might take the field again. "This is what ye must all do," he said, "disperse, and go each his own way; and to all true men give greeting, and bid them prepare weapons and hide them away, and be ready to hasten to our standard when the summons shall come." "Now the King's word is a wise word," said old Osburga, and all there listened with reverence to her words, not only because she was the King's mother, but because she was wise. "Let his commands be obeyed, and let us part one from another." "But, noble lady, what of you and the Queen and the noble maidens who have shared our trials and wanderings?" asked Osric. And the King said-- "Of that I have thought. My mother and my wife, and the ladies with them, must journey with the Abbot here to a retreat of which he knows, where they will be safe. 'T is not far hence; and if need be I can communicate with them." So, though it grieved the hearts of them all, and seemed like the giving up of their defence, the Saxons said that the King's word must be obeyed; and in stern sorrow they prepared to depart, each with his few followers going his own way; all save Osric, who tarried with the King as his companion. "Now shall we be safer," said the King, "two can live securely where a score would be in peril. Farewell, dear friends, and lose not heart nor faith." So the King embraced his wife, and received his mother's blessing, and clasped hands with his friends; and then, when the mists of the evening stole over the land, they all departed, each taking his own way through the marshlands, and leaving the King and Osric alone. And that the King's word was a wise word was proved; for the next day came bands of Danes, and the King and Osric were hidden in the marsh, lying in the mud and covered with the rushes; and they watched the foe come to the place where they had tarried, and make search, and give the huts to the fire, and then go away angry and disappointed; for they had no thought that the King had taken warning and fled. And Hungwar and Guthrun were told; and loud did they curse in their fury, and they ordered that bands should go in every direction, and search night and day, giving orders to all the Saxon churls that remained that if they saw the King they were to seize him and deliver him up, else otherwise they should be put to the torture, and their wives and children sold into slavery, and their roofs given to the flames. Little did Guthrun and his companion know the stout hearts of the West Saxons; for those very threats only made the churls sullenly defiant, and determined that in no case would they betray their King, did they chance to meet with him. Moreover, the Saxons learnt that the retreat at Athelney had been betrayed by a knave; and him they caught and hanged on a tree, and thus did they pay him for taking Danish gold and betraying Alfred the King. Now, for many days did Alfred and Osric wander; and the King was hunted hither and thither like a beast of the forest, and often compelled to flee; and his illness pressed sore upon him, yet his courage was undaunted, and his faith clear; and often when he lay alone with Osric in the fens, he would discourse with him concerning the fleet he was determined to build when the Danes were conquered and England free again. "Thou art sure that England shall be free again, O King?" Osric said. And the King replied, "As certain as I am that the sun will rise to-morrow." And thus did the King fare all the days that Wulnoth was away; and only twice did he manage to see his wife and mother for a short space; but he heard by faithful messengers how his companions prospered in their work, and how all over the land the Saxons were saying that if the King would only come forth from his hiding and lead them, they would risk striking another blow at the foe beneath whose cruel rule the land groaned. But the King still tarried for a little, for he wanted his friends to gather all they could; and he desired that the Danes should grow over-confident, thinking that all opposition was gone, and thus relax their vigilance. And it chanced that one day Alfred the King came to a rude hut hidden away in a desolate place, where dwelt a poor neatherd, alas now with but few cattle to attend, and those he had to hide away in the middle of the marshland, else they had surely been stolen by the enemy. "Now, Osric, my friend," said Alfred, "I must to-day receive tidings from Hugoline. Go thou and glean them, and I will abide here. I will seek shelter with these good people, and tarry for your return." "Will they not betray you?" asked Osric, for he knew of the Danes' words to the peasants. But the King smiled and answered-- "Who would know in this poor way-worn wanderer the King of Wessex? My very misery makes me safe, friend. Go, and rest satisfied that I may tarry here in security." So Osric went; and Alfred approached the cottage and knocked with his staff, and then, waiting, he heard sounds of strife within, and a woman railing at some one, and he said to himself-- "We have a shrewish tongue here, a weapon that the bravest man may well fear." Then the door opened, and a man looking somewhat flurried, appeared, and asked what he might want. "I beg for a shelter and a little food," said the King. And then a woman appeared, and cried shrilly that they had little enough for themselves, and that they had no wish to bestow that on thriftless wanderers who were doubtless too lazy to work for their living. "Turn him away, goodman," she said to her husband. "Turn him away, and let him taste thy cudgel." Now the man looked as though he would have liked to admit the King; and as Alfred was turning to go, he touched him slyly, and, thrusting his tongue into his cheek, he said aloud-- "Yes, indeed, get you gone, rogue. Dost think that we will harbor such as thou art? Most like thou hast been serving with the King; and the Danes have ordered us to give no aid to any such." And then he received a sounding smack on his cheek; and his wife, her eyes flashing with anger, cried-- "Now out on thee for a nithing! Shall we indeed be ordered about by the Danes? I would I had them here, I would trounce them with my besom handle. Art thou going to turn one of our own countrymen from the door because the Danes ordered it, forsooth? Thou hadst better do as a true man should, and hasten to find the King, and offer him thy service. There, get to thy work; tending cattle is all thou art fit for; and as for thee, stranger, come in and tarry; and not all the Danes in the land shall direct what I am to do." "'T was the only way to get over her," whispered the man, with a grin. "Nay, never mind for the clout I received, I am pretty used to her hand. Well, thou hast got to stay with her to-day, and not I, and her temper is waspish--the Lord save thee from her tongue, and grant she may be better tempered when I return this evening." So Alfred went in, and the woman snapped out, as if half repenting of her kindness, that he must make himself useful and bring her in kindlings. This Alfred did right willingly; and the woman having mended her fire, set her rude loaves to bake before the embers. "Now you can tarry and watch that they burn not," she said, "and turn them as they need it; for I have my work to think of." "You may trust them to me, good dame," the King said. "'T is meet that he who eats of the bread should aid in its preparing." Then the woman went out, and the King sat there, and for a while he thought of the bread; but presently he began to think of his unhappy kingdom, and of how the Danes were crushing it, and to ponder upon the best way to vanquish the foe. He thought of all the places where battle might be most advantageously given, and he began, in thought, to fight his battles, until a strange smell assailed his nostrils; and he started up to see that the loaves, which he had so solemnly promised to watch, were all scorched and blackened. And then the dame, also smelling the burnt bread, came running in; and if ever a woman scolded, that woman did, calling the King lazy, and idle, and good for nothing, and saying that all men were alike; for whether they be Saxon or Dane, of old time or of new, when goodwives are angry, they scold and call men good for nothing. And the King took it meekly, for indeed he was sorry that he had broken his word, and yet he could not tell her how it chanced. Indeed he felt that even if he could have done that, it would have been no excuse; for having given his word, he ought to have kept it, and not have suffered his thoughts to wander. And the woman in her anger seized her stick and struck the King; and just at that moment the door opened, and in came Wulnoth and Osric; for Osric had met Wulnoth as he returned, and the Wanderer was searching for the King; and together they had come on. And Wulnoth gave a cry of surprise, and grabbed hold of the woman, who turned her anger on him, crying out that she knew they were all robbers, but that some of them should have broken heads ere they robbed her. "Tush, woman, no robbers we," said Wulnoth, as he grabbed her hands, for she had scratched his face with her nails. "Come, dame, what woman art thou to strike thy King?" "The King!" cried the woman in dismay; and then she fell on her knees and cried for pardon; ending by saying that, King or not, he had no right to let her bread burn when he had promised to mind it. "That for the bread," began Wulnoth, but the King stopped him-- "Nay, nay, Wanderer, 't is I who am to blame, and I deserved all the scolding which I have received. Dame, I crave your pardon; rise and look not so dismayed; and if ever the sun shines in this poor land again, thou shalt not be sorry for having let the King sit by thy hearth, even if he has spoilt thy loaves." Then did the King turn to Wulnoth and ask him where he had been, and what had been his fortune, and what it was he carried. And Wulnoth laughed and answered-- "A present for thee, O King. Say how thou dost like it," and he unrolled the great raven banner which he had captured, and told the King of how the Danes were routed, and how Borric was busy gathering all the men of Devon to come to his aid. And Osric had good tidings also, that they of Somerset and Dorset and Hampshire (that is how we call the places now--of course in those days the names were different) were all ready to come when he summoned them; and all were eager to have another cast at their foe, and to strike for freedom and the Lord's faith. And then did Alfred the King kneel down and the tears ran down his cheeks, and he thanked God for His goodness and mercy, and offered praise to Him for His greatness and majesty. And Wulnoth looked and listened; and then a great feeling came to him that the King's God was the true God, and that the Lord Christ was the real Lord, and that he was a sinner who needed the pardon of which he had heard; and he knelt down, he who had knelt to no God before, and he said-- "O King, I seem to see dimly, as one who looks at the sun. I have found the mightiest and greatest, and he is the White Christ, and Him will I love and serve, and be his man." And the King looked up and smiled, and he said-- "Now truly do I rejoice, Wanderer. I have found hope anew, and courage; and shall perchance find my crown and kingdom; but thou hast found a better thing--a crown and a kingdom that shall forever endure." Now, this is how the King wandered as an outcast, and this is how the loaves were burnt, and this is how Wulnoth brought the banner to the King, and how he found the mightiest and the bravest of all. CHAPTER XXI _Of the Gleeman who visited the Danish Camp_ Now, when the King left the neatherd's cottage he went back with Osric and Wulnoth to his old hiding-place at Athelney, for this was safe now, seeing that the Danes, having searched there, and having burnt the huts, were not likely to visit it again. And here the three tarried, and talked of all that had happened, and received messages from one thane and another, telling of the number of men which he could bring. And urgent were the prayers sent to Alfred that he would at once put himself at the head of the forces and give battle to the foe. But to these prayers the King replied that they must remain patient a little longer. "O King, why dost thou delay?" cried Osric in wonder. "Did I not know thy hero soul, I should think 't was because thou wast afraid." And at that saying the King smiled, and made reply. "And didst thou say so, O Osric, thou wouldst be telling but the simple truth," he said. And Osric stared and said-- "Read me thy rede, O King, for of a truth I cannot understand thy meaning; only this I know, that fear and Alfred were ever strangers." "Yet I fear, my friend," the King answered, "for of a truth this cast has all our fortunes thrown with it; and if we fail now, we fail for good; therefore I fear to make the attempt before being certain of how best to succeed." "A quick blow and a bold one, is ever my way," said Wulnoth. And the King shook his head. "A good way, Wanderer, provided that thou knowest where to hit; otherwise thou mayest but smite the air, and be smitten thyself in turn, ere thou canst draw back for defence." "What is thy counsel, O King?" asked Osric, "for what thou dost rede, that is certain to have wisdom in it." "Now, Osric," answered the King, "but now thou didst say that didst thou not know me, thou wouldst have thought me a nithing; I say that did I not know thee, I should deem thee but a flatterer. Yet so far as my wisdom goes, thou shalt have it. These Danes have tarried here long, but here they will not surely stop, seeing that it is but a barren spot and they think that I have left it. Now, 't is my wish to find out, if possible, whither they intend to journey, or whether they will still remain nigh the place; then shall we know best where to collect our forces, and when to strike the hardest and the surest." "But how can this information be obtained, O King? Dost thou know any of their number whom thou canst buy?" "Nay," answered King Alfred, "I know none, and if I did, I would not make the attempt to bargain with them; for I hold it a disgraceful thing to try to make a man turn traitor; or to have dealings with one vile enough to be one. Moreover, to deal with such a one is dangerous; for the man who will betray his chief may well be expected to betray those who trust him." "A wise word, King; but still, if we deal not with a traitor, I see no way of obtaining the knowledge which we desire." "I have a way, O my friend, if it may be put into practice; and methinks it can. Rest but a short time, and I will put it to the test." So spake the King, and with that the two warriors were contented, for they knew that Alfred never used vain or empty words; and so they waited patiently, until it should please him to take them into his confidence. Now as they sat at the fire talking, they heard the sound of a harp; and looking up, they beheld a wandering gleeman standing before them with a poor and broken harp; and he struck the chords and sang, and his voice was faint and weak; yet he sang a good song of England in the days when the Danes had not come to it, and he sang of the good days that should come, when once again the land should be free; and Osric said when the song was done-- "A good song, friend, and well sung; yet methinks thou must be foolish to come and sing to us who are here, when we cannot reward you with even a meal such as a man might not be ashamed to offer to another." "I sing to those whom I sing to," said the gleeman. "Shall I sing you another song?" and Wulnoth nodded-- "Ay, for even a song may drive away gloom, friend," he said. "Sing, if thou wilt sing without hope of reward." "Nay, then I cannot sing, for I look for great reward," was the answer he received. "But I know that I shall obtain that reward, so now listen to my song." Then he struck the harp again, and he sang, and Wulnoth opened his mouth in surprise, for the song was of him, and his love for Edgiva, and his finding of the Lord; and the Wanderer started up when the music ceased, and he cried-- "By that Lord Whom thou hast said that I serve, thou knowest far too much, my friend; for there are but two who knew of this, and one is by my side." "And the other stands before thee, Wanderer," came the voice of the King. And at that the two started up bewildered-- "Alfred!" they cried. And the gleeman answered-- "Even so, my friends. Now, you two tarry here, for I am content. If ye, who know me well, fail to recognize me, there is little fear that my foes will do so." "But where goest thou, O King?" they asked. And he answered that he was going to the camp of the Danes. But at that the two looked grave, for of a truth the danger was great, and did the King fail in deceiving the foe, there would be no more mercy for him than there had been for Edmund of East Anglia. But the King laughed away their fears, and made them promise to abide where they were. "If messengers come," he said, "receive the messages, and bid them go back and prepare, and within two weeks shall word come to them. Then, when once the word comes, they must hasten. They must move so swiftly that the grass bends not beneath their feet; for then will it be that we must strike a swift blow at the very heart of our foe." "You feel that you must do this thing, O King?" asked Osric, and the King made answer that it must be done. "By now will they have heard of the destruction of their fleet," he said, "and that of itself must needs make them come to some speedy decision; and what the decision is, I must find out." So they had no more words to say, feeling that much was at stake; and Alfred, taking his harp, went away and set face boldly towards the camp of the Danes. And when he got nigh, he struck his harp and began to sing, and he sang the song of the bear jarl, whose son was Beorn, and the vikings gathered round him, for they loved the gleeman's songs. And Alfred noticed all that could be seen, and how the camp was far more badly kept than it should have been; for these Danes were so confident now, that they forgot their caution; and he sang again and again, and presently a messenger came from Guthrun, asking who it was that made music in the camp. Then when the chief was told, he commanded that the gleeman be brought before him, and made to sing against his singers; and Alfred was taken to the hall where the holdas sat. There was Guthrun, as hearty as ever, and there was Hungwar, and he looked fiercer and wilder than of yore; and Guthrun cried to the disguised King. "How now, Saxon, dost value thy life so little, that thou dost come hither?" Then Alfred answered, speaking in the tones of an old man-- "Now, chief, that is a poor saying; for of a truth a gleeman knows no country or race, but sings of the brave wherever he finds them. Moreover, it is but natural that I should come." "And wherefore?" demanded the chief. "First, because I have heard of thy Danish gleemen, and I wish to hear their cunning playing; and secondly, because, Saxon or Dane, men must eat; and since thou hast left us little, to whom but thee can we come for food?" Then did the Danes laugh loud and long, for it pleased them to hear this of their doings, seeing that if there was no food in the land, the people must soon be starved into submission, and Alfred would not be able to muster any more men; and so they bade the henchmen give the harper food, and after that they set him to play against their own men. But Alfred was cunning; and though he was a musician far beyond the best of the Danes, he let them play the best, lest he make them envious and so be dismissed. And that also pleased the holdas; and presently Hungwar bent forward to him, and cried fiercely-- "Little canst thou play, old man. Thou art not fit to be called a gleeman beside the singers of Denmark. Now see if thou canst sing a song of Regner Lodbrok; and if thou canst not, then by Thor thou shalt sing thine own death-song." "That is a hard saying to hearten a man for his work, chief," answered the gleeman, "yet I will try my best." Then he struck his harp afresh, and he sang the song of Regner Lodbrok and his slaying of the dragon; and he sang so well that all applauded him, and some pulled their massive bracelets off and cast them to him for his reward; and Hungwar himself said that the gleeman might stay in the camp and sing to the soldiers, seeing that they had little to occupy their time while they were waiting for news from the laggards who had sailed with the fleet. Now that told Alfred that the tidings of the defeat had not yet arrived, and he was the more anxious to stay there; for he desired to learn what the chiefs would do when they heard the news. And into the camp he went with the vikings; and not one there even dreamed that beneath the ragged clothes and feeble form the King of Wessex was hidden. And Alfred saw the whole camp, and heard the talk of the vikings; and sometimes he sat in the lower part of the hall while the soldiers feasted, and he heard the chiefs talking of their plans. And the fourth day while he thus sat, there came a horseman, all spent with his journey and covered with dust; and when he entered the hall, he cried aloud, without even giving greeting-- "Evil tidings, chiefs, are mine to tell. Evil and black tidings. The fleet is destroyed, and the warriors are slain, and the banner of Regner Lodbrok is taken." Then a great hush fell on all there; and men looked from one to another in dismay; for worse to them than the loss of the fleet, was the loss of the banner, which they supposed had been blest by the gods, and which always led them to victory. And then did Hungwar start up and cry aloud-- "Now evil was it that I suffered the banner to go with Hubba my brother; and if he recover it not again, then we twain will have a word to say and a deed to do together when we meet." "Speak no evil of Hubba," answered the messenger. "For him the death-song has been sung; and he died as a hero should die; and also Biorn Ironside has gone to the storm-land with him." "Hubba dead and Biorn dead," said Guthrun. "Now truly thy tidings are heavy." "Think not of them. Not of the dead, but of the banner, must we think," cried Hungwar fiercely. "Blood, and much blood, must flow for this. Who led the foe, man? Not this King of Wessex, whom we have hunted for, and who has disappeared as though the earth had swallowed him?" "Two jarls led the foe," the man answered, "and mighty warriors both. One Borric, an Ealdorman of the south--" "Borric shall die," cried Hungwar. "Who the other?" "A mighty man whom men call the Wanderer. He who once was in thy service. He struck down thy brother, and he took the banner away." Then did Hungwar turn pale for the moment, for he thought that this was the work of the evil spirits helping Wulnoth; and he cried madly, gnashing his teeth, and clenching his fists-- "Evil, evil, upon him, and evil the day when I saw him before me and suffered him to live. Guthrun, we must march. We must pursue this man, and take the banner back. Not a girl in Denmark but would scorn us for nithings, did we return without it, and without having avenged the slight done to it." "In that I am with thee, Hungwar," replied Guthrun. "But march whither? We must know where the man is before we can pursue him." "I will burn down every dwelling, I will slay every living soul, till I find him," answered Hungwar; "and for this Wanderer, no jarl he, but a thrall; and when I catch him, he shall die the most terrible death that I can think of." "Now, not so," said Guthrun firmly. "Thou art angry, Hungwar, and no wonder, and for that reason thou speakest thus. Be the man jarl or thrall, he is a hero and a warrior, and must be treated as such. A hero, be he of the foe even, deserves a hero's death." "Wait thou and see," answered Hungwar fiercely. "Oh! I would that I might have him face to face alone! I would repay all then." "We must send messengers and recall all the bands," Guthrun said. "We must foray, and secure plenty of provisions. For a week or a fortnight we must tarry here, and make preparations; and then we will advance, and put the matter to the test, and everywhere proclaim that until the banner of Regner is delivered to us again, we will harry the country far and wide." At this all the vikings shouted; and drawing their swords waved them in the air. Yet the spirits of the Danes were cast down, and they were as men bewildered; and Guthrun himself, when he was alone, sat with clouded brow, and pondered, and his thoughts were strange thoughts-- For Guthrun had heard the story of the White Christ; and now he wondered, seeing that Odin's Raven was captured, and Odin had not smitten the men who had carried it away, whether, after all, the Saxon God was not stronger than the gods of the Northland. Guthrun had not forgotten the slaying of Edmund the King, and the thoughts which that brought to him often troubled him. Presently Guthrun was to do as Wulnoth had done, and acknowledge that the Lord was of all lords the chief. And that night the Saxon gleeman was missing from the camp of the Danes; and when none could find him, the rumor went abroad that he had been no gleeman, but a spy amongst them; and that did but trouble them the more. And not long afterwards Alfred the King was back with Wulnoth and Osric, and to them he said-- "Now has the time come, my friends, and the foe are dismayed by reason of the loss of their ships! Hasten, both, and send others on; and through the land let the summons go that all who love me, and would strike for freedom, shall hasten hither without delay. Hasten, for all now depends upon our being ready to smite our enemy ere they have time to decide what they will do." Now, this is how King Alfred spied out the Danish camp, and how he sent Wulnoth and Osric to summon his forces to his aid. CHAPTER XXII _The Battle of Ethandune_ Fast and hard did Wulnoth and Osric ride on the King's bidding; and as they went, they sent other trusty messengers on in different directions; and ere long the people began to come, every man with his weapons, and most of them warriors hardened in many a hard-fought battle; and all hailed the King with joy, and looked forward eagerly to meeting their foes on the field of slaughter once more. And there came Abbot Hugoline--for Bishop Eadred had gone north to seek to bring the men of Mercia and those of Northumbria to combine with Wessex. And each day did they in the King's camp gather, and unite in praying to God for victory; while the King proclaimed that only those who were good men and true, and faithful to the Church, should remain; for he said that 't were better to fight with a few upon whom they might look for God's blessing, than with many who could only expect His anger. And the first care of the King was to make entrenchments great and strong around his old camping ground at Athelney; for to this spot he saw he would have to retreat did the fortune of war go against him; and this time it would have to be with all his force, since if once the army disbanded, it would be gathered no more. Here, too, he gathered great store of food and weapons, and gave the command to one of his thanes and to a small body of hardened warriors. "This stronghold must be kept at all costs," he said, "for not only will it be our retreat in case of need, but while it is held, the Danes will fear to move far. They know not how many or how few are here. If they come against it, then will I and the army fall upon them from their rear; and if they abide and await us, then can those here sally out and help us when we meet them in the field." Longer did it take the King than he had thought, to complete this work; yet, as if to aid him, the Danes still remained in their camp, for they were uncertain, and their counsels were divided. Then, Athelney being strengthened, King Alfred, with whom now were all the men of Somerset, marched northward and encamped at Egbert's Stone, which was on the borders of Selwood Forest, which they of Wales called _coit mawr_, or the great forest. And here with great rejoicing, and with prayer, the King's banner was once more unfurled; and once more he found himself at the head of a force which was equal to that of their cruel foe; while each day more men came hastening to join him; and all over the Westland the tidings flew, and men threw aside their work, and seized their war gear, and refeathered their arrows, and set out to go to the King's aid. And all old quarrels were forgotten; and they who had been foes became friends, and each stood for all, and all for each, as Englishmen should; and the King saw that the cause which had weakened the English in the past was now removed, and his heart beat high with hope and joy. Then, when all the forces were collected, for two days did the King tarry at Egbert's Stone, and made preparation for the march and the fight; and hither came the Queen and Osburga; and with them Edgiva the Beautiful, so that for a brief space Wulnoth was with his love again. And he took her little hands in his strong palms, and he gazed into her beautiful face, and told her how he also had found the White Christ, and how he understood Wyborga's thorn-crowned cross at last. "Not yet has the Abbot baptized me," he said, "but when this fight is over, that will be done; and then, my Princess, the King having his crown secure, must I set forth on my wanderings once more, and seek for thy noble brother, my friend and Prince." And to that Edgiva answered gently-- "The Lord guide thee, my Wulnoth, as He has guided thee to the light, and when thy task is over, then be sure that be thou thrall or be thou thane, Edgiva will give thee thy reward, and be joyful in the doing of it." Little time was there for love speaking now, for all was hurry; and the royal ladies having retired with their train, the King gave orders on the morning of the third day, and the army marched eastward, and encamped that night on a lofty hill, from the slopes of which they could see afar the camp of the Danes. For Guthrun and Hungwar, alarmed at the tidings they received of how the King of the West Saxons was advancing against them with a host, had hastily broken their old camp and advanced to meet him, travelling swiftly so that they might be beyond the reach of those left at Athelney; and now they were encamped in a strong place, with earthworks thrown up, to which they might retire if the fight went against them, and there hold out till more came to rescue them. So the night through, the forces remained; and in the Danish camp was heard the sound of wild revelry, but in the Saxon army the voice of prayer; and in the morning the King advanced to a place called Ethandune, and there the Danes came to meet him, now, alas! with no raven banner floating over them. Woe, woe, for the Danes! Woe for the daughters of Regner Lodbrok who had woven that banner in a single night! Woe to the sons of the Northland, for great was to be the slaughter that day. And the King drew up his army in battle array, and he sat his steed, and spoke to them, and urged them to be of good courage and each one play a man's part. "My dear subjects and fellow countrymen," he said, "this day is a day big with fate, and England calls to each of her sons to be a hero. Yonder are the Black Strangers who would trample out the church of the Lord, and put the priests and the holy maidens to shame and death. Yonder are the murderers of little children and gray-heads, yonder the spoilers of your homes. Is it not said that they who slay with the sword shall by the sword be slain? Ye are as the arm of the Lord this day. Up and smite them, and may His blessing be on our fair England, on this day of battle." Then did the battle begin; and the Saxon archers stood forward, and shot thick and fast, and their bows were like the bow of Einar Tamberskelver who fought with King Olaf in his last fight, and their arrows like the bite of serpents, so that the Danes fell fast, and cried to their leaders to hasten forward, that they might get at the Saxons with sword and axe. And then, as the Danes began to charge, the archers stepped back, and the spears of the champions were hurled, and the Danes were smitten again, for the Saxons could cast as well as they could shoot, and there were men of the Britons with the King also, who could cast right hand or left. Thus it was that ere the Black Strangers reached the King's lines, the death-song had been sung for many a viking warrior; for there were thoughts of wrongs received, and vengeance desired, which made the Saxon arm strong, and sent the spears like the lightning stroke, piercing armor and shields. And then the war game and the man's game began in good earnest, and the King cried to his army to go forward down the slope on which they stood, and meet the charge; and the war-horns sounded, and the English war-cry rolled to the air, affrighting even the eagles who came to the slaughter; and rank met rank, and the thirsty land drank deep its fill of red blood. Now Guthrun had taken the old Danish plan of forming his men wedge-shaped, and seeking to drive them into the heart of the Saxon ranks, and to cast them into disorder. But Wulnoth knew of that plan, for he had so fought himself in the old days; and he had spoken to the King of a way to thwart it, and turn it to account--and thus did he and Osric, one on either side. Each had a chosen band, and each formed his men into the wedge, and at the point of either wedge was Osric and Wulnoth, one at each. They stood back hidden by the host, until Guthrun's warriors made their attack, and then they thundered out one on either side, and they smote the Danish wedge, and pierced it through and through, and broke the ranks and scattered the warriors, and gave them as prey to the sword and the axe; and there was no mercy asked, and no mercy given, for Dane and Saxon were alike minded to make an end of the matter. Woe for the Danes that day, for many of their mightiest leaders were slain, and sore Guthrun longed for the strong Hubba and the wise Ironbeard, and for Halfdane the Fierce, who had gone northward. Yet heroes were the holdas, and valiant deeds did they do; and many a good Saxon fell, and his bones are still far beneath the green fields which now grow o'er that field of slaughter. Here raged Hungwar like a berserker, and ever towards him did Wulnoth strive, and ever did it seem as if some invisible power kept them sundered. And there fought Guthrun, his eyes flashing, his teeth gnashing, wielding his man-feller, a great iron mace fully twenty pounds' weight, beneath whose blows the stoutest helm cracked like a nutshell, and the strongest fell as the ox falls in the shambles. And there, too, was a young holda, Hastings by name, who in after years spread fire and sword through the land; and grim old Harold Blackfang, and Forkbeard the One-eyed, and many a mighty one who played the man's game with fierce joy, and piled the slain high along his path. But the Saxons were mighty also, and the King was where the battle was thickest, and with him Osric, and Ethelred, and Borric, and Abbot Hugoline clad in war gear and doing his part like a man and hero; and with them many a noble thane, and many a sethcundman; and each did mighty deeds that day, and made the sword sing a good song, and drove the vikings before them like sheep. For the Danes had grown over-confident, and had given their time to the wine horn, and had neglected their war tools in peace time; and now, instead of shrieking women and fleeing churls, they had men burning with the memories of many wrongs endured, and determined to wipe the stain of the invader from English ground. Backward and forward did the fight sway, and none would yield; and the leaders called to encourage their men, and plunged into the peril heedlessly; and so, for two long hours did the war game go, and then, sullenly but surely, the Danes were driven back, and the Saxons pressed on with shouts of victory, while thousands lay there gasping their life away, or still in the death-sleep. And now again did Wulnoth rage like a lion; and he shouted to Hungwar to stay and meet him face to face; but Hungwar only glared at him, and slew those near, showing his teeth like an old she-bear when she stands over her cub. "Press on, press on," cried the King. "The victory is ours. One more good stroke, a strong stroke, and they flee. Press on, my men, for our dear Lord, and for England." Then, led by the King himself, and by Hugoline, the Saxons charged, and the Danes broke and fled, though Guthrun cried aloud and beat his breast in his grief; and though Hungwar smote down his own men, when they turned their backs to the foe. But there was no staying them, for their hearts were gone, and they said that now the Raven Banner was gone, Odin fought for them no more; and so, pursued by the victorious Saxons, they, who had never fled, now ran like the flock before the sheep-dogs; and the leaders and the holdas were borne along with them, grief torturing their hearts, and shame on their faces; and thus they were chased even to their very camp; and then King Alfred gave the signal and ordered the pursuit to cease, for he saw that there was danger, and that the soldiers might fall into a trap did they go on. And outside the camp Wulnoth stood, his axe on his shoulder, all jagged and notched, and covered with a dreadful hue; and he cried aloud to the fleeing Danes, and said-- "Ho! sons of Odin, why flee ye so swiftly? Tell ye that one desires to speak with the son of Regner. Long this day have I sought him, yet with no avail; and now I would meet him and give him greeting, and send him on that journey on which I have sent his brother, Hubba." So he shouted, and the vikings hung their heads, and muttered that it was shame that the son of Regner did not go out and meet this champion; but Hungwar heeded not, and only said that he could wound Wulnoth more surely in another way. And on the steep mounds he stood, and answered, and called Wulnoth the shameless son of a thrall. "See, thou Wanderer, what a dainty prize I have here!" he cried. "I sold the brother into slavery; and the sister shall be my maiden now." And then, to Wulnoth's dismayed eyes, there appeared Edgiva, held by two rude vikings. He uttered a loud cry of dismay and rage, and would have started forward; but Edgiva held out her hands and called to him, and said-- "Fear nothing, Wulnoth, my love. The Lord Who has given victory to the King, will preserve me. Go back now and tell the King that the Queen and the noble Osburga are safe, and Wyborga is unharmed. Only I was taken, for I was hastening to the field of slaughter, to see if I might be of service in tending the wounded; and I fell in with a band of the enemy, who seized me and brought me hither. Yet Guthrun will not let this man slay me." "How will Guthrun prevent me?" roared Hungwar fiercely. And to that Guthrun himself answered-- "I will prevent thee with my life; for of a truth this is but a nithing thing to do. There shall no harm come to the lady." Then he added in low tones, "Thou fool, seest thou not that if we do this wrong, nothing can save our lives? and if I must die, it shall not be with this nithing thing against my name!" And then Wulnoth spoke again and he said-- "Hearken to me, Guthrun, you who once called me a true man; and you, all ye vikings and holdas of Denmark. 'T is true I am a thrall, in so far as my father was called thrall by the false son of noble Cerdic. But of Cerdic's blood am I also; and that is as high as the blood of Regner Lodbrok. Now, this is my word. Alfred the King of Wessex has told me how Hungwar boasted that he wished he could meet me face to face, we two alone; for Alfred was that Saxon gleeman, O Guthrun." "By my beard, 't is good for him we knew it not, or he would not have beaten us to-day, Wanderer," replied Guthrun. "But go on, say thou what thou hast to say." "This I say then," Wulnoth continued. "Hungwar desired to see me; and, moreover, he has many debts to pay to me. That scar on his face I put there, I a boy, and with only a broken sword, when he was clad in war-gear and fully armed. Ay, and I had surely made an end of him then, had not the viking Wahrmund struck me down. I have taken his father's banner, I have slain his brother Hubba, surely he owes me a debt--" "He does, indeed," cried the vikings who listened. "And I will give him chance of paying me in full," Wulnoth said. "To-morrow I will come and meet him, he and I alone; and some from your camp and some from ours shall abide, to witness the fight. If he make an end of me, well--then must Edgiva mourn; but if I make an end of him, then my word is, let the maid be delivered up to me as my prize, for mine she is, and none but a nithing would have stolen her." "Now," cried Guthrun, "this must be, Hungwar. Thou hast heard his speech, and if thou dost refuse, not a warrior but will call thee nithing, and thy own people will cast thee out. Surely the thing must be, Hungwar." "The thing must be!" cried the vikings, and Hungwar glared and laughed. "I ask nothing better," he said. "To-morrow, boaster, I will slay thee." "To-morrow we will see who has been boasting," answered Wulnoth. "Guthrun, thou art noble of heart, though thou art our foe. To thee I trust Edgiva my beloved." "She shall suffer no harm while I live," answered Guthrun; and Wulnoth waved his hand and departed, and went back to tell the King how Edgiva was held prisoner. And Guthrun took Edgiva and gave her into charge of his wife, and set a guard at the door of her tent, and so kept he his word to Wulnoth. Now, this is how the host of the Danes were defeated at Ethandune, and how the field of slaughter was left to the Saxons, and this is how Edgiva was seen by Wulnoth in the Danish camp, and how Wulnoth challenged Hungwar to holmgang with him, and Guthrun promised to protect Edgiva the Beautiful. CHAPTER XXIII _How Hungwar was slain, and the Danes became Christians_ Now, on the morning following the battle, Wulnoth rose and donned his war gear, and took his shield and his axe; and he girded on the great sword which he had found amongst the ashes in ruined Lethra, and set forth for the Danish camp; and with him went the King, and many a thane, and a great following of the soldiers. And to meet them came Guthrun and his holdas, and the Danish vikings; and a truce was proclaimed, and death pronounced upon any man of either camp who drew sword or made brawl that day. And with Guthrun was brought Edgiva the Beautiful, guarded by the vikings, and as the prisoner of Hungwar the son of Regner Lodbrok. And Guthrun greeted the King as one brave soldier should greet another, and he said-- "O King, thou who wast brave enough to come alone to my camp, had I found thee then, surely I had slain thee; but if thou come to-day, thou shalt be my guest, and with my own life will I defend thee." And Alfred answered him with courteous words, and said that could they only be at peace, they might be good friends, and feast together often. Then did Osric stand forward, and make proclamation, and say that Wulnoth the Wanderer declared Hungwar the son of Regner Lodbrok to be nithing and coward, and slayer of bound men, and torturer of women and children, and that he challenged him to battle alone, with none to help either. And this was to be the condition of the fight--that if Hungwar conquered Wulnoth, then he should have his life to keep or to take as he chose, and he should receive again the Raven Banner, and Edgiva should be his to sell or to keep. But if Wulnoth conquered, then Edgiva should be given back to freedom to do as she list, and Hungwar's life should belong to Wulnoth. And the Danes and Saxons said ay to this, and swore to observe the conditions; and then all men drew back, and looked on breathlessly, and the two champions in their armor, and holding shield and axe, advanced and stood alone. And Wulnoth said-- "At last, Hungwar! At last we meet, and I have lived for this, these many years." "And thou wilt rue it forever after," was the grim answer. "With this axe will I slay thee." "Seest thou this sword, Hungwar?" laughed Wulnoth. "I picked it from the ruins of Lethra, and I have kept it for this day. It has wearied waiting for a song to sing, and thou canst guess what song that will be, and whose it will be. So now let us make an end of the matter, for speech is for women, and deeds are for men." So they drew near, and all there wondered how this fight would go. For though Hungwar was older than Wulnoth, he had the strength of ten; and his great muscles stood up in masses upon his arms, and with his grizzled hair and flowing beard and moustache, he looked like Thor himself in his might. And from his parted lips his teeth showed yellow and black, like fangs; and his bloodshot eyes rolled angrily; yet deep in his heart was there a black fear, for he dreaded Wulnoth more than a score of champions. And the Wanderer looked strong and mighty, and his face was full of joy light; for was he not fighting for the freedom of his Princess, and now avenging the wrongs done to her brother, and her father, and his own father and mother? "Art ready, Hungwar?" he asked, and Hungwar growled, "I am weary of waiting," and smote at him a mighty blow, that seemed as if nought could turn it aside. But Wulnoth caught it on his shield; and then he struck in turn, and Hungwar caught his blow and was unharmed. Then like circles of light did the axes swing and play, and the blows fell fast, and the shields groaned and shivered; and at last Hungwar's split in twain, though it was of stoutest oak, and lined with triple leather, and studded with massive bosses. And when Wulnoth saw that, he swung his axe upwards with all his might, and cut clean through the handle of Hungwar's weapon, as he had cut through the handle of his mace in the long past; and then he cast aside his own axe and shield, and drew the great sword with the blue-veined steel blade; and he laughed aloud, though his breath came in deep gasps, so hard had he labored. "Now, Hungwar, now we have finished this child's play with shield and axe; now draw thy sword and let us have a good song." But Hungwar never answered; only he looked into Wulnoth's face with eyes of hate, which were yet eyes of fear; for he who had never feared death, now feared, not the dying, but the man by whom death was to come. "The maiden will be freed," said the vikings to each other. "There is a shadow on the spirit of Hungwar, and the Valkyres tarry for him." And Hungwar drew his sword and advanced, and now it was a man's game, indeed; for Hungwar's shield was broken, and Wulnoth had cast his aside, and the great blades must be sword and shield alike. They clashed together, and the sparks flew as from a smith's anvil; and each champion strove, his eye fixed on his foe; and each knew that death was near. "By Thor!" growled Guthrun, "'t is a mighty fight, and one that it does a man good to see. They are champions both." And to that a holda said-- "Ay, for Hungwar is fighting for life, and Wulnoth is fighting for love; and methinks that love will win." And presently Hungwar's sword was smitten from his hand, and all looked for Wulnoth to make an end. But he cast aside his own sword, and with his bare hands he gripped his foe; and they two strained and swayed in their efforts; and Hungwar grinned in rage to think that Wulnoth was putting him to shame by thus refusing to take advantage of him; and in their struggling the berserker rage came upon him, and he bent forward and gashed Wulnoth's cheek with his fangs, crying-- "A mark for a mark, Wanderer." "And a dog's death for a mad dog who bites," cried Wulnoth angrily; and he put out all his strength,--the strength which Osth the giant had taught him--and he squeezed and squeezed, and Hungwar gasped, and smote blindly with his fists, and his lips parted, and the foam came from them, and it was tinged with blood. And Wulnoth squeezed yet harder, and the muscles gave, and the great bones yielded, and the ribs snapped; and Hungwar gave a gasp and became limp, so that Wulnoth cast him helpless to the earth, and knelt beside him. "There, son of Regner!" he cried. "I have beaten thee with but my bare hands. Now dost thou yield to me and sue for life?" "Thus do I yield," answered Hungwar; and he raised himself and he plucked a knife from his girdle where he had hidden it, though they had agreed that they would wear no daggers, and he struck a bitter blow at Wulnoth. The Wanderer sprang back only just in time, and even so the knife left a crimson trail on his brown arm; and he seized his sword from where he had flung it down. "I swore to slay thee with this," he cried; "and yet but now I thought to spare thee, seeing that I have shamed thee who hast bitten like a dog and stabbed in secret like a nithing. It is thy fate, and thou shalt have it. Die, Hungwar, and go to thy brother. This is for my father and mother, and for Edgiva and Guthred, and for their father, the King of Lethra. Thus is the debt paid and the story ended." And with that he smote, and Hungwar the mighty viking lord fell back slain. Then did Alfred speak with Guthrun and ask him whether he would yield; and Guthrun said nay, but that he would go back to his camp and make the best stand that he might. And Edgiva the Beautiful was set free; and she thanked Guthrun for his kindness, and went back with Wulnoth and the King; while the vikings took up the body of Hungwar and buried it nigh that place, and raised a mound over it, and sang his death-song with dark and gloomy hearts. Now, back in his camp, Guthrun thought dark thoughts, for his heart was heavy, and he saw not what to do. And the Saxon King placed men all round, so that none might come in and none might go out; and so for a fortnight did things stand, and there was no food amongst the Danes, and they tasted of the hunger which they had so often made others endure. Each day did the Saxon King send and ask them whether they would yield to him, and each day they sent back an answer that they would not. But Alfred made no attempt to attack them, for he knew that hunger must do its work in the end. And at the end of that fortnight Guthrun called a great meeting of all his warriors, and asked them what should be done-- "We wait in vain for aid," he said, "and this Alfred grows in power each day. Men have wearied of our cruelty and hate us for our deeds; and methinks sometimes that I hate myself for having taken part in some things that have gone. Now, what can we do? We can stay till hunger slays us--but that is not a warrior's death." "We can go forth sword in hand and die like heroes," said one holda; and the others nodded. "That is a hero death," Guthrun said, "but it is death, and life is sweet." "We may not go back to the Northland with this shame tale," said another. "Landless and nameless should we then be, and all men would scoff at us." "This England is a fair land, and plenteous," said Guthrun, "and here it would be good to stay." "And here we cannot stay, unless it be in the death-sleep," was the reply he received. "Softly," he replied. "Here we can abide as Alfred's thanes. If we swear obedience to him, he will give us land, and we can live in peace; and that is better than this perpetual slaying and harrying, and better than being slain." Then the holdas were silent, and they pondered; and at last one said gravely-- "Now, Guthrun, the matter is thus. Alfred may do as thou sayest if we are Christians; but Alfred will not do so if we are worshippers of our gods. For myself," and he laughed bitterly, "I care little what gods I worship, and the gods of our land have failed us." Now again all the holdas bent their brows and thought. And Guthrun spoke and said that long he had pondered this thing; and that he felt that the gods of the Northland were no gods, but only the creatures of sagas; but that the Lord Christ was a God indeed, who had been on earth amongst men, and had been spoken with. And he told them how the maiden Edgiva had spoken with him concerning the matter; and how she had said that Wulnoth the Wanderer was a Christian. And he had determined to abide by the issue of the fight; and to say that did Wulnoth conquer, then the Lord Christ was the true God; and that if Hungwar conquered, that the gods of the Northland were the mightier. "Ye know how the fight went," he said--"how Hungwar was shamed, and broken, and slain. To my mind, the Christians' God is the true God; and if Alfred will but make terms with us, and accept our service, I, for my part, am right ready to accept the faith of this land and remain here in peace." Then rose one old graybeard of a warrior, and he spoke, leaning on his axe, and his voice was deep and full, and he said-- "What is life, O holdas? We know not. Nor know we what death is, whether it be a beginning or an end. Whence come we? We know not; nor know we whither we go, beyond the wild dreams of the ancient times. 'T is as when we sit around the welcome fire in the dark winter, and without the tempest roars. Lo, through the window a little bird comes, storm-driven and nigh perished; and for a little space it flutters in the light and warmth, and then flies out into the darkness again. So are we. For a little space we are here--we came from a darkness of which we know nothing; and presently the death-song is sung, and into the darkness we go again. Now, O holdas, if this Christian creed can tell us aught of the darkness, and make our pathway light, then I say it is a good religion, and one for men to think of; and I for one say Skoal to the Lord Christ if this be so."[11] Long and earnestly did the Danes ponder; and finally Guthrun himself went to King Alfred, and spoke with him, saying that for a man to change his religion simply to save his life was a poor thing, and that he and his must know what they did, ere they accepted the Lord Christ for their God. And then did the King rejoice, not only because he was glad that the Danes should become Christians, but also because it helped him from a hard problem. For, though he had conquered the Danes, he saw not how to utterly make an end of them and drive them out; and if they would stay and be his servants, then they would be of help to him indeed. So he talked long with Guthrun, and he sent priests and learned men to converse with the holdas; and the end of the matter was that Guthrun and all his host said that they would put aside their gods, and become Christians. And then there was rejoicing throughout the land; and on one day the host were baptized, and Wulnoth and Guthrun at the same time, and King Alfred became their godfather and sponsor; and together did they kneel and receive blessing, and swear to live to the honor of Christ the Lord. Then did King Alfred give broad lands to the Danes; and those lands in part which were most open to attack from other invaders. East Anglia and part of Mercia did fall to their lot, and in the very place where they had carried fire and sword and slaughtered King Edmund, did Guthrun build churches and walk in God's way. And these lands which the King gave to Guthrun, together with the land of Northumbria, became known as the Danelagh; and so it continued for many years. And of Guthrun but little more is said; only this, that during the rest of his life he faithfully kept his promise, and never rebelled against Alfred the King, but ruled his people wisely, and was the King's liegeman and friend. Now, this is how Wulnoth went holmgang with Hungwar the Dane, and slew him, and set Edgiva the Beautiful free; and this is how Guthrun and his host turned to the Lord Christ, and dwelt in the Danelagh. CHAPTER XXIV _How Wulnoth met with Guthred again_ Now, after these things Wulnoth pondered long in his mind, for he was anxious to set out again to seek Prince Guthred if still he might be alive, and yet he knew not where, in all the wide world, he should seek. Nor could Wyborga help him, for now she was very old and feeble, and she lived in one of the holy houses, and rarely saw strangers. But once Wulnoth saw her and asked her whither he should go; and Wyborga told him to wait patiently and to take the first duty that should come, and then the way should be revealed to him. "Indeed, my Princess and sweet love," Wulnoth said to Edgiva when they talked of this thing, "I am rather tried about this matter. In the past thy brother put this promise upon me and I gave it right willingly; but here from boyhood to manhood have I grown, and I do not even know if he may be alive. I am minded sometimes to give up this, and to take the joy which thou dost hold out to me, if still a royal princess will marry one who is nameless." "Now, _nameless_!" laughed Edgiva proudly. "Whose name is better known than that of Wulnoth; and has not the King given thee broad lands for thine own?" "And I am going wandering again, and leaving them for any to do as they like with." "Nay, thou hast friends in plenty, who will look to thy possessions if thou art away. My rede is this, Wulnoth; wait till the next duty comes, as Wyborga has counselled thee, and then, if nothing comes of it, I will say that thou hast searched faithfully, and that thou canst, without shame, rest from thy labors, as from a hopeless task." "So be it, dear love," Wulnoth answered. "Thou hast never counselled me wrongly yet, and by thy rede will I abide." Now, not long after this the King sent to call Wulnoth to his side, and he spake to him and said-- "Now, Wulnoth, my faithful friend, I have a task for thee." And Wulnoth said gleefully-- "That is good hearing, King, for a man grows rusty quickly if he be not at work." "Little fear of Wulnoth growing rusty," laughed the King, "for he is forever anxious to be doing. But listen, friend. This is the burden of it. Thou knowest that in Northumbria there have ever been troubles, for the people there quarrel amongst themselves, Northumbrians and Danes together. Now of late, Halfdane--ah! thou knowest him?" "Right well, King," answered Wulnoth grimly. "Well, what of him?" "This Halfdane gained all power in Northumbria, and he and his barbarians ruled as with rods of iron. Now tidings have come that Halfdane is dead." "Dead!" cried Wulnoth. "So much the worse! I thought perchance that it was to slay him thou wouldst have me go." "What a warrior art thou, Wulnoth! thou wouldst go against a host and laugh at it! Nay, Halfdane is dead--slain by one of his own holdas in a drunken brawl. Now the people of Northumbria are divided and have no leader. The Danes have none they can place at their head without endless quarrels following, and the Northumbrians have no king either. Now, this is my desire, that thou speed north to Bishop Eadred, and urge him to seek for a chieftain to be their king--one who will be of the Christian faith, and who will be true to me so that I have no cause to fear war in the north. "Mercia has acknowledged me, and the Welsh are content that I should be their champion against the Danes, from whom they have suffered much. Cantua has no power now, and East Anglia is held by Guthrun for me. London welcomes me, and if the North be but friendly, then all England will be as one, and we can bend all our thoughts towards resisting any fresh attacks from the Danes--for more are certain to come ere long." "So long as there are vikings in Denmark, and ships to sail the sea, they will come," answered Wulnoth. "Well, O King, I will do thy bidding and seek out the Bishop." "Methinks," said the King slowly, "I might do worse than try to have thee made king there." But to that Wulnoth answered quickly-- "Nay, nay, Alfred, that may not be. I am no kingly man. I should rule by hard blows, and have no head for the business of state. Each man to his own trade, O King, and mine is fighting--not ruling and law making." "Perchance thou art right, Wulnoth," the King answered. "Thou art wise at any rate, for 't is no light task to be a king." "And no king do I desire to be," answered Wulnoth; and then he went in haste and bade adieu to Edgiva, and saddled his horse and started off with no better company than his sword and his axe, and his good shield slung at his back. And from Wessex he rode northwards into Mercia, and there he met with King Guthrun, who had gone thither on business from East Anglia; and with the Dane he tarried a day and a night while his good steed rested. Now, Wulnoth thought that perchance Guthrun might know something of what became of Guthred, and he asked him if he had ever heard the sons of Regner Lodbrok speak of the matter. "Ay," answered Guthrun, "and I have often thought that it was but a poor thing to sell a lad, and a king's son, into slavery, for that is what they did. I know not of a certainty, but I heard that the boy was sold to a Danish holda, who soon afterwards sailed for England in the days when the first invasion was. That is all I know. Most likely he has died long since." "I fear that it must be so," sighed Wulnoth, and his heart felt sad as he thought of a king's son sold into such slavery. But then he thought of what Wyborga had said--how she had prophesied that he and the Prince and Edgiva should all meet again, and the Prince should reign in another land; and that seemed a very hard saying to him. Well, after bidding farewell to Guthrun, Wulnoth resumed his journey and rode northwards; and everywhere he saw the tokens of the bad times that had been, for the land lay desolate and lonely, and there were no people to till it. And in those fields where the grass grew darkest and longest he knew that the war game had been played, and that the grass grew because men lay buried beneath. For a great part of the way his road led through vast forests, of which many abounded in England in those days, or across wild and desolate plains and over steep rocky hills; and so he journeyed through the realm of Mercia and came at length into the confines of Northumbria. Here the signs of cruel war were even more frequent, and he passed whole towns which were only deserted, smoke-blackened ruins now, where still the bones of men lay, picked clean by wild dogs or wolves. Thus his road led, nor was it without adventure that he journeyed, for twice was he attacked by masterless men, and had to swing his axe and deal lusty blows ere he could pass on. But such things troubled Wulnoth little, for the robbers were but half-hearted, as every one appeared to be, and trouble and dismay seemed everywhere. "Now," thought Wulnoth to himself, "in sooth the King is wise. It would be a good thing to have a wise ruler here--one who would bring things to order again and lay the land under the plough. 'T is a shame to see it all idle like this, and makes a man feel that the war game is evil, and not good, no matter how it seems in the heat of the fight." For two days Wulnoth rode, asking for tidings of the Bishop, and hearing from those who cared to return a civil answer--and that was not all--that he was still farther northward, seeking to lead the people to Christ. Now it chanced, as he rode forward through a wood, that he suddenly heard the sounds of strife, and, putting spurs to his horse, he galloped forward, guided by the sounds, and came upon four masterless men--black-haired Danes every one--who had surrounded a man and were seeking to slay him, while he, with his back to a tree, flourished a long staff and kept them at bay. "Hallo, nithings! rascals!" thundered Wulnoth as he came upon the scene. "What, four to one, and he unarmed! Shame upon you! If you want to play that game, here is one who is ready for it." And with that he smote one knave a lusty blow and sent him sprawling, while the man cracked the pate of another, and the remaining pair ran away as fast as their legs could carry them. "Thou art come in good time, friend," the man said, leaning on his staff and gazing at the Wanderer; and at the sound of that voice Wulnoth started and stared anxiously. Poorly dressed was this man, and his brow was careworn, and around his neck he wore a thrall collar; but for all that, and for the many years which had passed, Wulnoth knew him--his heart went out, and recognized, and he felt, with wonder and thankfulness, that Wyborga's words had come true, and that he had found his friend the Prince. "Thou art welcome, friend," he said; "by what name art thou called?" "By the name of Gurth," was the answer, and Wulnoth laughed-- "That may be, but there are some in the world who know you by another name and would call you, not Gurth the Thrall, but Guthred the Prince." Then did Guthred stare, and pass his hands across his brow, and say-- "Who art thou, stranger, who callest me by a name now long forgotten--so long forgotten, indeed, that it has almost passed from my memory?" "Who am I?" cried Wulnoth. "I am one who made a promise and has been all his life trying to keep it--and now has found the chance. Guthred, my brother and my Prince, have you forgotten Wulnoth?" "Wulnoth!" cried the other, trembling with emotion. "Wulnoth! Thou Wulnoth! Nay, I can see now. I can see the same bold yet kindly eyes, the same strong form! Wulnoth, my friend, my friend, at last thou hast come to cheer me in my loneliness!" And then did these two embrace, and, though they were men grown, they shed tears. And they sat down side by side, and allowed the two wounded thieves to slip off, for, as Wulnoth said, they owed them a kindness, since had they not attacked Guthred he would never have found him. And Wulnoth told all his story of his journeyings, and of the death of Hubba and Hungwar, and of how Edgiva was with Alfred the King, and old Wyborga still lived, though she was feeble and old. And Guthred told him of his sorrows and trials, and how his master had died and left him to his widow, and the old woman was cross and crabbed, and fond of beating her servants, so that ofttimes Guthred had been tempted to run away and become a masterless man himself. "Yet I tarried, Wulnoth," he said, "for ofttimes I have dreamt that you would come; and I have seen a gray and noble-looking old man, who has placed a crown upon my head and hailed me king of the north." "Now, that is passing strange!" mused Wulnoth, "and I remember how that Wyborga said that thou shouldst become a king of a vaster kingdom than was Lethra. There is much to think of here, my friend--much that puzzles my comprehension and--" But then a shrill voice broke upon their talk, and they saw a gaunt cross-looking old crone, clad in wealthy garments and being driven upon a mule through the wood. "My mistress!" said Guthred in low tones, and Wulnoth thought of the neatherd's wife. "There he is, the lazy rascal!" she cried. "Gossiping with a stranger instead of attending to his work. Thy back shall smart for this, sirrah, believe me, when thou art home." "Now, nay, most beautiful lady," said Wulnoth; "the blame--if blame there be--is mine. Know that four knaves attacked thy servant, demanding that he give up thy property, which I see he carried at his girdle. And he defended himself in a most worthy way, though armed only with his stick, and I came to his aid and, as a reward, asked him to tell me of the whereabouts of Bishop Eadred." "Beshrew Bishop Eadred--he makes men discontented and lazy with his talk of all being brethren. Still, he is a brave man, who keeps a bold front, let the danger be what it may. Now, as thou hast done me the service to preserve my slave and my money--like as not he would have run off with it and have joined the thieves himself--still, I say, since thou hast done this and hast, moreover, a civil tongue--a most uncommon thing amongst men in these days--therefore, my man shall be thy guide and shall lead thee to the Bishop's dwelling if it will do thee service." "Your goodness is indeed great, most dear lady," replied Wulnoth, "and I will humbly avail myself of it, and kiss my hand to you." And with that he beckoned to Guthred, saying aloud, "Come, knave, and rejoice that thou hast so good a mistress and one so fair." Guthred followed, dumb with surprise, for the woman was most ill-favored; but when Wulnoth had ridden on in silence for a space, and they were safely out of sight and hearing, he looked round at his companion and then fell to laughing so much that he nigh rolled from his horse. "Thou dost look surprised, dear friend," he said. "I almost laughed aloud before that old beldam when I caught sight of thy face." "How didst thou learn such subtlety, Wulnoth?" asked Guthred. "'T is not as thou usedst to be." "Marry! I learnt it from a neatherd in the Southland," answered Wulnoth, "and a king told me of it. Moreover, Guthred, many things have come true, and I have indeed helped to place that king's crown firmly upon his head, and I am his friend. And I think the rest shall come true also, for I know of the thorn cross now, and I thank God that I do." "I have heard," answered Guthred. And Wulnoth asked-- "And you believe it?" "I know not. I have never thought seriously; and yet the story is a good one, and sometimes when I have been cast down it has comforted me. And so thou dost find the prophecy coming true, Wulnoth! Will it come true even to marrying a king's daughter?" "Guthred," said Wulnoth gravely, "and if I said yes to that, would you say nay?" "I! Who am I to say nay, Wulnoth? You mock me! I am a thrall, and forgotten. Nay, if it be that Edgiva, my sister, says yes, Guthred, her brother will not say nay." "Yes she will say, when I tell her that this last quest is over. As to the thraldom and the crown, that is as it may be; but I have a thought." "Tell me of this neatherd," said Guthred. And Wulnoth told him the story, and how the man had made his wife do as he desired, simply by doing as she bade him; whereat even the poor Prince laughed heartily. Now when the pair reached the dwelling where Bishop Eadred tarried, Wulnoth directed the Prince to await him in an outer apartment, while he went to give the King's message; and Guthred asked why he need wait, seeing that his task was done now. "You wait, friend," answered Wulnoth; and Guthred was content. And the Bishop greeted Wulnoth warmly, and asked him all the tidings, and rejoiced to hear of his being a Christian, saying that he had heard of Guthrun's conversion from certain of the Danes. And Wulnoth gave him the King's message, and Bishop Eadred looked grave and shook his head. "Wulnoth," he said, "thinkest thou not that I have pondered this matter? And, strangely enough, thrice have I in my dreams placed the crown of Northumbria upon the head of an unknown man, and that man dressed in a churl's dress, and wearing a thrall's collar. Who is this man, and what does this dream mean?" "Would you know the man if you saw him?" asked Wulnoth; and the Bishop said that he would. "Then," answered Wulnoth, "go into the outer room and you will see him seated there and awaiting me." Now, at this the Bishop was bewildered, but he complied; and when he saw Guthred, he cried out that it was the man of his dream; and Guthred said that the Bishop was the one whom he had seen; and both they and Wulnoth were filled with wonder, and marvelled at the ways of God. And Wulnoth told Bishop Eadred who this man was, and all the story; and the Bishop talked long with Guthred, and Guthred confessed that he did believe in the Lord, though he had always been afraid to say so, because his mistress pretended to believe in the old Norse gods. "Now," cried Bishop Eadred, "surely this is the guiding of Heaven. Go ye back, Wulnoth, to the King, and take Guthred with you and--nay, better still--let Guthred tarry here, and return to his mistress, while you go to the King. Tell him everything, and ask if it will not be well to set Guthred over the land of Northumbria." "Gladly will I do this thing," cried Wulnoth; "and if ever my horse travelled, he must travel now." So Guthred, saying nothing, went back to his toil, and Wulnoth started on his journey; and for two days and nights he journeyed, and then he came to the King's house, and Alfred greeted him in wonder and asked mildly why he had returned so quickly. "I have returned, O King," he cried, "because methinks that the thing which thou desirest is done, and the man whom thou wouldst like to be king is found." "Indeed!" said the King; "and who may the man be, Wulnoth?" "The man whom I have journeyed far to find, O King," Wulnoth said. "I have found Guthred the Prince, the brother of Edgiva." And thereat the King looked amazed, and made Wulnoth sit and tell him all the story. And when this was done, the King said that indeed Guthred was a fit man to be King of Northumbria. "He is of the old stock," he said, "and in the direct line. Ay, let this be, if it may. Travel back yet once more--well may we call you 'Wanderer'--and when all is ready, if the people will listen to advice and do this thing, then I will journey down; and perchance Edgiva will be glad to see her brother, and a crowning may also mean a wedding"; and thereat the King smiled. So Wulnoth hurried to see Edgiva, and to tell her the news, and how her brother fared, and what the King purposed; and then he once more set out on his journey, and without adventure came to Northumbria. Now, this is how Wulnoth found Guthred the Prince, and how it was purposed to give a thrall the crown of Northumbria. CHAPTER XXV _The Crowning of Guthred_ With haste and gladness did Wulnoth set out for the North once more, and all the world seemed filled with a love-song and a joy-song as he rode upon his way. For the sun was shining at last for him, and for those whom he loved, and, better still, for all the land of England; and Alfred the King, who had labored so long and so patiently to weld the land into one strong people, would now have his reward also, in seeing the prosperity of his kingdom. And Wulnoth reflected as he journeyed, for he was a man given to thinking when he was alone, that all this happiness had its fount in the truth concerning the Lord Jesus; and he remembered how Wyborga had said, in the long ago of his childhood, that the story of the thorn cross turned darkness to light, weakness to strength, and sorrow into joy; and lo, this was happening throughout the length and breadth of England. And then he thought of the differences between the Danes and the Saxons; and yet these people were almost from the same stock and the same land, and both peoples had ever been lovers of the war game, and sea-lords and vikings at heart. And those differences all sprang from the same source--the Saxons had turned to the White Christ, and the Danes still worshipped the old cruel gods of the Northland. Like the wind his good horse journeyed, and in good time he arrived at the Bishop's house, and told him of King Alfred's pleasure in the matter; and at that the Bishop smiled, and said that the way was a clear way now. "But how will you make these people accept Guthred for their king?" asked Wulnoth. "If they be not willing, then it can only be done by the sword, and there is more war and desolation." "God save us from that," said the Bishop. "Nay, friend, it is because the people are weary of war that I hope for success. They of Northumbria have long ago turned from their old gods, though in form they serve them still; and many have pondered about the Lord Christ, even as Guthred has done. Moreover, the tidings that Guthrun and they of the Danelagh have become Christians has not been without effect; and even the Danes are weary of the old, and are asking whether the new faith be not better. "Now, the Danes will not accept one of Northumbria for leader, and the people of the land will not accept one of the Danes; so that there is like to be war again, which neither side really desires. But if Guthred, who is of the royal blood and ancient line, is put forward, he will satisfy the claims of both parties, and in him the two may unite into one. That is my hope. For, look you, these Danes know full well that presently other sea-lords will sweep down on the land--lords who know them not, and who may serve them as they have served others, and take from them that which they have won. They will therefore the more willingly unite with the Northumbrian people, and seek to present a strong front to any new foe who may come." "Thy words may well be true words," answered Wulnoth; "and now that I have done my task, I go to speak with Guthred my friend." "See you tell him nothing of this, good Wulnoth," said the Bishop in warning. "No word, that is, where others may hear it spoken. For a secret once whispered is as a message sounded by trumpet; and a woman's tongue is as the crier's voice, and spreads news even more swiftly. We must keep this business quiet, until we have the holdas and thanes upon our side." "I will be most careful," answered Wulnoth; and with that he set out. But he went not to the house of Guthred's mistress, for he had no mind to listen to the tongue of a scolding jade, if it might be avoided. But he lurked in the woodlands; and so presently he saw Guthred come forth, and he hailed him, and together they went into the forest depths, and there did the Wanderer tell him of the King's wish, and the Bishop's work, and how the word of Wyborga would yet be found a true word, and Guthred would be king of a land vaster and more powerful than ever ancient Lethra had been. And then did Bishop Eadred set himself to work, and he summoned by message all the holdas and thanes, and begged them to come to a council with himself, as he had weighty things to say to them. And because he was a wise man, and learned, and just in his ways, the holdas and thanes came, even those who were at enmity; and for the time they proclaimed truce, and sat in the Bishop's house, and asked him whereof he had to speak. And the Bishop stood and spoke of his dreams, and how he had met the man whom he had seen in his night visions; and how this man had also seen him in his visions; and the Bishop asked who but the blessed Saint Cuthbert, whose abbey of Lindisfarne was almost in ruins, should have been permitted by Heaven to put these dreams into their heads? But the men of Northumbria cried that they would have no churl to be their king; but that one of the old royal House of Ella should be found; and the Danes laughed, and said that they cared not for the man's birth, so that he was a true man and one able to lead them. But one aged holda rose and said-- "Suppose, instead of quarrelling, and drawing of swords, we see this man of whom the Bishop speaks. If we like him not, then can we say nay. It will be better than quarrelling as those who quarrel in the dark about they know not what." "The man is by Heaven destined," the Bishop said. "Here is one who can tell you of him," and he pointed to Wulnoth. So Wulnoth stood there, and he told them the story of Guthred, Prince of Lethra, and of the prophesying of Wyborga the Wise in the long ago, and of all that had happened since. And he showed how Guthred was of the royal blood of Lethra, and how Hardacnute himself was of the old race; and both Danes and Northumbrians cried aloud that if this was so, then Guthred the son of Hardacnute was he who should be their king. "We will stand for him," they cried, "and we will war against all in the land who seek to reject him." "Little need for war," said the Bishop. "Know, thanes and holdas, that now all England is united beneath the rule of Alfred the Bretwalda. Guthrun is now his liegeman, and Guthred will also call Alfred overlord. Thus all the land from the Picts' wall in the north, to the sea in the south, will be one land, and its peoples as one people; and the strong will stand for the weak, and each call his neighbor brother. And this is the law of the Lord Christ, who is Alfred's Lord, and Guthrun's Lord, and shall be Guthred's Lord also." Then did all the warriors and leaders cry that the thing was good, and they demanded to be led to the place where Guthred was; and Wulnoth could not help smiling as he thought of what the old woman would say when all the land came to take her thrall and crown him king. So to the house he led them, the great, grim viking lords and the best of the thanes; and behind them came many of their warriors, and they shouted with a mighty voice, and cried-- "Skoal! Skoal to thee, Guthred the Prince, who shalt be Guthred the King! Come forth to us, that we may see him who shall wear the crown and the royal bracelets." And then did the old woman come running out, and she cried out, and bade them begone for a set of drunken rascals. "Must you come with your folly to an honest woman's house, shouting for your king? Guthred! I have no Guthred here, and that you wot right well; but if ye want a king, go round to the sty and get one there, or to the field wherein my ass feeds, and he will make ye a good ruler. Away with ye, rascals and worthless that ye are, or I will beat you with my besom stick." Then did the vikings laugh again, and still they cried for Guthred to come forth; and at that did Guthred come, and Wulnoth cried so that all might hear-- "The man is here, holdas and thanes. This is my friend and my brother--this is Guthred, who is son of him who was King of Lethra." "Skoal! Skoal to thee, Guthred son of Hardacnute!" they cried; and they seized him and lifted him onto their shoulders. But then, with a yell and a cry of anger, the old woman threw herself amongst them, and she scratched and kicked, and grabbed hold of Guthred's leg, seeking to pull him away. "Hola! help, there--help there, neighbors!" she cried. "Here be nameless and masterless men, and they be carrying off my thrall! Help, there." "Silence, woman!" sternly said the Bishop. "Darest thou call these nobles by such shameful names as nameless and masterless? Silence, or thou shalt be ducked in the pond. As for this man, know that he is thy king; and ask his pardon if thou hast cause to fear his anger, for thy life is in his hand, from now, henceforth." "What!" shrieked the old woman. "What is that? Gurth is not Gurth, but Guthred; and he is not my thrall, but the King! Oh, and I have had him whipped! Oh, and I have had him shut up! And now he will have me killed. Oh! mercy, good Gurth--I mean, good Guthred--no, I mean good King! Oh, mercy!" But Guthred laughed, and it was the good laugh of the long ago; and he held out his hand, and lifted the woman up, saying to her-- "Have no fear, mistress. If I was whipped, doubtless I deserved it." "You did, every bit and more!" cried the woman, anxious to justify herself. But then she remembered that she was speaking to the King, and she stammered--"No--I mean that you didn't deserve it. No, that won't do! If I say that you deserved it, that is wrong to say of the King, and if I say that you didn't deserve it, that is contradicting you, and that is wrong, so what is a poor body to do?" "Say nothing about it," answered Guthred. But at that Wulnoth laughed. "Come, come, Prince, do not set her so hard a task--her tongue is too long, and it wags so freely that she must talk." And at that the woman glared at her tormentor, and seemed inclined to show him that her nails were long also. But Guthred said that he was this woman's thrall, and that if they wanted him for King they must purchase him from her, and he decreed that if he was worth crowning he was worth his weight in gold, and at that all the holdas laughed. And they set up a beam and weighed golden bracelets against him; and that was the price they paid for Guthred to make him their king. And then did they take him away and strip from him his humble robes and array him in the garments of a great holda, as was his by right, and they gave him homage. And then, messages having been sent south, Alfred the King set forth for the Northland, and with him came his Queen and Edgiva the Beautiful, and in a litter old Wyborga, who said that now her task was over and her word had come to pass, and therefore she would see Guthred crowned, and one more thing accomplished, ere she closed her eyes in death. And with a great retinue into Northumbria came Alfred; and Guthred, and the thanes, and the holdas awaited his coming, and all cried "Skoal" to him; and Guthred came and knelt and kissed his hand, and did him homage as his overlord and Bretwalda. And Alfred raised Guthred and embraced him, and called him his brother, and greeted thanes and holdas as his friends, and there was rejoicing in all the land. But who shall speak of the meeting of Guthred with Edgiva his beautiful sister, after so many years of absence? Ah, it was good for the Prince to look upon her beauty and to hear her voice, and hard was it for him to remember that all the ills had passed away, and that he was as a king now and would soon be crowned. And to old Wyborga did he go and kneel and ask her blessing. And Wyborga laid her hand upon his head and blessed him, and also Wulnoth and Edgiva; and she said gladly-- "Now the end is near, and I also am going to my crowning, and you, my children, have to tarry until it is the Lord's will to call you. My words have come true, and you three are united, now that you know the meaning of the thorn-crowned cross. Yea, and you, Wulnoth, you mighty man, have helped to plant it firmly in this land when it was in danger of being uprooted; and you have aided two kings to be crowned. Hard has been your fight, Wulnoth, and like a hero have you conquered; and ere I die your reward shall be sure." And then did Wulnoth ask Wyborga of a thing which had long worried him. "Where is he, good mother, with whom I wrestled so often?" he said, "and what is the meaning of his riddle?" "Thou hast slain him at last, Wulnoth," she answered softly, "or I should say that thy dear Lord has slain him for thee. For indeed he was thyself--thy evil spirit, Wulnoth. The Wulnoth who desired the things of earth, and the pride of life, and the lust of the flesh. Wulnoth, though all may not know it, each one who serves the Lord must so fight with himself, and if he fights beneath the cross, he wins, but if he fights in his own strength he is vanquished; and if self is not conquered, then it is master forever, and leads the better will and desire in thraldom." So did Wyborga say, and long did Wulnoth ponder, for the thing was as a strange, strange thing to him; yet he could see that always this being had sought to lead him from the way of duty into the way of desire, and he rejoiced that he had striven and overcome, as he had done. Now, after this did the holdas and thanes, and all the people, come and take Guthred, and lead him away to the sacred stone--at least, now that they were departing from the old gods they looked upon it as sacred no longer--but because always their kings had been proclaimed there, they took Guthred also; and the stone is on a hill named Oswin's Dune. And then they placed upon his arms the royal bracelets, and upon his head the golden circlet, and hailed him as King of Northumbria and overlord of every thane and holda there. And Guthred took off his crown and laid it before Alfred, and Alfred placed it again upon his head; and the two kings sat side by side and drank heal to each other, and Wulnoth stood beside his friend and brother Guthred, and Edgiva sat at his side. Then from thence did Guthred go to Lindisfarne Abbey, and there was he baptized by the Bishop, and there did he profess his Lord, and vow to rebuild the Abbey and set it in order. And he gave broad lands to the Bishop to be held for the Church; and from that gift made by Guthred the King it comes that right down to this very day, the Bishop of Durham may, if he chooses, don his scarlet robes and seat himself beside the judges whenever they come to try criminals within what is called his palatinate--that is, the boundaries of those lands which were given to Bishop Eadred, in the days of his crowning by Guthred. And this is how the people of Northumbria chose Guthred for their king, and the words spoken of old by Wyborga came true in the end. CHAPTER XXVI _Of the Wedding of Wulnoth and Edgiva_ Now, on the evening of that day whereon Guthred was crowned at Oswin's Dune, Wulnoth stood alone in the gathering shadows, pondering on all that had taken place, and it was as peace time in his heart. He was happy, very happy, and first of all because now he knew the happiness which comes from the story of the thorn-wreathed cross; and then because he saw his friend and brother, Guthred, now no longer a poor thrall, but a king, and the friend of Alfred the Bretwalda. That was a good thing in the eyes of Wulnoth, and right glad was he that he had fulfilled his word and had never turned aside from seeking for Guthred. And he was happy because his Princess was happy in her brother's joy. It had been good for him to watch her face and see the light play upon it, as the sunlight plays upon the meadows and the lakes when, in the morning, it first rises above the hills and peeps down into the sleepy valleys at their feet. And yet there was another cause for joy, and it was a deep, deep cause, as a deep well wherein is cool clear water, and around which cluster the nodding ferns. For now he thought that his tasks were over, and he might truly whisper his love-song into the ears of Edgiva, knowing that though she was a king's daughter, and the sister of a king, she would listen to his tale more gladly than she would heed the words of the greatest and mightiest in the land. So he stood thinking his own thoughts, and the shadows grew and the moon rose, and then an owl hooted in the woods, and his mind went back to the days when, with brave Wahrmund, he had stood in the woods of East Anglia and had heard the sign which first called Alfred to his side. But after the owl, there came the sound of another song--the song of a tiny night-singer telling his love tale to his little mate, and the song flowed like a stream of melody, like the purling of the brooklet in the moonlight, like the voice of the wavelets on the shelly sands, like the whispering of the night wind to the bending trees. It got into the heart of Wulnoth, and he stood listening, a smile on his face, and he thought how much better this was than the song of the sword or the hiss of the flames as they burst through the roof, and he said softly-- "Sing, sing, little bird--sing to thy shy mate whom thou lovest; but though I may not sing as sweetly, thy song is no gladder than is mine when I think of my Princess. O night-singer, would that I could learn thy song and so sing to my love--to my Edgiva!" Then a little voice spoke in his ear, and a little hand stole around his neck, and the voice said softly-- "But, perchance, thy Edgiva might better love to hear thy words in thine own voice than in the sweetest tones of the night-singer, Wulnoth." And he turned and beheld his Princess, and he took her in his arms, and she made no struggle, but yielded gladly as a tired bird nestles in its nest; and she turned her face towards his own and called him Wulnoth, and love, and hero, and true one; and it was happy peace time for them both. "All the world seems beautiful, dear love," he said to her. "It is like the land of the fairies to my eyes, such is the happiness that comes from love that has found its answer and its mate." "Dearest," she said, "perchance also it is because of a greater happiness which comes to us from Him Whom we serve. We have found the meaning of Wyborga's sign now, sweetheart, though it seemed so strange to us when we were children away there in Lethra." And so they two stood, and their hearts were too full for speech, yet in their very silence they seemed to talk and tell each other of their love, which had grown and grown all through the long years of their waiting. And while they stood thus, from the shadows came the sound of a harp and the voice of a singer, and thus the unseen sang-- Sweet is the peace time, Sweet is the moonlight, Sweet is the love-song Of the night-singer. He to his loved one Sings in the shadow, Calling her to him Waiting there lonely. Sweet is the bird-song Heard in the moonlight. Sweet is the peace time, When the wind whispers, Telling its love-tale To the leaves trembling; Softly and sweetly Breathing its story, While in their love-joy, Are the leaves sighing. Sweet is the wind-song Heard in the moonlight. But of all peace times, Love-time is sweetest; And of all earth-songs, Love-song is dearest: Such song as Wulnoth Tells to Edgiva-- They amongst lovers Of all most faithful. Sweet be their love-song, Told in the moonlight. Hard was the waiting, Sore was the battle; Weary the heart grew Waiting and longing. Now comes the joy-time, Lovéd and loving; Hearts shall united be, Never to sunder. Glad be their love-song, Told in the moonlight. Then did the song cease, and to them came Alfred the King, and he smiled and said-- "You, my Wulnoth, and you, sweet Edgiva--you who have been so faithful to me in the days of my trial--am I unkind that I thus come and spoil your song with my poor music? If that is so, forgive me, for I came that I might seek to repay in part all that you have done for me." "Alfred is ever welcome," said Edgiva, and so said Wulnoth; but the King laughed and said-- "Now, nay. Not even Alfred is welcome when he comes to stop such sweet tales as yours. But this is the matter of it, dear friends. There should be something done this night without which the joy of this day will be incomplete, and wot ye what that something is?" Now at that Edgiva grew rosy red and turned her face away, for in great joy and in great desire, sometimes the shame thought comes, as if 't were wrong to be glad at that which the heart most longs for. But Wulnoth looked down at the dear one by his side, and he turned the little face towards his own love-filled eyes, and he spake and said-- "My Princess, of old I was thy watcher, and who should be so good a watcher as thy husband? Now, dear heart, thou hast heard the words of the King, and thou dost know all the words that my heart would speak; but how is it with thee, my Princess? Wilt thou give me this my great reward, as the King has said, for surely never could be better time than now?" "Dost want debts paid so quickly, Wulnoth?" she asked. And he answered gravely-- "Nay, not if the paying is heavy to thee, my Princess. Nor indeed do I want a debt paid at all. All that I have done I give thee freely, and all that I crave from thee I crave as a free gift." "Why, dear heart," the Princess said softly, "I must not jest with thee, for thou, who art so great and so strong, dost take all things seriously. Canst doubt, dearest, that I give freely that which thou dost covet, and give gladly because in the giving I get my greatest joy? I think I have loved thee, Wulnoth, ever since I can remember. I loved thee when thou didst slay the bear, and when thou didst tread the birds' road for me, and when thou didst refuse to tarry in the forest and make thy love a forest queen, and I loved thee most when thou wast too honest to pretend to a faith which thou didst not feel, in order that thou mightest win thy desire easily. I love thee, my Wulnoth, and what can I say more save this--let it be as the King commands." "Now by my troth!" cried the King right merrily, "would we had all our subjects as willing and docile. But forgive me, Edgiva, well named the Beautiful, nor think it too much kindness that I show; for, by my kingdom, if we keep thee unmated much longer, now that we have peace time and men have leisure to think, we shall have all the land quarrelling about thee, and Wulnoth will either have to kill or be killed." With such merry words did Alfred speak, seeking to put them at peace; and then together did they all enter the hall where, amidst the thanes and holdas, the King sat feasting and listening to the gleemen. And to them did Guthred say-- "Greeting, fair sister, and greeting, Wulnoth, friend and brother. We have missed you from the feast; and doubtless ye have had better things to think of than our poor company." And Wulnoth answered with a smile-- "Much better things, O King." Whereat all there laughed. "Now I see that Wulnoth will never be found when he is needed," cried one holda. "What say ye, comrades? How shall we prevent this trouble?" "Marry, cure him in the only way he can be cured," answered another with a grim twinkle in his eye. "Let the lovers mate, and ever after Wulnoth will be found ready to go on the King's business. 'T is the best cure I wot of, and it did not fail in my case, and that was bad enough." Then did the warriors laugh again until the hall rang; for they knew that the old soldier had married a shrew, who gave him no peace until she did him the kindness to die. But King Alfred rose, and then all grew silent; and he said-- "Friends, holdas, and thanes, and you, royal Guthred, jest and merriment are good in their place, and this is their place; and yet there is that which is solemn. For true love, faithfully kept through long years, is a solemn thing, and a holy thing, and that whereon we may ask the blessing of the Lord; and such love hath been that of Wulnoth my friend, and of Edgiva the Beautiful. And now methinks that that which has been done this day will not be complete unless there is another deed done." And at this all the soldiers rose and held their drinking horns aloft, and cried, "Waes heal to Wulnoth the Wanderer, and to Edgiva the Beautiful." "Nay, not the Wanderer now," cried the King, "for I make Wulnoth Lord of Cantua, and of the marches which border East Anglia and Guthrun's realm; and to him I give overship of my ports, and charge of my long ships, and him I make one of the chiefest thanes of the south, and appoint him the keeper of the King's banner during all his life." "Skoal! Skoal! Wulnoth, warden of the marches," they cried. "Skoal to thee and to the fair one who shall be thy bride! Skoal, and joy time to you both!" Then did Guthred rise and take Wulnoth's hand, and he said-- "Little have I to say adding to the words of the King, Wulnoth, friend and brother. Only this: never had man more faithful friend than I have had in thee, and never did man more deserve his reward than thou dost deserve thine. This thing was told in the long ago, and now it is, and who shall say it nay? Therefore do I kiss my sister, and give her to thee, and may joy time and peace time be for you both." And then did the Bishop come, and Wulnoth and Edgiva the Beautiful stood before him; and never had the Beautiful looked sweeter and fairer than now, though from girlhood to womanhood she had grown waiting, and sometimes knowing wandering and want when from the Danes she had been forced to hide. And there before all men did they stand, and the two kings stood by, and the Bishop joined their hands, and Alfred himself gave a ring from his own finger, set with precious stones, wherewith the lovers plighted their solemn troth the one to the other. And thus did Wulnoth gain his reward, and Edgiva the Beautiful became his wife, and the joy came to them, even as Wyborga the Wise had said that it would come. And that very night did they go and kiss Wyborga; and she smiled and folded her hands, and said-- "I did but tarry for this, my children. Now all my task is done, and I go to my Lord; and may He guide you all the way and bring you to Himself at the end." So said Wyborga the Wise, and she turned on her couch to sleep; and when they came to waken her in the morning, lo, she lay in the majesty of death; and the old wrinkled face seemed to have grown younger, and the silver locks lay smooth on either cheek, and her face was as the dignified face of majesty, yet gentle and gracious as a holy saint. And they wept for Wyborga, those three who had most cause to think of her; but Alfred the Bretwalda said softly-- "Weep not for her, for she has looked in the face of her Lord, and behold, she has life, and youth, and immortality forever." Now, this is how Wulnoth and Edgiva were united, and this is how the Wise Wyborga went to her Lord when her work was accomplished. CHAPTER XXVII _Skoal!_ To the longest day the night must follow, and to the best song an end must come; and so it is with the song of Wulnoth. And truly, the song might have ended when it was love time and peace time, and when he and Edgiva the Beautiful were happy, but that there are other things to tell; or else how happened it that Gyso the Gleeman ever sang this song? This, then, is the happening of it, though many things can be but briefly mentioned; for he who would sing all the wisdom and brave deeds of Alfred the Bretwalda must needs sing a long, long song. Now, though Alfred the King had beaten the Danes and broken their power, and bound all England in one, not a year passed without some of the Black Strangers appearing, and many a hard fight did he have, and many a long period had Wulnoth to be away from the Lady Edgiva, either bearing the King's banner or defending his ports; for these pirates seemed to grow more numerous by being slain, and again and again did they make their attempts to bring our fair England beneath their rule. And from Scandinavia came fresh hordes in their ships, and sailed along the English Channel, now attacking England, and anon France, and carrying desolation to one or the other. There was that Hrolf, or Rollo, he of whom we have spoken, called the Ganger, or Walker, because he was so tall and strong that no horse could bear him. He came to England, but such a beating did he get, that he went to France and there made war until he at last made league with Charles the Simple, and had the French king's daughter given to him for his wife. And this Rollo was required to kiss the King's hand and call him overlord; but this was not to his mind; so, instead, he seized his foot and tipped the King over. This Rollo was given Normandy for his possession, and was baptized and called Robert; and well in after days had Saxon England to rue that Robert of Normandy ever lived, seeing that from him sprang that Norman William who put so hard a yoke on the Saxon shoulders. Then came a mighty host--two hundred and fifty ships sailed against the south coast, and eighty more sailed up the Thames; and all these Alfred and his host had to meet; and these were led by that Hastings who of all the Danish holdas was amongst the most noble. And after Guthrun had died, one Eric became King of East Anglia; and he broke troth with King Alfred, and aided the strangers, and the war was hard in the land. And in those days did Alfred do a good thing; for he came upon a camp of the Danes, and there were the wife and the sons of this Hastings; and Alfred had them in his power, and might have forced Hastings to come to terms, but this he would not do. But he treated the lady and the children with courtesy, and sent them safe and unharmed to Hastings, with kingly greeting, though some there said that it was a foolish thing that was done. But Alfred was a true knight, and made no war against women and children; and this thing happened at that place which now we call Benfleet. Hastings showed no gratitude, but advanced right across England and pressed Mercia, until the King and Wulnoth and the champions defeated him at the borders of the river Severn, and sent him back in full retreat to East Anglia. Then did the Danes come sailing up against London, and their ships lay thick in the Thames, just where the river Lea joins it. But Alfred built walls and drained away the water, and the Danes could not sail out again, and had to abandon the ships and flee back to East Anglia once more. Then they burst forth again and crossed the country to the westward, and reached Quatbridge, and there they encamped. But Alfred, never daunted, came against them, and Hastings fled; and, weary of such a foe as the Saxon King, he sailed for France, and came no more against the land. Then Alfred busied himself, and had many long ships built, and sent to Friesland for sailors, because the Saxons were not good at navigating the ships. But he had no foreigners for warriors, for his own good Saxons, if they could not manage the sails, could handle sword and shield and spear; and thus he raised a goodly fleet, and drove the Danes from his seas, and delivered his coasts. And once two Danish ships were fought and conquered, and the ships drifted ashore with all their crews, and were destroyed, and the vikings taken prisoners. And now for once Alfred was not mild; for he had the men brought to his city of Winchester, and there he had them all hanged, man by man, and spared none. And in later days some have tried to cry shame on the King for this; but perchance if they had lived in his day, and seen the harrying and the burning, and had, like him, done nothing to bring the foe, but had dealt with them gently and fairly--if they had done this, they might perhaps have been quite as ready to teach the Danes a lesson, seeing that kindness was of no avail, and to hang the crews, as Alfred the Bretwalda was. And through all this time of warring the King was busy thinking for his kingdom's good. He it was who had the Bible written in the tongue which the people could understand. He it was who taught himself Latin by translating sentence by sentence, what his friend Asser wrote for him. He taught the people how to measure time, by having candles marked and burning beneath glasses, so that every mark reached meant one hour gone. He it was who wrote books that to-day even are helpful to us--"The King's Hand-book" and the book called "Orosius"--and the book which he called his Family Library. Alfred it was who taught the people the law, and who gave them trial by jury, and the frithgild, by which each man was pledged to aid his neighbor. And in London the guild met, in a hall called the Guild Hall. Alfred it was who made friends with all learned men and travelled men, with Audher, who had tried to sail northward to the pole, and with Walstan, who sailed right to the far end of the Baltic. He it was, too, who sent Bishop Swithelm all the way to India, to carry greetings to the Syrian Christians who dwelt there; and the stout old Bishop not only undertook the journey, but returned safe, and brought gifts to the King. All these things did Alfred the King, the wisest man in England, as he has been justly called; and all the time he warred and defended the land from the foe; and so he lived, and did well; and Wulnoth was his faithful warrior, and grew gray in his wars; and then, in the end, the King sickened and died, and all the land mourned for him who had ruled so well and done so wisely. Now, when Alfred the King was dead, trouble came and war again. For Edward, the son of the dead King, was proclaimed King, but Ethelwald, son of Ethelbald, he also claimed the throne; and between these two of one blood there was war and hate, and the sword-song again; and men gathered some to one side and some to the other and prepared for battle. And then came Wulnoth, and he was now a gray-haired champion, and amongst the wisest in the land; and he joined Edward, for Edward was Alfred's son. And how he wished then that Guthred were with him; but alas! Guthred had died, and Guthred's sons were rebellious, and kept not faith. And Guthrun was dead also; and the Danes of the Danelagh and of Northumbria and of East Anglia, they banded with Ethelwald, and were led by the Danish King, Eric; and they carried fire and sword once more, and made the sword-song be heard, and the land wept again for the sorrow that had come to it. And the Danes and the people with Ethelwald were more than the people with Edward, so that Alfred's son had to flee from place to place, as the King, his father, had done in the days passed away. And then did Wulnoth send seven times to the men of Cantua, over whom he had ruled; but they had their hearts darkened, and they refused to come to the King's aid, and Wulnoth grew sad, for now he thought that the end must surely come. "Now, King," said Wulnoth to Edward, "I have seen three kings meet these Danes when their numbers were few; and two of the three kings were slain, and the third--thine own father--beat the foe and drove them away. Now, if it is thy mind to take the chance, let us march forward towards the borders of East Anglia, and there on the marches we will meet the foe and see what may be done." "Let it be as thou sayest, thane," answered Edward; "for of a truth thou art the most skilled and renowned in the land." So Wulnoth kissed Edgiva his wife, and bade her adieu; and she looked into his face and wept; and she said-- "Wulnoth, my husband, often hast thou gone away to the war game, and my heart has been sad, for I have feared for you. But now you go, and my heart is not sad but dead, for I know that we shall meet no more in life here, but in the life hereafter shall we meet." "Cheer thee, my lady wife," he answered. "'T is a dark saying." But she said-- "I know, husband. The spirit of Wyborga seems upon me, and I know we part now, and you will no more return alive." "Why, then, lady wife," he answered, "if that be so, the end must come when God wills. Surely you would not have me act a nithing part, and leave the son of Alfred in his hour of need?" "Thou knowest better, husband," she made answer. "I would have you go to duty, as you have ever gone. Now kiss me once more, for my heart is heavy and my spirit dark." So Wulnoth kissed Edgiva and bade her farewell, and charged her that if it should be as she feared, then she should give his last greetings to his two sons who were away in Mercia at the time and seek to counsel them ever to serve Edward faithfully. Then towards East Anglia did Wulnoth march with the King--towards that very land where first he had met with Alfred, and where he had seen Edmund the Martyr lay down his life for the Lord's glory. And there stretched the army of Ethelwald, like a host spread over the face of the land. "Now," said Wulnoth as he gazed upon the foe, "here we are like to have a battle indeed. And here must every man prove himself a hero, for there is no choice but victory or death for us." And then did the war-horns sound, and the armies rushed to the fray, and the forces of Ethelwald were so numerous that they quite surrounded the army of Edward, as the tide running in surrounds the sentinel rocks that line the shore. But Wulnoth and his friends, and all who were true to Edward, they met the foe undaunted, and the war-cries rang out and the sword-song was heard, and, mighty as the host of the foe was, they could not overwhelm the Saxons. All day did the battle rage, until the water in the dykes ran crimson, horrible to see, and the dead lay thick on the earth, and yet neither side could claim the victory. But when the day drew in, and even the champions were weary and the numbers were thinned, the Danes made a desperate charge and broke the Saxon ranks; and in that charge Wulnoth, sore and wounded, smote Ethelwald the son of Ethelbald from his saddle, and laid him dead upon the earth. And then did he cry to Edward the King and say-- "Greeting, O King! Now did the Lady Edgiva prophesy that this would be my last fight, and lo! I am wounded and nigh to the end. This is my rede, O King, that ye draw off, for though the Danes are smitten through and through, by very numbers they will conquer if ye tarry. Draw off--the man who sought thy crown is dead, and the evil will die of itself. But as for me, I will fight one last fight and then, good-night!" And with that Wulnoth pushed forward, and he came nigh the Danish king Eric, even Eric the Mighty, and he cried greeting to him-- "Hail, King Eric!" he said. "I have fought in many a field of slaughter, but never in such a one as this. I have slain many of thy holdas in my time, and now the end draws near. How sayest thou, Eric? I am a thane of name; I like not to die by common spear. Come now, and let us twain speak a word, and if I die I die by a champion's hand, and if I smite thee down surely I shall follow thee quickly. Skoal, Skoal!--the old Northland cry, Eric! Wilt thou go holmgang with me?" "Ay, for thou hast slain Ethelwald, and I will slay thee right gladly," answered the Dane, "and if I die by thy hand, then honorable is the death." So these twain met, and they fought, and all around stood still that the champions of pride might play the man's game unhindered. And it was a mighty fight, and a good fight, and of it the scalds and the gleeman sang for many a day. For Wulnoth smote a blow that cleaved its way through Eric's left wrist, and Eric struck back with all his force, and the blow fell on the shoulder of Wulnoth and nigh severed it; and these two champions reeled back and looked at each other, and Wulnoth cried again-- "Skoal to thee, smiter of blows! Skoal! Methinks that we shall journey together," and then he changed his axe into the other hand and again they fought. And Eric smote Wulnoth sore and deep in the side, and Wulnoth raised his axe high in his left hand and smote with all his might, and helm and head were split together, and King Eric fell side by side with his foe. Then did Wulnoth raise himself and cry again-- "Skoal! Skoal to thee, Eric, brave champion! Skoal to thee, Edward, for both thy foes are slain and thou shalt reign in peace. Skoal! I--I--" and then his voice failed and he gasped, "Edgiva! Edgiva beloved! I die," and with that he fell dead across the body of King Eric. And the battle stayed, for indeed none could fight longer. And the Danes buried King Eric on the field, but the Saxons bore the body of Wulnoth with sorrow and brought it safely to Edgiva. And the field of that fight was called amongst men the Field of the Great Slaughter--so vast was the number who lay there dead. And the whole of the Saxons made lamentation for Wulnoth, and they buried him with all honor; and Edgiva gave his message to his sons and smiled upon them and then laid her down. And soon her own death came, and she went to join her husband in the Kingdom of that Master Whom they had both learnt to serve. And Edward became king, and, that the name and the fame of Wulnoth might not be forgotten, he ordered that Gyso his gleeman should make this song. And Gyso obeyed and sang, and they said it was a good song and a true song, and that Wulnoth was worthy of the singing. And so ends the song; and it is for those who read to say whether it is as Gyso said, fair and true, and whether the deeds of those days are worthy of honorable remembrance. And from across the "has-been" they look, the heroes of old--Wulnoth, and Wahrmund, and Osric, Guthrun, Guthred, and Alfred; and to you, their descendants, they cry in the cry of the old Northland, to follow their steps, and be heroes in your day as they in theirs, and follow the White Christ Whom they loved and served, when they cast aside the gods of the Northland. To you they cry, you sons of the Saxons-- "Skoal! Skoal! Skoal!" THE END FOOTNOTES: [1] This story of Regner Lodbrok is one of the most noted in all the old sagas, and there are many concerning his wonderful deeds. Regner was called _Lodbrok_ on account of thus wrapping himself up in skins to fight the dragon. Some old writers who wrote in Latin translate the name into _Villosa femoralia_, which means hairy trousers. [2] This legend of the death of Regner Lodbrok is the one most common in his histories. But there is another, and more probable, story, which tells how he, having been received by Edmund, afterwards known as the martyr king of East Anglia, was murdered by the King's huntsman, and hidden in a wood. The body was found by Regner's dog, who scraped the leaves away and revealed the crime. For this the huntsman was placed in a boat which was unseaworthy and cast adrift; and the boat, surviving the tempests, drifted to Denmark, where the guilty man, to save himself, put the crime at Edmund's door. As it was East Anglia which was first invaded by Hungwar and Hubba, and not Northumbria, this story seems the more probable; and especially so in view of the fact that Hungwar and Hubba put their royal captive Edmund to death in the most barbarous fashion afterwards. [3] It was at a place called Hoxne, in Sussex, that this battle was fought; and the spot where it is said that King Edmund hid is known as Goldbridge. Whether the story of the king cursing the place is true or not, the legend was known at Hoxne until quite recently; and no bride or bridegroom would venture to cross Goldbridge upon their wedding day. [4] The body of King Edmund was at first buried secretly by his friends, but afterwards it was taken up and carried to Badrichesworth, now called Bury St. Edmunds; and here, later, a monastery was founded in honor of the Martyr King, by the Danish King Canute, himself a Christian. [5] King Alfred was born at Wantage, not far from the White Horse of Berkshire. The White Horse itself, cut in the chalk, was probably the work of the early Jutes under Hengist and Horsa, which names, by the way, signify a horse and a mare. The white horse was the ensign of the Old Saxons; and hence it is, to this day, found upon the shield of Brunswick and Hanover. There exists near Wantage, the remains of the ancient _long barrow_ or burying place, called Weyland Smith's forge, celebrated by Sir Walter Scott in his novel of "Kenilworth." It owes its name to the old Norse deity, _Volundr_, who was the blacksmith of their mythology, as Vulcan was amongst the Greeks and Romans. [6] Seward, son of Beorn earl of Northumbria. Tradition said that Beorn's father was a bear in the forests of Norway; and that beneath Beorn's shaggy locks the long ears of a bear were hidden from view. [7] Lincoln. [8] My readers will remember that the Britons were always at war with the Saxons, by whom they had been driven into that land which we now call Wales, and into Cornwall, or South Wales. The Welsh are the descendants of the Britons; and the word _Welsh_ comes from the Saxon word _wealhas_, which means a stranger, or some one you cannot understand. [9] Athelney, a small spot at the confluence of the rivers Tone and Parret in Somersetshire. [10] This jewel was found long afterwards, perfect and undefaced, and it is now preserved at Oxford. For eight hundred years it had lain in the peaty soil, just where the King must have dropped it. [11] Although I have used it in my story, this beautiful reference was not made at this time. It was really spoken two hundred and fifty years before, on the introduction of Christianity into England. * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Minor punctuation errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. Footnotes have been moved to the end of the text. In p. 267, a paragraph starts: "Softly," he replied. "Here we can abide as Alfred's thanes.... It may be an error for: Softly, he replied. "Here we can abide as Alfred's thanes.... However, the original has been retained in the text. 
18936	----	Little Journeys To the Homes of Great Teachers Elbert Hubbard Memorial Edition Printed and made into a Book by The Roycrofters, who are in East Huron, Erie County, New York Wm. H. Wise & Co. New York Copyright, 1916, By The Roycrofters CONTENTS MOSES 9 CONFUCIUS 41 PYTHAGORAS 69 PLATO 97 KING ALFRED 123 ERASMUS 149 BOOKER T. WASHINGTON 183 THOMAS ARNOLD 217 FRIEDRICH FROEBEL 245 HYPATIA 269 SAINT BENEDICT 293 MARY BAKER EDDY 327 [Illustration: MOSES] MOSES And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and he said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you. And God said, moreover, unto Moses: Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, The Lord God of your Fathers, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, hath sent me unto you: this is my name forever, and this is my memorial unto all generations. --_Exodus iii: 14, 15_ MOSES Moses was the world's first great teacher. He is still one of the world's great teachers. Seven million people yet look to his laws for special daily guidance, and more than two hundred millions read his books and regard them as Holy Writ. And these people as a class are of the best and most enlightened who live now or who have ever lived. Moses did not teach of a life after this--he gives no hint of immortality--all of his rewards and punishments refer to the present. If there is a heaven for the good and a hell for the bad, he did not know of them. The laws of Moses were designed for the Now and the Here. Many of them ring true and correct even today, after all this interval of more than three thousand years. Moses had a good knowledge of physiology, hygiene, sanitation. He knew the advantages of cleanliness, order, harmony, industry and good habits. He also knew psychology, or the science of the mind: he knew the things that influence humanity, the limits of the average intellect, the plans and methods of government that will work and those which will not. He was practical. He did what was expedient. He considered the material with which he had to deal, and he did what he could and taught that which his people would and could believe. The Book of Genesis was plainly written for the child-mind. The problem that confronted Moses was one of practical politics, not a question of philosophy or of absolute or final truth. The laws he put forth were for the guidance of the people to whom he gave them, and his precepts were such as they could assimilate. It were easy to take the writings of Moses as they have come down to us, translated, re-translated, colored and tinted with the innocence, ignorance and superstition of the nations who have kept them alive for thirty-three centuries, and then compile a list of the mistakes of the original writer. The writer of these records of dreams and hopes and guesses, all cemented with stern commonsense, has our profound reverence and regard. The "mistakes" lie in the minds of the people who, in the face of the accumulated knowledge of the centuries, have persisted that things once written were eternally sufficient. In point of time there is no teacher within many hundred years following him who can be compared with him in originality and insight. Moses lived fourteen hundred years before Christ. The next man after him to devise a complete code of conduct was Solon, who lived seven hundred years after. A little later came Zoroaster, then Confucius, Buddha, Lao-tsze, Pericles, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle--contemporaries, or closely following each other, their philosophy woven and interwoven by all and each and each by all. Moses, however, stands out alone. That he did not know natural history as did Aristotle, who lived a thousand years later, is not to his discredit, and to emphasize the fact were irrelevant. Back of it all lies the undisputed fact that Moses led a barbaric people out of captivity and so impressed his ideals and personality upon them that they endure as a distinct and peculiar people, even unto this day. He founded a nation. And chronologically he is the civilized world's first author. Moses was a soldier, a diplomat, an executive, a writer, a teacher, a leader, a prophet, a stonecutter. Beside all these he was a farmer--a workingman, one who when forty years of age tended flocks and herds for a livelihood. Every phase of the outdoor life of the range was familiar to him. And the greatness of the man is revealed in the fact that his plans and aspirations were so far beyond his achievements that at last he thought he had failed. Exultant success seems to go with that which is cheap and transient. All great teachers have, in their own minds, been failures--they saw so much further than they were able to travel. * * * * * All ancient chronology falls easily into three general divisions: the fabulous, the legendary, and the probable or natural. In the understanding of history, psychology is quite as necessary as philology. To reject anything that has a flaw in it is quite as bad as to have that excess of credulity which swallows everything presented. It is not necessary to throw away the fabulous nor deny the legendary. But it is certainly not wise to construe the fabulous as the actual and maintain the legendary as literally true. Things may be true allegorically and false literally, and to be able to distinguish the one from the other, and prize each in its proper place, is the mark of wisdom. If, however, we were asked to describe the man Moses to a jury of sane, sensible, intelligent and unprejudiced men and women, and show why he is worthy of the remembrance of mankind, we would have to eliminate the fabulous, carefully weigh the traditional, and rest our argument upon records that are fair, sensible and reasonably free from dispute. The conclusions of professional retainers, committed before they begin their so-called investigations to a literal belief in the fabulous, should be accepted with great caution. For them to come to conclusions outside of that which they have been taught, is not only to forfeit their social position, but to lose their actual means of livelihood. Perhaps the truth in the final summing up can best be gotten from those who have made no vows that they will not change their opinions, and have nothing to lose if they fail occasionally to gibe with the popular. On a certain occasion after Colonel Ingersoll had delivered his famous lecture entitled, "Some Mistakes of Moses," he was entertained by a local club. At the meeting, which was of the usual informal kind known as "A Dutch Feed," a young lawyer made bold to address the great orator thus: "Colonel Ingersoll, you are a lover of freedom--with you the word liberty looms large. All great men love liberty, and no man lives in history, respected and revered, save as he has sought to make men free. Moses was a lover of liberty. Now, wouldn't it be gracious and generous in you to give Moses, who in some ways was in the same business as yourself, due credit as a liberator and law-giver and not emphasize his mistakes to the total exclusion of his virtues?" Colonel Ingersoll listened--he was impressed by the fairness of the question. He listened, paused and replied: "Young man, you have asked a reasonable question, and all you suggest about the greatness of Moses, in spite of his mistakes, is well taken. The trouble in your logic lies in the fact that you do not understand my status in this case. You seem to forget that I am not the attorney for Moses. He has more than two million men looking after his interests. I am retained on the other side!" Like unto Colonel Ingersoll, I am not an attorney for Moses. I desire, however, to give a fair, clear and judicial account of the man. I will attempt to present a brief for the people, and neither prosecute nor defend. I will simply try to picture the man as he once existed, nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice. As the original office of the State's Attorney was rather to protect the person at the bar than to indict him, so will I try to bring out the best in Moses, rather than hold up his mistakes and raise a laugh by revealing his ignorance. Modesty, which is often egotism turned wrong side out, might here say, "Oh, Moses requires no defense at this late day!" But Moses, like all great men, has suffered at the hands of his friends. To this man has been attributed powers which no human being ever possessed. Moses lived thirty-three hundred years ago. In one sense thirty-three centuries is a very long time. All is comparative--children regard a man of fifty as "awful old." I have seen several persons who have lived a hundred years, and they didn't consider a century long, "and thirty-five isn't anything," said one of them to me. Geologically, thirty-three centuries is only an hour ago. It does not nearly take us back to the time when men of the Stone Age hunted the hairy mammoth in what is now Nebraska, nor does thirty-three centuries give us any glimpse of the time when tropical animals, plants and probably men lived and flourished at the North Pole. Egyptian civilization, at the time of Moses, was more than three thousand years old. Egypt was then in the first stage of senility, entering upon her decline, for her best people had settled in the cities, and this completes the cycle and spells deterioration. She had passed through the savage, barbaric, nomadic and agricultural stages and was living on her unearned increment, a part of which was Israelitish labor. Moses looked at the Pyramids, which were built more than a thousand years before his birth, and asked in wonder about who built them, very much as we do today. He listened for the Sphinx to answer, but she was silent, then as now. The date of the exodus has been fixed as having probably occurred during the reign of the Great Pharaoh, Mineptah, or the nineteenth Egyptian Dynasty. The date is, say, fourteen hundred years before Christ. An inscription has recently been found which seems to show that Joseph settled in Egypt during the reign of Mineptah, but the best scholars now have gone back to the conclusions I have stated. At the time of the Pharaohs, Egypt was the highest civilized country on earth. It had a vast system of canals, an organized army, a goodly degree of art, and there were engineers and builders of much ability. Philosophy, poetry and ethics were recognized, prized and discussed. The storage of grain by the government to bank against famine had been practised for several hundred years. There were also treasure-cities built to guard against fire, thieves or destruction by the elements. It will thus be seen that foresight, thrift, caution, wisdom, played their parts. The Egyptians were not savages. * * * * * About five hundred years before the birth of Moses there lived in Arabia a powerful Sheik or Chief, known as Abraham. This man had a familiar spirit, or guide, or guardian-angel known as Yaveh or Jehovah. All of the desert tribes had such tutelary gods; and all of these gods were once men of power who lived on earth. The belief in special gods has often been held by very great men: Socrates looked to his "demon" for guidance; Themistocles consulted his oracle; a President of the United States visited a clairvoyant, who consented to act as a medium and interpret the supernatural. This idea, which is a variant of ancestor worship, still survives, and very many good people do not take journeys or make investments until they believe they are being dictated to by Shakespeare, Emerson, Beecher or Phillips Brooks. These people also believe that there are bad spirits to which we must not harken. Abraham was led by Jehovah; what Jehovah told him to do he did; when Jehovah told him to desist or change his plans, he obeyed. Jehovah promised him many things, and some of these promises were fulfilled. Whether these tutelary gods or controlling spirits had any actual existence outside of the imagination of the people who believed in them--whether they were merely pictures thrown upon the screen by a subconscious spiritual stereopticon--is not the question now under discussion. Something must be left for a later time: the fact remains that special providences are yet relied upon by sincere and intelligent people. Abraham had a son named Isaac. And Isaac was the father of Jacob, or Israel, "the Soldier of God," so called on account of his successful wrestling with the angel. And Jacob was the father of twelve sons. All of these people believed in Jehovah, the god of their tribe; and while they did not disbelieve in the gods of the neighboring tribes, they yet doubted their power and had grave misgivings as to their honesty. Therefore, they had nothing to do with them, praying to their own god only and looking to him for support. They were the chosen people of Jehovah, just as the Babylonians were the chosen people of Baal; the Canaanites the chosen people of Ishitar; the Moabites the chosen people of Chemos; the Ammonites the chosen people of Rimmon. Now Joseph was the favorite son of Jacob, and his brethren were naturally jealous of him. So one day out on the range they sold him into slavery to a passing caravan, and went home and told their father the boy was dead, having been killed by a wild beast. To make the matter plausible they took the coat of Joseph and smeared it with the blood of a goat which they had killed. Nowadays, the coat would have been sent to a chemist's laboratory and the blood-spots tested to see whether it was the blood of beast or human. But Jacob believed the story and mourned his son as dead. Now Joseph was taken to Egypt and there arose to a position of influence and power through his intelligence and diligence. How eventually his brethren, starving, came to him for food, there being a famine in their own land, is one of the most natural and beautiful stories in all literature. It is a folklore legend, free from the fabulous, and has all the corroborating marks of the actual. For us it is history undisputed, unrefuted, because it is so natural. It could all easily happen in various parts of the world even now. It shows the identical traits of human nature that are alive and pulsing today. Joseph having made himself known to his brethren induced some of them and their neighbors to come down into Egypt, where the pasturage was better and the water more sure, and settle there. The Bible tells us that there were seventy of these settlers and gives us their names. These emigrants, called Israelites, or Children of Israel, account for the presence of the enslaved people whom Moses led out of captivity three hundred years later. One thing seems quite sure, and that is that they were a peculiar people then, with the pride of the desert in their veins, for they stood socially aloof and did not mix with the Egyptians. They still had their own god and clung to their own ways and customs. That very naive account in the first chapter of Exodus of how they had two midwives, "and the name of one was Shiphrah and the other Puah," is as fine in its elusive exactitude as an Uncle Remus story. Children always want to know the names of people. These two Hebrew midwives were bribed by the King of Egypt--ruler over twenty million people--in person, to kill all the Hebrew boy babies. Then the account states that Jehovah was pleased with these Hebrew women who proved false to their master, and Jehovah rewarded them by giving them houses. This order to kill the Hebrew children must have gone into execution, if at all, about the time of the birth of Moses, because Aaron, the brother of Moses, and three years older, certainly was not killed. Whether Moses was the son of Pharaoh's daughter, his father an Israelite, or both of his parents were Israelites, is problematic. Royal families are not apt to adopt an unknown waif into the royal household and bring him up as their royal own, especially if this waif belongs to what is regarded as an inferior race. The tie of motherhood is the only one that could over-rule caste and override prejudice. If the daughter of Pharaoh, or more properly "the Pharaoh," were the mother of Moses, she had a better reason for hiding him in the bulrushes than did the daughter of a Levite, for the order to kill these profitable workers is extremely doubtful. The strength, skill and ability of the Israelites formed a valuable acquisition to the Egyptians, and what they wanted was more Israelites, not fewer. Judging from the statement that there were only two midwives, there were only a few hundred Israelites--perhaps between one and two thousand, at most. So leaving the legend of the childhood of Moses with just enough mystery mixed in it to give it a perpetual piquancy, we learn that he was brought up an Egyptian, as the son of Pharaoh's daughter, and that it was she who gave him his name. Philo and Josephus give various sidelights on the life and character of Moses. The Midrash or Commentaries on the History of the Jews, composed, added to or modified by many men, extending over a period of twenty centuries, also add their weight, even though the value of these Commentaries is conjectural. Egyptian accounts of Moses and the Israelites come to us through Hellenic sources, and very naturally are not complimentary. These picture Moses, or Osarsiph, as they call him, as an agitator, an undesirable citizen, who sought to overturn the government, and failing in this, fled to the desert with a few hundred outlaws. They managed to hold out against the forces sent to capture them, were gradually added to by other refugees, and through the organizing genius of Moses were rounded into a strong tribe. That Moses was their supreme ruler, and that to better hold his people in check he devised a religious ritual for them, and impressed his god, Jehovah, upon them, almost to the exclusion of all other gods, and thus formed them into a religious whole, is beyond question. No matter what the cause of the uprising, or who was to blame for it, the fact is undisputed that Moses led a revolt in Egypt, and the people he carried with him in this exodus formed the nucleus of the Hebrew Nation. And further, the fact is beyond dispute that the personality of Moses was the prime cementing factor in the making of the nation. The power, poise, patience and unwavering self-reliance of the man, through his faith in the god Jehovah, are all beyond dispute. Things happen because the man makes them happen. * * * * * The position of the Israelites in Egypt was one of voluntary vassalage. The government was a feudal monarchy. The Israelites had come into Egypt of their own accord, but had never been admitted into the full rights of citizenship. This exclusion by the Egyptians had no doubt tended to fix the Children of Israel in their religious beliefs, and on the other hand, their proud and exclusive nature had tended to keep them from a full fellowship with the actual owners of the land. The Egyptians never attempted to traffic in them as they did in slaves of war, being quite content to use them as clerks, laborers and servants, paying them a certain wage, and also demanding an excess of labor in lieu of taxation. In other words, they worked out their "road-tax," which no doubt was excessive. Many years later, Athens and also Rome had similar "slaves," some of whom were men of great intellect and worth. If one reads the works of modern economic prophets, it will be seen that wage-workers in America are often referred to as "slaves" or "bondmen," terms which will probably give rise to confusion among historians to come. Moses was brought up in the court of the king, and became versed in all the lore of the Egyptians. We are led to suppose that he also looked like an Egyptian, as we are told that people seeing him for the first time, he being a stranger to them, went away and referred to him as "that Egyptian." He was handsome, commanding, silent by habit and slow of speech, strong as a counselor, a safe man. That he was a most valuable man in the conduct of Egyptian official affairs, there is no doubt. And although he was nominally an Egyptian, living with the Egyptians, adopting their manners and customs, yet his heart was with "his brethren," the Israelites, who he saw were sore oppressed through governmental exploitation. Moses knew that a government which does not exist for the purpose of adding to human happiness has no excuse for being. And once when he was down among his own people he saw an Egyptian taskmaster or foreman striking an Israelitish workman, and in wrath he arose and killed the oppressor. The only persons who were witnesses to this affair were two Hebrews. The second day after the fight, when Moses was attempting to separate two Hebrews who had gotten into an altercation with each other, they taunted him by saying, "Who gavest thee to be a ruler over us?--wilt thou also kill us as thou didst the Egyptian?" This gives us a little light upon the quality and character of the people with whom Moses had to deal. It also shows that the ways of the reformer and peacemaker are not flower-strewn. The worst enemies of a reformer are not the Egyptians--he has also to deal with the Israelites. I once heard Terence V. Powderly, who organized the Knights of Labor--the most successful labor organization ever formed--say, "Any man who devotes his life to helping laboring men will be destroyed by them." And then he added, "But this should not deter us from the effort to benefit." As the Hebrew account plainly states that the killing of all the male Hebrew children was carried out with the connivance of Hebrew women who pretended to be ministering to the Hebrew mothers, so was the flight of Moses from Egypt caused by the Hebrews, who turned informants and brought him into disgrace with Pharaoh, who sought his life. Very naturally, the Egyptians deny and have always denied that the order to kill children was ever issued by a Pharaoh. They also point to the fact that the Israelites were a source of profit--a valuable asset to the Egyptians. And moreover, the proposition that the Egyptians killed the children to avoid trouble is preposterous, since no possible act that man can commit would so arouse sudden rebellion and fan into flame the embers of hate as the murder of the young. If the Egyptians had attempted to carry out any such savage cruelty, they would not only have had to fight the Israelitish men, but the outraged mothers as well. The Egyptians were far too wise to invite the fury of frenzied motherhood. To have done this would have destroyed the efficiency of the entire Hebrew population. An outraged and heartbroken people do not work. When one person becomes angry with another, his mental processes work overtime making up a list of the other's faults and failings. When a people arise in revolt they straightway prepare an indictment against the government against which they revolted, giving a schedule of outrages, insults, plunderings and oppressions. This is what is politely called partisan history. "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was a literary indictment of the South by featuring its supposed brutalities. And the attitude of the South is mirrored in a pretty parable concerning a Southern girl who came North on a visit, and seeing in print the words "damned Yankee," innocently remarked that she always thought they were one word. A description of the enemy, made by a person or a people, must be taken cum grano Syracuse. * * * * * When Moses fled, after killing the Egyptian, he went northward and east into the land of the Midianites, who were also descendants of Abraham. At this time he was forty years of age, and still unmarried, his work in the Egyptian Court having evidently fully absorbed his time. It is a pretty little romance, all too brief in its details, of how the tired man stopped at a well, and the seven daughters of Jethro came to draw water for their flocks. Certain shepherds came also and drove the girls away, when Moses, true to his nature, took the part of the young ladies, to the chagrin and embarrassment of the male rustics who had left their manners at home. The story forms a melodramatic stage-setting which the mummers have not been slow to use, representing the seven daughters as a ballet, the shepherds as a male chorus, and Moses as basso-profundo and hero. We are told that the girls went home and told their father of the chivalrous stranger they had met, and he, with all the deference of the desert, sent for him "that he might eat bread." Very naturally Moses married one of the girls. And Moses tended the flocks of Jethro, his father-in-law, taking the herds a long distance, living with them and sleeping out under the stars. Now Jethro was the chief of his tribe. Moses calls him a "priest," but he was a priest only incidentally, as all the Arab chiefs were. The clergy originated in Egypt. Before the Israelites were in Goshen, the "sacra," or sacred utensils, belonged to the family; and the head of the tribe performed the religious rites, propitiating the family deity, or else delegated some one else to do so. This head of the tribe, or chief, was called a "Cohen"; and the man who assisted him, or whom he delegated, was called a "Levi." The plan of making a business of being a "Levi" was borrowed from the Egyptians, who had men set apart, exclusively, to deal in the mysterious. Moses calls himself a Levi, or Levite. After the busy life he had led, Moses could not settle down to the monotonous existence of a shepherd. It is probable that then he wrote the Book of Job, the world's first drama and the oldest book of the Bible. Moses was full of plans. Very naturally he prayed to the Israelitish god, and the god harkened unto his prayer and talked to him. The silence, the loneliness, the majesty of the mountains, the great stretches of shining sand, the long peaceful nights, all tend to hallucinations. Sheepmen are in constant danger of mental aberration. Society is needed quite as much as solitude. From talking with God, Moses desired to see Him. One day, from the burning red of an acacia-tree, the Lord called to him, "Moses, Moses!" And Moses answered, "Here am I!" Moses was a man born to rule--he was a leader of men--and here at middle life the habits of twenty-five years were suddenly snapped and his occupation gone. He yearned for his people, and knowing their unhappy lot, his desire was to lead them out of captivity. He knew the wrongs the Egyptian government was visiting upon the Israelites. Rameses the Second was a ruler with the builder's eczema: always and forever he made gardens, dug canals, paved roadways, constructed model tenements, planned palaces, erected colossi. He was a worker, and he made everybody else work. It was in this management of infinite detail that Moses had been engaged; and while he entered into it with zest, he knew that the hustling habit can be overdone and its votaries may become its victims--not only that, but this strenuous life may turn freemen into serfs, and serfs into slaves. And now Rameses was dead, and the proud, vain, fretful and selfish Mineptah ruled in his place. It was worse with the Israelites than ever! The more Moses thought of it the more he was convinced that it was his duty to go back to Egypt and lead his people out of bondage. He himself, having been driven out, made the matter a burning one with him: he had lost his place in the Egyptian Court, but he would get it back and hold it under better conditions than ever before! He heard the "Voice"! All strong people hear the Voice calling them. And harkening to the Inner Voice is simply doing what you want to do. "Moses, Moses!" And Moses answered, "Lord, here am I." The laws of Moses still influence the world, but not even the orthodox Jews follow them literally. We bring our reason to bear upon the precepts of Moses, and those which are not for us we gently pass over. In fact, the civil laws of most countries prohibit many of the things which Moses commanded. For instance, the eighteenth verse of the twenty-second chapter of Exodus says, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Certainly no Jewish lawyer nor Rabbi, in any part of the world, advocates the killing of persons supposed to be witches. We explain that in this instance the inspired writer lapsed and merely mirrored the ignorance of his time. Or else we fall back upon the undoubted fact that various writers and translators have tampered with the original text--this must be so, since the book written by Moses makes record of his death. But when we find passages in Moses requiring us to benefit our enemies, we say with truth that this was the first literature to express for us the brotherhood of man. "Thou shalt take no gift: for the gift blindeth the wise and perverteth the words of the righteous." Here we get Twentieth-Century Wisdom. And very many passages as fine and true can be found, which prove for us beyond cavil that Moses was right a part of the time, and to say this of any man, living or dead, is a very great compliment. In times of doubt the Jewish people turn to the Torah, or Book of the Law. This book has been interpreted by the Rabbis, or the learned men, and to meet the exigencies of living under many conditions, it has been changed, enlarged and augmented. In these changes the people were not consulted. Very naturally it was done secretly, for inspired men must be well dead before the many accept their edict. To be alive is always more or less of an offense, especially if you be a person and not a personage. The murmurings against Moses during his lifetime often broke into a rumble and a roar. The mob accused him of taking them out into the wilderness to perish. To get away from the constant bickering and criticisms of the little minds, Moses used to go up into the mountains alone to find rest, and there he communicated with his god. It was surely a great step in advance when all the Elohims were combined into one Supreme Elohim that was everywhere present and ruled the world. Instead of dozens of little gods, jealous, jangling, fearful, fretful, fussy, boastful, changing walking-sticks to serpents, or doing other things quite as useless, it was a great advance to have one Supreme Being, dispassionate, a God of Love and Justice, "with whom can be no variation, neither shadow that is cast by turning." This gradual ennobling of the conception of Divinity reveals the extent to which man is ennobling his own nature. Up to within a very few years God had a rival in the Devil, but now the Devil lives only as a pleasantry. Until the time of Moses, the God of Sinai was only the God of the Hebrew people, and this accounts for His violence, wrath, jealousy, and all of those qualities which went to make up a barbaric chief, including the tendency of His sons and servants to make love to the daughters of earth. It is probable that the idea of God--in opposition to a god, one of many gods--was a thought that grew up very gradually in the mind of Moses. The ideal grew, and Moses grew with the ideal. Then from God being a Spirit, to being Spirit, is a natural, easy and beautiful evolution. The thought of angels, devils, heavenly messengers, like Gabriel and the Holy Ghost, constantly surrounding the Throne, is a suggestion that comes from the court of the absolute monarch. The Trinity is the oligarchy refined, and the one son who gives himself as a sacrifice for all the people who have offended the monarch is the retreating vision of that night of ignorance when all nations sought to appease the wrath of their god by the death of human beings. God to us is Spirit, realized everywhere in unfolding Nature. We are a part of Nature--we, too, are Spirit. When Moses commands his people that they must return the stray animal of their enemy to its rightful owner, we behold a great man struggling to benefit humanity by making them recognize the laws of Spirit. We are all one family--we can not afford to wrong or harm even an enemy. Instead of thousands of warring, jarring families or tribes, we have now a few strong federations of States, or countries, which, if they would make war on one another, would today quickly face a larger foe. Already the idea of one government for all the world is taking form--there must be one Supreme Arbiter, and all this monstrous expense of money and flesh and blood and throbbing hearts for purposes of war, must go, just as we have sent to limbo the jangling, jarring, jealous gods. Also, the better sentiment of the world will send the czars, emperors, kings, grand dukes, and the greedy grafters of so-called democracy, into the dust-heap of oblivion, with all the priestly phantoms that have obscured the sun and blackened the sky. The gods have gone, but MAN IS HERE. * * * * * The plagues that befell the Egyptians were the natural ones to which Egypt was liable: drought, flood, flies, lice, frogs, disease. The Israelites very naturally declared that these things were sent as a punishment by the Israelitish god. I remember a farmer, in my childhood days, who was accounted by his neighbors as an infidel. He was struck by lightning and instantly killed, while standing in his doorway. The Sunday before, this man had worked in the fields, and just before he was killed he had said, "dammit," or something quite as bad. Our preacher explained at length that this man's death was a "judgment." Afterward, when our church was struck by lightning, it was regarded as an accident. Ignorant and superstitious people always attribute special things to special causes. When the grasshoppers overran Kansas in Eighteen Hundred Eighty-five, I heard a good man from the South say it was a punishment on the Kansans for encouraging Old John Brown. The next year the boll-weevil ruined the cotton crop, and certain preachers in the North, who thought they knew, declared it was the lingering wrath of God on account of slavery. Three nations unite to form our present civilization. These are the Greek, the Roman and the Judaic. The lives of Perseus, Romulus and Moses all teem with the miraculous, but if we accept the supernatural in one we must in all. Which of these three great nations has contributed most to our well-being is a question largely decided by temperament; but just now the star of Greece seems to be in the ascendant. We look to art for solace. Greece stands for art; Rome for conquest; Judea for religion. And yet Moses was a lover of beauty, and the hold he had upon his people was quite as much through training them to work as through his moral teaching. Indeed, his morality was expediency--which is reason enough according to modern science. When he wants them to work, he says, "Thus saith the Lord," just the same as when he wishes to impress upon them a thought. No one can read the twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth chapters of Exodus without being impressed with the fact that the man who wrote them had in him the spirit of the Master Workman--a King's Craftsman. His carving the ten commandments on tablets of stone also shows his skill with mallet and chisel, a talent he had acquired in Egypt, where Rameses the Second had thousands of men engaged in sculpture and in making inscriptions in stone. Several chapters in Exodus might have been penned by Albrecht Durer or William Morris. The commandment, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image," was unmistakably made merely to correct a local evil: the tendency to worship the image instead of the thing it symbolized. People who do not contribute to the creation of an object fall easy victims to this error. With all the stern good sense that Moses revealed, it is but fair to assume that he did not mean the command to be perpetual. It was only through so much moving about that the Jews seemed to lose their art spirit. And certainly the flame of art in the Jewish heart has never died out, even though at times it has smoldered, for wherever there has been peace and security for the Jews, they have not been slow to evolve the talent which creates. History teems with the names of Jews who, in music, painting, poetry and sculpture, have devoted their days to beauty. And the germ of genius is seen in many of the Jewish children who attend the manual-training and art schools of America. Art has its rise in the sense of sublimity. It seems at times to be a fulfilment of the religious impulse. The religion which balks at work, stopping at prayer and contemplation, is a form of arrested development. The number of people in the exodus was probably two or three thousand. Renan says that one century only elapsed between the advent of Joseph into Egypt and the revolt. Very certain it was not a great number that went forth into the desert. A half-million women could not have borrowed jewelry of their neighbors--the secret could not have been kept. And in the negotiations between Moses and the King, it will be remembered that Moses asked only for the privilege of going three days' journey into the wilderness to make sacrifices. It was a kind of picnic or religious campmeeting. A vast multitude could not have taken part in any such exercise. We also hear of their singing their gratitude on account of reaching Elim, where there were "twelve springs and seventy palm-trees." Had there been several million people, as we have been told, the insignificant shade of seventy trees would have meant nothing to them. The distance from Goshen in Egypt to Canaan in Palestine was about one hundred seventy-five miles. But by the circuitous route they traveled it was nearly a thousand miles. It took forty years to make the passage, for the way had to be fought through the country of foes who very naturally sought to block the way. Quick transportation was out of the question. The rate of speed was about twenty-five miles a year. Here was a people without homes, or fixed habitation, beset on every side with the natural dangers of the desert, and compelled to face the fury of the inhabitants whose lands they overran, fearful, superstitious, haunted by hunger, danger and doubt. By night a man sent ahead with a lantern on a pole led the way; by day a cavalcade that raised a cloud of dust. One was later sung by the poets as a pillar of fire, and the other a cloud. Chance flocks of quail blown by a storm into their midst were regarded as a miracle; the white exuding wax of the manna-plant was told of as "bread"--or more literally food. Those who had taken part in the original exodus were nearly all dead--their children and grandchildren survived, desert born and savage bred. Canaan was not the land flowing with milk and honey that had been described. Milk and honey are the results of labor applied to land. Moses knew this and tried to teach this great truth. He was true to his divine trust. Through doubt, hardship, poverty, misunderstanding, he held high the ideal--they were going to a better place. At last, worn by his constant struggle, aged one hundred twenty, "his eye not dim nor his natural force abated"--for only those live long who live well--Moses went up into the mountain to find solace in solitude as was his custom. His people waited for him in vain--he did not return. Alone there with his God he slept and forgot to awaken. His pilgrimage was done. "And no man knoweth his grave even unto this day." History is very seldom recorded on the spot--certainly it was not then. Centuries followed before fact, tradition, song, legend and folklore were fused into the form we call Scripture. But out of the fog and mist of that far-off past there looms in heroic outline the form and features of a man--a man of will, untiring activity, great hope, deep love, a faith which at times faltered, but which never died. Moses was the first man in history who fought for human rights and sought to make men free, even from their own limitations. "And there arose not a prophet since Israel like unto Moses, whom the Lord knew face to face." [Illustration: CONFUCIUS] CONFUCIUS The highest study of all is that which teaches us to develop those principles of purity and perfect virtue which Heaven bestowed upon us at our birth, in order that we may acquire the power of influencing for good those amongst whom we are placed, by our precepts and example; a study without an end--for our labors cease only when we have become perfect--an unattainable goal, but one that we must not the less set before us from the very first. It is true that we shall not be able to reach it, but in our struggle toward it we shall strengthen our characters and give stability to our ideas, so that, whilst ever advancing calmly in the same direction, we shall be rendered capable of applying the faculties with which we have been gifted to the best possible account. --_"The Annals" of Confucius_ CONFUCIUS The Chinese comprise one-fourth of the inhabitants of the earth. There are four hundred millions of them. They can do many things which we can not do, and we can do a few things which they have not yet been able to do; but they are learning from us, and possibly we would do well to learn from them. In China there are now trolley-cars, telephone-lines, typewriters, cash-registers and American plumbing. China is a giant awaking from sleep. He who thinks that China is a country crumbling into ruins has failed to leave a call at the office and has overslept. The West can not longer afford to ignore China. And not being able to waive her, perhaps the next best thing is to try to understand her. The one name that looms large above any other name in China is Confucius. He of all men has influenced China most. One-third of the human race love and cherish his memory, and repeat his words as sacred writ. Confucius was born at a time when one of those tidal waves of reason swept the world--when the nations were full of unrest, and the mountains of thought were shaken with discontent. It was just previous to the blossoming of Greece. Pericles was seventeen years old when Confucius died. Themistocles was preparing the way for Pericles; for then was being collected the treasure of Delos, which made Phidias and the Parthenon possible. During the life of Confucius lived Leonidas, Miltiades, Cyrus the Great, Cambyses, Darius, Xerxes. And then quite naturally occurred the battles of Marathon, Salamis and Thermopylæ. Then lived Buddha-Gautama, Lao-tsze, Ezekiel, Daniel, Haggai, Zechariah, Pythagoras, Pindar, �schylus and Anacreon. The Chinese are linked to the past by ties of language and custom beyond all other nations. They are a peculiar people, a chosen people, a people set apart. Just when they withdrew from the rest of mankind and abandoned their nomadic habits, making themselves secure against invasion by building a wall one hundred feet high, and settled down to lay the foundations of a vast empire, we do not know. Some historians have fixed the date about ten thousand years before Christ--let it go at that. There is a reasonably well-authenticated history of China that runs back twenty-five hundred years before Christ, while our history merges into mist seven hundred fifty years before the Christian era. The Israelites wandered; the Chinese remained at home. Walls have this disadvantage: they keep people in as well as shut the barbarians out. But now there are vast breaches in the wall, through which the inhabitants ooze, causing men from thousands of miles away to cry in alarm, "the Yellow Peril!" And also through these breaches, Israelites, Englishmen and Yankees enter fearlessly, settle down in heathen China, and do business. It surely is an epoch, and what the end will be few there are who dare forecast. * * * * * This then is from the pen of Edward Carpenter, the Church of England curate who was so great a friend and admirer of our own Walt Whitman that he made a trip across the sea to join hands with him in preaching the doctrine of democracy and the religion of humanity. In the interior of China, along low-lying plains and great river-valleys, and by lake-sides, and far away up into hilly and even mountainous regions, Behold! an immense population, rooted in the land, rooted in the clan and the family, The most productive and stable on the whole Earth. A garden one might say--a land of rich and recherche crops, of rice and tea and silk and sugar and cotton and oranges; Do you see it?--stretching away endlessly over river-lines and lakes, and the gentle undulations of the low-lands, and up the escarpments of the higher hills; The innumerable patchwork of civilization--the poignant verdure of the young rice; the somber green of orange-groves; the lines of tea-shrubs, well hoed, and showing the bare earth beneath; the pollard mulberries; the plots of cotton and maize and wheat and yam and clover; the little brown and green tiled cottages with spreading recurbed eaves, the clumps of feathery bamboo, or of sugar-canes; The endless silver threads of irrigation canals and ditches, skirting the hills for scores and hundreds of miles, tier above tier, and serpentining down to the lower slopes and plains-- The accumulated result, these, of centuries upon centuries of ingenious industry, and innumerable public and private benefactions, continued from age to age; The grand canal of the Delta plain extending, a thronged waterway, for seven hundred miles, with sails of junks and bankside villages innumerable; The chain-pumps, worked by buffaloes or men, for throwing the water up slopes and hillsides, from tier to tier, from channel to channel; The endless rills and cascades flowing down again into pockets and hollows of verdure, and on fields of steep and plain; The bits of rock and wildwood left here and there, with the angles of Buddhist or Jain temples projecting from among the trees; The azalea and rhododendron bushes, and the wild deer and pheasants unharmed; The sounds of music and the gong--the Sin-fa sung at eventide--and the air of contentment and peace pervading; A garden you might call the land, for its wealth of crops and flowers, A town almost for its population. A population denser, on a large scale, than anywhere else on earth-- Five or six acre holdings, elbowing each other, with lesser and larger, continuously over immense tracts, and running to plentiful market centers; A country of few roads, but of innumerable footpaths and waterways. Here, rooted in the land, and rooted in the family, each family clinging to its portion of ancestral earth, each offshoot of the family desiring nothing so much as to secure its own patrimonial field, Each member of the family answerable primarily to the family assembly for his misdeeds or defalcations, All bound together in the common worship of ancestors, and in reverence for the past and its sanctioned beliefs and accumulated prejudices and superstitions; With many ancient, wise, simple customs and ordinances, coming down from remote centuries, and the time of Confucius, This vast population abides--the most stable and the most productive in the world. * * * * * And Government touches it but lightly--can touch it but lightly. With its few officials (only some twenty-five thousand for the whole of its four hundred millions), and its scanty taxation (about one dollar per head), and with the extensive administration of justice and affairs by the clan and the family--little scope is left for government. The great equalized mass population pursues its even and accustomed way, nor pays attention to edicts and foreign treaties, unless these commend themselves independently; Pays readier respect, in such matters, to the edicts and utterances of its literary men, and the deliberations of the Academy. * * * * * And religious theorizing touches it but lightly--can touch it but lightly. Established on the bedrock of actual life, and on the living unity and community of present, past and future generations. Each man stands bound already, and by the most powerful ties, to the social body--nor needs the dreams and promises of Heaven to reassure him. And all are bound to the Earth. Rendering back to it as a sacred duty every atom that the Earth supplies to them (not insensately sending it in sewers to the sea), By the way of abject commonsense they have sought the gates of Paradise--and to found on human soil their City Celestial! The first general knowledge of Confucius came to the Western world in the latter part of the Sixteenth Century from Jesuit missionaries. Indeed, it was they who gave him the Latinized name of "Confucius," the Chinese name being Kung-Fu-tsze. So impressed were these missionaries by the greatness of Confucius that they urged upon the Vatican the expediency of placing his name upon the calendar of Saints. They began by combating his teachings, but this they soon ceased to do, and the modicum of success which they obtained was through beginning each Christian service by the hymn which may properly be called the National Anthem of China. Its opening stanza is as follows: Confucius! Confucius! Great was our Confucius! Before him there was no Confucius, Since him there was no other. Confucius! Confucius! Great was our Confucius! The praise given by these early Jesuits to Confucius was at first regarded at Rome as apology for the meager success of their ministrations. But later scientific study of Chinese literature corroborated all that the Jesuit Fathers proclaimed for Confucius, and he stands today in a class with Socrates and the scant half-dozen whom we call the saviors of the world. Yet Confucius claimed no "divine revelation," nor did he seek to found a religion. He was simply a teacher, and what he taught was the science of living--living in the present, with the plain and simple men and women who make up the world, and bettering our condition by bettering theirs. Of a future life he said he knew nothing, and concerning the supernatural he was silent, even rebuking his disciples for trying to pry into the secrets of Heaven. The word "God" he does not use, but his recognition of a Supreme Intelligence is limited to the use of a word which can best be translated "Heaven," since it tokens a place more than it does a person. Constantly he speaks of "doing the will of Heaven." And then he goes on to say that "Heaven is speaking through you," "Duty lies in mirroring Heaven in our acts," and many other such New-Thought aphorisms or epigrams. That the man was a consummate literary stylist is beyond doubt. He spoke in parables and maxims, short, brief and musical. He wrote for his ear, and always his desire, it seems, was to convey the greatest truth in the fewest words. The Chinese, even the lowly and uneducated, know hundreds of Confucian epigrams, and still repeat them in their daily conversation or in writing, just as educated Englishmen use the Bible and Shakespeare for symbol. Minister Wu, in a lecture delivered in various American cities, compared Confucius with Emerson, showing how in many ways these two great prophets paralleled each other. Emerson, of all Americans, seems the only man worthy of being so compared. The writer who lives is the man who supplies the world with portable wisdom--short, sharp, pithy maxims which it can remember, or, better still, which it can not forget. Confucius said, "Every truth has four corners: as a teacher I give you one corner, and it is for you to find the other three." The true artist in words or things is always more or less impressionistic--he talks in parables, and it is for the hearer to discover the meaning for himself. An epigram is truth in a capsule. The disadvantage of the epigram is the temptation it affords to good people to explain it to the others who are assumed to be too obtuse to comprehend it alone. And since explanations seldom explain, the result is a mixture or compound that has to be spewed utterly or taken on faith. Confucius is simple enough until he is explained. Then we evolve sects, denominations and men who make it their profession to render moral calculi opaque. China, being peopled by human beings, has suffered from this tendency to make truth concrete, just as all the rest of the world has suffered. Truth is fluid and should be allowed to flow. Ankylosis of a fact is superstition. Confucius was a free-trader. * * * * * China has always been essentially feudal in her form of government. China is made up of a large number of States, each presided over by a prince or governor, and these States are held together by a rather loose federal government, the Emperor being the supreme ruler. State rights prevail. State may fight with State, or States may secede--it isn't of much moment. They are glad enough, after a few years, to get back, like boys who run away from home, or farmhands who quit work in a tantrum. The Chinese are very patient--they know that time cures all things, a truth the West has not yet learned. States that rebel, like individuals who place themselves beyond the protection of all, assume grave responsibilities. The local prince usually realizes the bearing of the Social Contract--that he holds his office only during good behavior, and that his welfare and the welfare of his people are one. Heih, the father of Confucius, was governor of one of these little States, and had impoverished himself in an effort to help his people. Heih was a man of seventy, wedded to a girl of seventeen, when their gifted son was born. When the boy was three years old the father died, and the lad's care and education depended entirely on the mother. This mother seems to have been a woman of rare mental and spiritual worth. She deliberately chose a life of poverty and honest toil for herself and child, rather than allow herself to be cared for by rich kinsmen. The boy was brought up in a village, and he was not allowed to think himself any better than the other village children, save as he proved himself so. He worked in the garden, tended the cattle and goats, mended the pathways, brought wood and water, and waited on his elders. Every evening his mother used to tell him of the feats of strength of his father, of his heroic qualities in friendship, of deeds of valor, of fidelity to trusts, of his absolute truthfulness, and his desire for knowledge in order that he might better serve his people. The coarse, plain fare, the long walks across the fields, the climbing of trees, the stooping to pull the weeds in the garden, the daily bath in the brook, all combined to develop the boy's body to a splendid degree. He went to bed at sundown, and at the first flush of dawn was up that he might see the sunrise. There were devotional rites performed by the mother and son, morning and evening, which consisted in the playing upon a lute and singing or chanting the beauty and beneficence of creation. Confucius, at fifteen, was regarded as a phenomenal musician, and the neighbors used to gather to hear him perform. At nineteen he was larger, stronger, comelier, more skilled, than any other youth of his age in all the country round. The simple quality of his duties as a prince can be guessed when we are told that his work as keeper of the herds required him to ride long distances on horseback to settle difficulties between rival herders. The range belonged to the State, and the owners of goats, sheep and cattle were in continual controversies. Montana and Colorado will understand this matter. Confucius summoned the disputants and talked to them long about the absurdity of quarreling and the necessity of getting together in complete understanding. Then it was that he first put forth his best-known maxim: "You should not do to others that which you would not have others do to you." This negative statement of the Golden Rule is found expressed in various ways in the writings of Confucius. A literal interpretation of the Chinese language is quite impossible, as the Chinese have single signs or symbols that express a complete idea. To state the same matter, we often use a whole page. Confucius had a single word which expressed the Golden Rule in such a poetic way that it is almost useless to try to convey it to people of the West. This word, which has been written into English as "Shu," means: My heart responds to yours, or my heart's desire is to meet your heart's desire, or I wish to do to you even as I would be done by. This sign, symbol or word Confucius used to carve in the bark of trees by the roadside. The French were filled with a like impulse when they cut the words Liberty, Fraternity, Equality, over the entrances to all public buildings. Confucius had his symbol of love and friendship painted on a board, which he stuck into the ground before the tent where he lodged; and finally it was worked upon a flag by some friends and presented to him, and became his flag of peace. His success in keeping down strife among the herders, and making peace among his people, soon gave him a fame beyond the borders of his own State. As a judge he had the power to show both parties where they were wrong, and arranged for them a common meeting-ground. His qualifications as an arbiter were not, however, limited to his powers of persuasion--he could shoot an arrow farther and hurl a spear with more accuracy than any man he ever met. Very naturally there are a great number of folklore stories concerning his prowess, some of which make him out a sort of combination Saint George and William Tell, with the added kingly graces of Alfred the Great. Omitting the incredible, we are willing to believe that this man had a giant's strength, but was great enough not to use it like a giant. We are willing to believe that when attacked by robbers, he engaged them in conversation and that, seated on the grass, he convinced them they were in a bad business. Also, he did not later hang them, as did our old friend Julius Cæsar under like conditions. When twenty-seven he ceased going abroad to hold court and settle quarrels, but sending for the disputants, they came, and he gave them a course of lectures in ethics. In a week, by a daily lesson of an hour's length, they were usually convinced that to quarrel is very foolish, since it reduces bodily vigor, scatters the mind, and disturbs the secretions, so the man is the loser in many ways. This seems to us like a very queer way to hold court, but Confucius maintained that men should learn to govern their tempers, do equity, and thus be able to settle their own disputes, and this without violence. "To fight decides who is the stronger, the younger and the more skilful in the use of arms, but it does not decide who is right. That is to be settled by the Heaven in your own heart." To let the Heaven into your heart, to cultivate a conscience so sensitive that it can conceive the rights of the other man, is to know wisdom. To decide specific cases for others he thought was to cause them to lose the power of deciding for themselves. When asked what a just man should do when he was dealing with one absolutely unjust, he said, "He who wrongs himself sows in his own heart nettles." And when some of his disciples, after the Socratic method, asked him how this helped the injured man, he replied, "To be robbed or wronged is nothing unless you continue to remember it." When pushed still further, he said, "A man should fight, only when he does so to protect himself or his family from bodily harm." Here a questioner asked, "If we are to protect our persons, must we not learn to fight?" And the answer comes, "The just man, he who partakes moderately of all good things, is the only man to fear in a quarrel, for he is without fear." Over and over is the injunction in varying phrase, "Abolish fear--abolish fear!" When pressed to give in one word the secret of a happy life, he gives a word which we translate, "Equanimity." The mother of Confucius died during his early manhood. For her he ever retained the most devout memories. Before going on a journey he always visited her grave, and on returning, before he spoke to any one, he did the same. On each anniversary of her death he ate no food and was not to be seen by his pupils. This filial piety, which is sometimes crudely and coarsely called "ancestor worship," is something which for the Western world is rather difficult to appreciate. But in it there is a subtle, spiritual significance, suggesting that it is only through our parents that we are able to realize consciousness or personal contact with Heaven. These parents loved us into being, cared for us with infinite patience in infancy, taught us in youth, watched with high hope our budding manhood; and as reward and recognition for the service rendered us, the least we can do is to remember them in all our prayers and devotions. The will of Heaven used these parents for us, therefore parenthood is divine. That this ancestor worship is beautiful and beneficial is quite apparent, and rightly understood no one could think of it as "heathendom." Confucius used to chant the praises of his mother, who brought him up in poverty, thus giving a close and intimate knowledge of a thousand things from which princes, used to ease and luxury, are barred. So close was he to nature and the plain people that he ordered that all skilful charioteers in his employ should belong to the nobility. This giving a title or degree to men of skill--men who can do things--we regard as essentially a modern idea. China, I believe, is the first country in the world to use the threads of a moth or worm for fabrics. The patience and care and inventive skill required in first making silk were very great. But it gives us an index to invention when we hear that Confucius regarded the making of linen, using the fiber of a plant, as a greater feat than utilizing the strands made by the silkworm. Confucius had a sort of tender sentiment toward the moth, similar to the sentiments which our vegetarian friends have toward killing animals for food. Confucius wore linen in preference to silk, for sentimental reasons. The silkworm dies at his task of making himself a cocoon, so to evolve in a winged joy, but falls a victim of man's cupidity. Likewise, Confucius would not drink milk from a cow until her calf was weaned, because to do so were taking an unfair advantage of the maternal instincts of the cow. It will thus be seen that Confucius had a very fair hold on the modern idea which we call "Monism," or "The One." He, too, said, "All is one." In his attitude toward all living things he was ever gentle and considerate. No other prophet so much resembles Confucius in doctrine as Socrates. But Confucius does not suffer from the comparison. He had a beauty, dignity and grace of person which the great Athenian did not possess. Socrates was more or less of a buffoon, and to many in Athens he was a huge joke--a town fool. Confucius combined the learning and graces of Plato with the sturdy, practical commonsense of Socrates. No one ever affronted or insulted him; many did not understand him, but he met prince or pauper on terms of equality. In his travels Confucius used often to meet recluses or monks--men who had fled the world in order to become saints. For these men Confucius had more pity than respect. "The world's work is difficult, and to live in a world of living, striving and dying men and women requires great courage and great love. Now we can not all run away, and for some to flee from humanity and to find solace in solitude is only another name for weakness." This sounds singularly like our Ralph Waldo who says, "It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinions; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the Great Man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude." Confucius is the first man in point of time to proclaim the divinity of service, the brotherhood of man, and the truth that in useful work there is no high nor low degree. In talking to a group of young men he says: "When I was keeper of the herds I always saw to it that all of my cattle were strong, healthy and growing, that there was water in abundance and plenty of feed. When I had charge of the public granaries I never slept until I knew that all was secure and cared for against the weather, and my accounts as true and correct as if I were going on my long journey to return no more. My advice is to slight nothing, forget nothing, never leave things to chance, nor say, 'Nobody will know--this is good enough.'" In all of his injunctions Confucius never has anything in mind beyond the present life. Of a future existence he knows nothing, and he seems to regard it as a waste of energy and a sign of weakness to live in two worlds at a time. "Heaven provides us means of knowing all about what is best here, and supplies us in abundance every material thing for present happiness, and it is our business to realize, to know, to enjoy." He taught rhetoric, mathematics, economics, the science of government and natural history. And always and forever running through the fabric of his teaching was the silken thread of ethics--man's duty to man, man's duty to Heaven. Music was to him a necessity, since "it brings the mind in right accord with the will of Heaven." Before he began to speak he played softly on a stringed instrument which perhaps would compare best with our guitar, but it was much smaller, and this instrument he always carried with him, suspended from his shoulder by a silken sash. Yet with all of his passion for music, he cautioned his disciples against using it as an end. It was merely valuable as an introduction to be used in attuning the mind and heart to an understanding of great truth. Confucius was seventy-two years old at his death. During his life his popularity was not great. When he passed away his followers numbered only about three thousand persons, and his "disciples," or the teachers who taught his philosophy, were seventy in number. There is no reason to suppose that Confucius assumed that a vast number of people would ever ponder his words or regard him as a prophet. At the time that Confucius lived, also lived Lao-tsze. As a youth Confucius visited Lao-tsze, who was then an old man. Confucius often quotes his great contemporary and calls himself a follower of Lao-tsze. The difference, however, between the men is marked. Lao-tsze's teachings are full of metaphysics and strange and mystical curiosities, while Confucius is always simple, lucid and practical. * * * * * Confucius has been revered for twenty centuries, revered simply as a man, not as a god or as a divinely appointed savior. He offered no reward of heaven, nor did he threaten non-believers with hell. He claimed no special influence nor relationship to the Unseen. In all his teachings he was singularly open, frank and free from all mystery or concealment. In reference to the supernatural he was an agnostic. He often said, "I do not know." He was always an inquirer, always a student, always open to conviction. History affords no instance of another individual who has been so well and so long loved, who still holds his place, and who, so far as his reasoning went, is unassailed and unassailable. Even the two other great religions in China that rival Confucianism--Buddhism and Taoism (the religion of Lao-tsze)--do not renounce Confucius: they merely seek to amend and augment him. During his lifetime Confucius made many enemies by his habit of frankly pointing out the foibles of society and the wrongs visited upon the people by officials who pretended to serve them. Of hypocrisy, selfishness, vanity, pretense, he was severe in his denunciation. Politicians at that time had the very modern habit of securing the office and then leaving all the details of the work to menials, they themselves pocketing the perquisites. As Minister of State, Confucius made himself both feared and detested on account of his habit of summoning the head of the office before him and questioning him concerning his duties. In fact, this insistence that those paid by the State should work for the State caused a combination to be formed against him, which finally brought about his deposition and exile, two things which troubled him but little, since one gave him leisure and the other opportunity for travel. The personal followers of Confucius did not belong to the best society; but immediately after his death, many who during his life had scorned the man made haste to profess his philosophy and decorate their houses with his maxims. Humanity is about the same, whether white or yellow, the round world over, and time modifies it but little. It will be recalled how John P. Altgeld was feared and hated by both press and pulpit, especially in the State and city he served. But rigor mortis had scarcely seized upon that slight and tired body before the newspapers that had disparaged the man worst were vying with one another in glowing eulogies and warm testimonials to his honesty, sincerity, purity of motive and deep insight. A personality which can neither be bribed, bought, coerced, flattered nor cajoled is always regarded by the many--especially by the party in power--as "dangerous." Vice, masked as virtue, breathes easier when the honest man is safely under the sod. The plain and simple style of Confucius' teaching can be gathered by the following sayings, selected at random from the canonical books of Confucianism, consisting of the teachings of the great master which were gathered together and grouped by his disciples and followers after his death: The men of old spoke little. It would be well to imitate them, for those who talk much are sure to say something it would be better to have left unsaid. Let a man's labor be proportioned to his needs. For he who works beyond his strength does but add to his cares and disappointments. A man should be moderate even in his efforts. Be not over-anxious to obtain relaxation or repose. For he who is so, will get neither. Beware of ever doing that which you are likely, sooner or later, to repent of having done. Do not neglect to rectify an evil because it may seem small, for, though small at first, it may continue to grow until it overwhelms you. As riches adorn a house, so does an expanded mind adorn and tranquillize the body. Hence it is that the superior man will seek to establish his motives on correct principles. The cultivator of the soil may have his fill of good things, but the cultivator of the mind will enjoy a continual feast. It is because men are prone to be partial toward those they love, unjust toward those they hate, servile toward those above them, arrogant to those below them, and either harsh or over-indulgent to those in poverty and distress, that it is so difficult to find any one capable of exercising a sound judgment with respect to the qualities of others. He who is incapable of regulating his own family can not be capable of ruling a nation. The superior man will find within the limits of his own home, a sufficient sphere for the exercise of all those principles upon which good government depends. How, indeed, can it be otherwise, when filial piety is that which should regulate the conduct of a people toward their prince; fraternal affection, that which should regulate the relations which should exist between equals, and the conduct of inferiors toward those above them; and paternal kindness, that which should regulate the bearing of those in authority toward those over whom they are placed? Be slow in speech, but prompt in action. He whose principles are thoroughly established will not be easily led from the right path. The cautious are generally to be found on the right side. By speaking when we ought to keep silence, we waste our words. If you would escape vexation, reprove yourself liberally and others sparingly. There is no use attempting to help those who can not help themselves. Make friends with the upright, intelligent and wise; avoid the licentious, talkative and vain. Disputation often breeds hatred. Nourish good principles with the same care that a mother would bestow on her newborn babe. You may not be able to bring them to maturity, but you will nevertheless be not far from doing so. The decrees of Heaven are not immutable, for though a throne may be gained by virtue, it may be lost by vice. There are five good principles of action to be adopted: To benefit others without being lavish; to encourage labor without being harsh; to add to your resources without being covetous; to be dignified without being supercilious; and to inspire awe without being austere. Also, we should not search for love or demand it, but so live that it will flow to us. Personal character can only be established on fixed principles, for if the mind be allowed to be agitated by violent emotions, to be excited by fear, or unduly moved by the love of pleasure, it will be impossible for it to be made perfect. A man must reason calmly, for without reason he would look and not see, listen and not hear. When a man has been helped around one corner of a square, and can not manage by himself to get around the other three, he is unworthy of further assistance. [Illustration: PYTHAGORAS] PYTHAGORAS Consult and deliberate before you act, that thou mayest not commit foolish actions. For 't is the part of a miserable man to speak and to act without reflection. But do that which will not afflict thee afterwards, nor oblige thee to repentance. --_Pythagoras_ PYTHAGORAS With no desire to deprive Mr. Bok of his bread, I wish to call attention to Pythagoras, who lived a little more than five hundred years before Christ. Even at that time the world was old. Memphis, which was built four thousand years ago, had begun to crumble into ruins. Troy was buried deep in the dust which an American citizen of German birth was to remove. Nineveh and Babylon were dying the death that success always brings, and the star of empire was preparing to westward wend its way. Pythagoras ushered in the Golden Age of Greece. All the great writers whom he immediately preceded, quote him and refer to him. Some admire him; others are loftily critical; most of them are a little jealous; and a few use him as a horrible example, calling him a poseur, a pedant, a learned sleight-of-hand man, a bag of books. Trial by newspaper was not invented in the time of Pythagoras; but personal vilification has been popular since Balaam talked gossip with his vis-a-vis. Anaxagoras, who gave up his wealth to the State that he might be free, and who was the teacher of Pericles, was a pupil of Pythagoras, and used often to mention him. In this way Pericles was impressed by the Pythagorean philosophy, and very often quotes it in his speeches. Socrates gave Pythagoras as an authority on the simple life, and stated that he was willing to follow him in anything save his injunction to keep silence. Socrates wanted silence optional; whereas Pythagoras required each of his pupils to live for a year without once asking a question or making an explanation. In aggravated cases he made the limit five years. In many ways Pythagoras reminds us of our friend Muldoon, both being beneficent autocrats, and both proving their sincerity by taking their own medicine. Pythagoras said, "I will never ask another to do what I have not done, and am not willing to do myself." To this end he was once challenged by his three hundred pupils to remain silent for a year. He accepted the defi, not once defending himself from the criticisms and accusations that were rained upon him, not once complaining, nor issuing an order. Tradition has it, however, that he made averages good later on, when the year of expiation was ended. There are two reasonably complete lives of Pythagoras, one by Diogenes Laertius, and another by Iamblichus. Personally, I prefer the latter, as Iamblichus, as might be inferred from his name, makes Pythagoras a descendant of �neas, who was a son of Neptune. This is surely better than the abrupt and somewhat sensational statement to the effect that his father was Apollo. * * * * * The birthplace of Pythagoras was Samos, an isle of Greece. He was born of wealthy but honest parents, who were much in love with each other--a requisite, says Pythagoras, for parentage on its highest plane. It is probable that Pythagoras was absolutely correct in his hypothesis. That he was a very noble specimen of manhood--physically and mentally--there is no doubt. He was tall, lithe, dignified, commanding and silent by nature, realizing fully that a handsome man can never talk as well as he looks. He was quite aware of his physical graces, and in following up the facts of his early life, he makes the statement that his father was a sea-captain and trader. He then incidentally adds that the best results are obtained for posterity where a man is absent from his family eleven months in the year. This is an axiom agreed upon by many modern philosophers, few of whom, however, live up to their ideals. Aristophanes, who was on friendly terms with some of the disciples of Pythagoras, suggested in one of his plays that the Pythagorean domestic time-limit should be increased at least a month for the good of all concerned. Plato, Xenophon and Aristotle make frequent references to Pythagoras. In order to impress men like these, the man must have taught a very exalted philosophy. In truth, Pythagoras was a teacher of teachers. And like all men who make a business of wisdom he sometimes came tardy off, and indulged in a welter of words that wrecked the original idea--if there were one. There are these three: Knowledge, Learning, Wisdom. And the world has until very recent times assumed that they were practically one and the same thing. Knowledge consists of the things we know, not the things we believe or the things we assume. Knowledge is a personal matter of intuition, confirmed by experience. Learning consists largely of the things we memorize and are told by persons or books. Tomlinson of Berkeley Square was a learned man. When we think of a learned man, we picture him as one seated in a library surrounded by tomes that top the shelves. Wisdom is the distilled essence of what we have learned from experience. It is that which helps us to live, work, love and make life worth living for all we meet. Men may be very learned, and still be far from wise. Pythagoras was one of those strange beings who are born with a desire to know, and who finally comprehending the secret of the Sphinx, that there is really nothing to say, insist on saying it. That is, vast learning is augmented by a structure of words, and on this is built a theogony. Practically he was a priest. Worked into all priestly philosophies are nuggets of wisdom that shine like stars in the darkness and lead men on and on. All great religions have these periods of sanity, otherwise they would have no followers at all. The followers, understanding little bits of this and that, hope finally to understand it all. Inwardly the initiates at the shrine of their own conscience know that they know nothing. When they teach others they are obliged to pretend that they, themselves, fully comprehend the import of what they are saying. The novitiate attributes his lack of perception to his own stupidity, and many great teachers encourage this view. "Be patient, and you shall some day know," they say, and smile frigidly. And when credulity threatens to balk and go no further, magic comes to the rescue and the domain of Hermann and Kellar is poached upon. Mystery and miracle were born in Egypt. It was there that a system was evolved, backed up by the ruler, of religious fraud so colossal that modern deception looks like the bungling efforts of an amateur. The government, the army, the taxing power of the State, were sworn to protect gigantic safes in which was hoarded--nothing. That is to say, nothing but the pretense upon which cupidity and self-hypnotized credulity battened and fattened. All institutions which through mummery, strange acts, dress and ritual, affect to know and impart the inmost secrets of creation and ultimate destiny, had their rise in Egypt. In Egypt now are only graves, tombs, necropolises and silence. The priests there need no soldiery to keep their secrets safe. Ammon-Ra, who once ruled the universe, being finally exorcised by Yaveh, is now as dead as the mummies who once were men and upheld his undisputed sway. * * * * * The Egyptians guarded their mysteries with jealous dread. We know their secret now. It is this--there are no mysteries. That is the only secret upon which any secret society holds a caveat. Wisdom can not be corraled with gibberish and fettered in jargon. Knowledge is one thing--palaver another. The Greek-letter societies of our callow days still survive in bird's-eye, and next to these come the Elks, who take theirs with seltzer and a smile, as a rare good joke, save that brotherhood and good-fellowship are actually a saving salt which excuses much that would otherwise be simply silly. All this mystery and mysticism was once official, and later, on being discarded by the authorities, was continued by the students as a kind of prank. Greek-letter societies are the rudimentary survivals of what was once an integral part of every college. Making dead languages optional was the last convulsive kick of the cadaver. And now a good many colleges are placing the seal of their disapproval on secret societies among the students; and the day is near when the secret society will not be tolerated, either directly or indirectly, as a part of the education of youth. All this because the sophomoric mind is prone to take its Greek-letter mysteries seriously, and regard the college curriculum as a joke of the faculty. If knowledge were to be gained by riding a goat, any petty crossroads, with its lodge-room over the grocery, would contain a Herbert Spencer; and the agrarian mossbacks would have wisdom by the scruff and detain knowledge with a tail-hold. There can be no secrets in life and morals, because Nature has so provided that every beautiful thought you know and every precious sentiment you feel, shall shine out of your face so that all who are great enough may see, know, understand, appreciate and appropriate. You can keep things only by giving them away. When Pythagoras was only four or five years old, his mother taught him to take his morning bath in the cold stream, and dry his baby skin by running in the wind. As he ran, she ran with him, and together they sang a hymn to the rising sun, that for them represented the god Apollo. This mother taught him to be indifferent to cold, heat, hunger, to exult in endurance, and to take a joy in the glow of the body. So the boy grew strong and handsome, and proud; and perhaps it was in those early years, from the mother herself, that he gathered the idea, afterward developed, that Apollo had appeared to his mother, and so great was the beauty of the god that the woman was actually overcome, it being the first god at which she had ever had a good look. The ambition of a great mother centers on her son. Pythagoras was filled with the thought that he was different, peculiar, set apart to teach the human race. Having compassed all there was to learn in his native place, and, as he thought, being ill appreciated, he started for Egypt, the land of learning. The fallacy that knowledge was a secret to be gained by word of mouth and to be gotten from books existed then as now. The mother of Pythagoras wanted her son to comprehend the innermost secrets of the Egyptian mysteries. He would then know all. To this end she sold her jewels, in order that her son might have the advantages of an Egyptian education. Women were not allowed to know the divine secrets--only just a few little ones. This woman wanted to know, and she said her son would learn, and tell her. The family had become fairly rich by this time, and influential. Letters were gotten from the great ones of Samos to the Secretary of State in Egypt. And so Pythagoras, aged twenty, "the youth with the beautiful hair," went on his journey to Egypt and knocked boldly at the doors of the temples at Memphis, where knowledge was supposed to be in stock. Religion then monopolized all schools and continued to do so for quite some time after Pythagoras was dead. He was turned away with the explanation that no foreigner could enter the sacred portals--that the initiates must be those born in the shadows of the temples and nurtured in the faith from infancy by holy virgins. Pythagoras still insisted, and it was probably then that he found a sponsor who made for him the claim that he was a son of Apollo. And the holy men peeped out of their peep-holes in holy admiration for any one who could concoct as big a lie as they themselves had ever invented. The boy surely looked the part. Perhaps, at last, here was one who was what they pretended to be! Frauds believe in frauds, and rogues are more easily captured by roguery than are honest men. His admittance to the university became a matter of international diplomacy. At last, being too hard-pressed, the wise ones who ran the mystery monopoly gave in, and Pythagoras was informed that at midnight of a certain night, he should present himself, naked, at the door of a certain temple and he would be admitted. On the stroke of the hour, at the appointed time, Pythagoras, the youth with the beautiful hair, was there, clothed only in his beautiful hair. He knocked on the great, bronze doors, but the only answer was a faint, hollow echo. Then he got a stone and pounded, but still no answer. The wind sprang up fresh and cold. The young man was chilled to the bone, but still he pounded and then called aloud demanding admittance. His answer now was the growling and barking of dogs, within. Still he pounded! After an interval a hoarse voice called out through a little slide, ordering him to be gone or the dogs would be turned loose upon him. He demanded admittance. "Fool, do you not know that the law says these doors shall admit no one except at sunrise?" "I only know that I was told to be here at midnight and I would be admitted." "All that may be true, but you were not told when you would be admitted--wait, it is the will of the gods." So Pythagoras waited, numbed and nearly dead. The dogs which he had heard had, in some way, gotten out, and came tearing around the corner of the great stone building. He fought them with desperate strength. The effort seemed to warm his blood, and whereas before he was about to retreat to his lodgings he now remained. The day broke in the east, and gangs of slaves went by to work. They jeered at him and pelted him with pebbles. Suddenly across the desert sands he saw the faint pink rim of the rising sun. On the instant the big bronze doors against which he was leaning swung suddenly in. He fell with them, and coarse, rough hands seized his hair and pulled him into the hall. The doors swung to and closed with a clang. Pythagoras was in dense darkness, lying on the stone floor. A voice, seemingly coming from afar, demanded, "Do you still wish to go on?" And his answer was, "I desire to go on." A black-robed figure, wearing a mask, then appeared with a flickering light, and Pythagoras was led into a stone cell. His head was shaved, and he was given a coarse robe and then left alone. Toward the end of the day he was given a piece of black bread and a bowl of water. This he was told was to fortify him for the ordeal to come. What that ordeal was we can only guess, save that it consisted partially in running over hot sands where he sank to his waist. At a point where he seemed about to perish a voice called loudly, "Do you yet desire to go on?" And his answer was, "I desire to go on." Returning to the inmost temple he was told to enter a certain door and wait therein. He was then blindfolded and when he opened the door to enter, he walked off into space and fell into a pool of ice-cold water. While floundering there the voice again called, "Do you yet desire to go on?" And his answer was, "I desire to go on." At another time he was tied upon the back of a donkey and the donkey was led along a rocky precipice, where lights danced and flickered a thousand feet below. "Do you yet want to go on?" called the voice. And Pythagoras answered, "I desire to go on." The priests here pushed the donkey off the precipice, which proved to be only about two feet high, the gulf below being an illusion arranged with the aid of lights that shone through apertures in the wall. These pleasing little diversions Pythagoras afterward introduced into the college which he founded, so to teach the merry freshmen that nothing, at the last, was as bad as it seemed, and that most dangers are simply illusions. The Egyptians grew to have such regard for Pythagoras that he was given every opportunity to know the inmost secrets of the mysteries. He said he encompassed them all, save those alone which were incomprehensible. This was probably true. The years spent in Egypt were not wasted--he learned astronomy, mathematics, and psychology, a thing then not named, but pretty well understood--the management of men. It was twenty years before Pythagoras returned to Samos. His mother was dead, so she passed away in ignorance of the secrets of the gods--which perhaps was just as well. Samos now treated Pythagoras with great honor. Crowds flocked to his lectures, presents were given him, royalty paid him profound obeisance. But Samos soon tired of Pythagoras. He was too austere, too severe; and when he began to rebuke the officials for their sloth and indifference, he was invited to go elsewhere and teach his science of life. And so he journeyed into Southern Italy, and at Crotona built his Temple to the Muses and founded the Pythagorean School. He was the wisest as well as the most learned man of his time. * * * * * Some unkind person has said that Pythagoras was the original charter member of the Jesuits Society. The maxim that the end justifies the means was the cornerstone of Egyptian theology. When Pythagoras left Egypt he took with him this cornerstone as a souvenir. That the priests could hold their power over the masses only through magic and miracle was fully believed, and as a good police system the value of organized religion was highly appreciated. In fact, no ruler could hold his place, unsupported by the priest. Both were divine propositions. One searches in vain for simple truth among the sages, solons, philosophers, poets and prophets that existed down to the time of Socrates. Truth for truth's sake was absolutely unimagined; freethought was unguessed. Expediency was always placed before truth. Truth was furnished with frills--the people otherwise would not be impressed. Chants, robes, ritual, processions, banging of bells, burning of incense, strange sounds, sights and smells: these were considered necessary factors in teaching divine truth. To worship with a noise seems to us a little like making love with a brass band. Pythagoras was a very great man, but for him to eliminate theological chaff entirely was impossible. So we find that when he was about to speak, red fire filled the building as soon as he arose. It was all a little like the alleged plan of the late Reverend T. DeWitt Talmage, who used to have an Irishman let loose a white pigeon from the organ-loft at an opportune time. When Pythagoras burned the red fire, of course the audience thought a miracle was taking place, unable to understand a simple stage-trick which all the boys in the gallery who delight in "Faust" now understand. However, the Pythagorean School had much virtue on its side, and made a sincere and earnest effort to solve certain problems that yet are vexing us. The Temple of the Muses, built by Pythagoras at Crotona, is described by Iamblichus as a stone structure with walls twenty feet thick, the light being admitted only from the top. It was evidently constructed after the Egyptian pattern, and the intent was to teach there the esoteric doctrine. But Pythagoras improved upon the Egyptian methods and opened his temple on certain days to all and any who desired to come. Then at times he gave lectures to women only, and then to men only, and also to children, thus showing that modern revival methods are not wholly modern. These lectures contain the very essence of Pythagorean philosophy, and include so much practical commonsense that they are still quoted. These are some of the sayings that impressed Socrates, Pericles, Aristotle and Pliny. What the Egyptians actually taught we really do not know--it was too gaseous to last. Only the good endures. Says Pythagoras: Cut not into the grape. Exaltation coming from wine is not good. You hope too much in this condition, so are afterwards depressed. Wise men are neither cast down in defeat nor exalted by success. Eat moderately, bathe plentifully, exercise much in the open air, walk far, and climb the hills alone. Above all things, learn to keep silence--hear all and speak little. If you are defamed, answer not back. Talk convinces no one. Your life and character proclaim you more than any argument you can put forth. Lies return to plague those who repeat them. The secret of power is to keep an even temper, and remember that no one thing that can happen is of much moment. The course of justice, industry, courage, moderation, silence, means that you shall receive your due of every good thing. The gods may be slow, but they never forget. It is not for us to punish men nor avenge ourselves for slights, wrongs and insults--wait, and you will see that Nemesis unhorses the man intent on calumny. A woman's ornaments should be modesty, simplicity, truth, obedience. If a woman would hold a man captive she can only do it by obeying him. Violent women are even more displeasing to the gods than violent men--both are destroying themselves. Strife is always defeat. Debauchery, riot, splendor, luxury, are attempts to get a pleasure out of life that is not our due, and so Nemesis provides her penalty for the idle and gluttonous. Fear and honor the gods. They guide our ways and watch over us in our sleep. After the gods, a man's first thought should be of his father and mother. Next to these his wife, then his children. So great was this power of Pythagoras over the people that many of the women who came, hearing his discourse on the folly of pride and splendor, threw off their cloaks, and left them with their rings, anklets and necklaces on the altar. With these and other offerings Pythagoras built another temple, this time to Apollo, and the Temple to the Muses was left open all the time for the people. His power over the multitude alarmed the magistrates, so they sent for him to examine him as to his influence and intents. He explained to them that as the Muses were never at variance among themselves, always living in subjection to Apollo, so should magistrates agree among themselves and think only of being loyal to the king. All royal edicts and laws are reflections of divine law, and therefore must be obeyed without question. And as the Muses never interrupt the harmony of Heaven, but in fact add to it, so should men ever keep harmony among themselves. All officers of the government should consider themselves as runners in the Olympian games, and never seek to trip, jostle, harass or annoy a rival, but run the race squarely and fairly, satisfied to be beaten if the other is the stronger and better man. An unfair victory gains only the anger of the gods. All disorders in the State come from ill education of the young. Children not brought up to be patient, to endure, to work, to be considerate of their elders and respectful to all, grow diseased minds that find relief at last in anarchy and rebellion. So to take great care of children in their infancy, and then leave them at puberty to follow their own inclinations, is to sow disorder. Children well loved and kept close to their parents grow up into men and women who are an ornament to the State and a joy to the gods. Lawless, complaining, restless, idle children grieve the gods and bring trouble upon their parents and society. The magistrates were here so pleased, and satisfied in their own minds that Pythagoras meant the State no harm, that they issued an order that all citizens should attend upon his lectures at least once a week, and take their wives and children with them. They also offered to pay Pythagoras--that is, put him on the payroll as a public teacher--but he declined to accept money for his services. In this, Iamblichus says, he was very wise, since by declining a fixed fee, ten times as much was laid upon the altar of the Temple of the Muses, and not knowing to whom to return it, Pythagoras was obliged to keep it for himself and the poor. * * * * * Churchmen of the Middle Ages worked the memory of Pythagoras great injustice by quoting him literally in order to prove how much they were beyond him. Symbols and epigrams require a sympathetic hearer, otherwise they are as naught. For instance, Pythagoras remarks, "Sit thou not down upon a bushel measure." What he probably meant was, get busy and fill the measure with grain rather than use it for a seat. "Eat not the heart"--do not act so as to harrow the feelings of your friends, and do not be morbid. "Never stir the fire with a sword"--do not inflame people who are wrathful. "Wear not the image of God upon your jewelry"--do not make religion a proud or boastful thing. "Help men to a burden, but never unburden them." This saying was used by Saint Francis to prove that the pagan philosophers had no tenderness, and that the humanities came at a later date. We can now easily understand that to relieve men of responsibilities is no help; rather do we grow strong by carrying burdens. "Leave not the mark of the pot upon the ashes"--wipe out the past, forget it, look to the future. "Feed no animal that has crooked claws"--do not encourage rogues by supplying them a living. "Eat no fish whose fins are black"--have nothing to do with men whose deeds are dark. "Always have salt upon your table"--this seems the original of "cum grano salis" of the Romans. "Leave the vinegar at a distance"--keep sweet. "Speak not in the face of the sun"--even Erasmus thought this referred to magic. To us it is quite reasonable to suppose that it meant, "do not talk too much in public places." "Pick not up what falls from the table"--Plutarch calls this superstition, but we can just as easily suppose it was out of consideration for cats, dogs or hungry men. The Bible has a command against gleaning too closely, and leaving nothing for the traveler. "When making sacrifice, never pare your nails"--that is to say, do one thing at a time: wind not the clock at an inopportune time. "Eat not in the chariot"--when you travel, travel. "Feed not yourself with your left hand"--get your living openly and avoid all left-handed dealings. And so there are hundreds of these Pythagorean sayings that have vexed our classic friends for over two thousand years. All Greek scholars who really pride themselves on their scholarship have taken a hand at them, and agitated the ether just as the members of the Kokomo Woman's Club discuss obscure passages in Bliss Carman or Ella Wheeler Wilcox. Learned people are apt to comprehend anything but the obvious. * * * * * The School of Pythagoras grew until it became the chief attraction of Crotona. The size of the town was doubled through the pilgrims who came to study music, mathematics, medicine, ethics and the science of government. The Pythagorean plan of treating the sick by music was long considered as mere incantation, but there is a suspicion now that it was actual science. Once there was a man who rode a hobby all his life; and long after he was dead, folks discovered it was a real live horse and had carried the man long miles. Pythagoras reduced the musical scale to a mathematical science. In astronomy he anticipated Copernicus, and indeed, it was cited as the chief offense of Copernicus that he had borrowed from a pagan. Copernicus, it seems, set the merry churchmen digging into Greek literature to find out just how bad Pythagoras was. This did the churchmen good, but did not help the cause of Copernicus. Pythagoras for a time sought to popularize his work, but he soon found to his dismay that he was attracting cheap and unworthy people, who came not so much out of a love of learning as to satisfy a morbid curiosity and gain a short cut to wisdom. They wanted secrets, and knowing that Pythagoras had spent twenty years in Egypt, they came to him, hoping to get them. Said Pythagoras, "He who digs, always finds." At another time, he put the same idea reversely, thus, "He who digs not, never finds." Pythagoras was well past forty when he married a daughter of one of the chief citizens of Crotona. It seems that, inspired by his wife, who was first one of his pupils and then a disciple, he conceived a new mode of life, which he thought would soon overthrow the old manner of living. Pythagoras himself wrote nothing, but all his pupils kept tablets, and Athens in the century following Pythagoras was full of these Pythagorean notebooks, and these supply us the scattered data from which his life was written. Pythagoras, like so many other great men, had his dream of Utopia: it was a college or, literally, "a collection of people," where all were on an equality. Everybody worked, everybody studied, everybody helped everybody, and all refrained from disturbing or distressing any one. It was the Oneida Community taken over by Brook Farm and fused into a religious and scientific New Harmony by the Shakers. One smiles to see the minute rules that were made for the guidance of the members. They look like a transcript from a sermon by John Alexander Dowie, revised by the shade of Robert Owen. This Pythagorean Community was organized out of a necessity in order to escape the blow-ins who sailed across from Greece intent on some new thing, but principally to get knowledge and a living without work. And so Pythagoras and his wife formed a close corporation. For each member there was an initiation, strict and severe, the intent of which was absolutely to bar the transient triflers. Each member was to turn over to the Common Treasury all the money and goods he had of every kind and quality. They started naked, just as did Pythagoras when he stood at the door of the temple in Egypt. Simplicity, truth, honesty and mutual service were to govern. It was an outcrop of the monastic impulse, save that women were admitted, also. Unlike the Egyptians, Pythagoras believed now in the equality of the sexes, and his wife daily led the women's chorus, and she also gave lectures. The children were especially cared for by women set apart as nurses and teachers. By rearing perfect children, it was hoped and expected to produce in turn a perfect race. The whole idea was a phase of totemism and tabu. That it flourished for about thirty years is very certain. Two sons and a daughter of Pythagoras grew to maturity in the college, and this daughter was tried by the Order on the criminal charge of selling the secret doctrines of her father to outsiders. One of the sons it seems made trouble, also, in an attempt to usurp his father's place and take charge of affairs, as "next friend." One generation is about the limit of a Utopian Community. When those who have organized the community weaken and one by one pass away, and the young assume authority, the old ideas of austerity are forgotten and dissipation and disintegration enter. So do we move in circles. The final blow to the Pythagorean College came through jealousy and misunderstanding of the citizens outside. It was the old question of Town versus Gown. The Pythagoreans numbered nearly three hundred people. They held themselves aloof, and no doubt had an exasperating pride. No strangers were ever allowed inside the walls--they were a law unto themselves. Internal strife and tales told by dissenters excited the curiosity, and then the prejudice, of the townspeople. Then the report got abroad that the Pythagoreans were collecting arms and were about to overthrow the local government and enslave the officials. On a certain night, led by a band of drunken soldiers, a mob made an assault upon the college. The buildings were fired, and the members were either destroyed in the flames or killed as they rushed forth to escape. Tradition has it that Pythagoras was later seen by a shepherd on the mountains, but the probabilities are that he perished with his people. But you can not dispose of a great man by killing him. Here we are reading, writing and talking yet of Pythagoras. [Illustration: PLATO] PLATO How well I remember the aged poet Sophocles, when in answer to the question, "How does love suit with age, Sophocles--are you still the man you were?" "Peace," he replied; "most gladly have I escaped that, and I feel as if I had escaped from a mad and furious master." That saying of his has often come into my mind since, and seems to me still as good as at the time when I heard him. For certainly old age has a great sense of calm and freedom; when the passions relax their hold, then, as Sophocles says, you have escaped from the control not of one master only, but of many. And of these regrets, as well as of the complaint about relations, Socrates, the cause is to be sought, not in men's ages, but in their characters and tempers; for he who is of a calm and happy nature will hardly feel the pressure of age, but he who is of an opposite disposition will find youth and age equally a burden. --_The Republic_ PLATO A thinking man is one of the most recent productions evolved from Nature's laboratory. The first man of brains to express himself about the world in an honest, simple and natural way, just as if nothing had been said about it before, was Socrates. Twenty-four centuries have passed since Socrates was put to death on the charge of speaking disrespectfully of the gods and polluting the minds of the youths of Athens. During ten of these centuries that have passed since then, the race lost the capacity to think, through the successful combination of the priest and the soldier. These men blocked human evolution. The penalty for making slaves is that you become one. To suppress humanity is to suppress yourself. The race is one. So the priests and the soldiers who in the Third Century had a modicum of worth themselves, sank and were submerged in the general slough of superstition and ignorance. It was a panic that continued for a thousand years, all through the endeavor of faulty men to make people good by force. At all times, up to within our own decade, frank expression on religious, economic and social topics has been fraught with great peril. Even yet any man who hopes for popularity as a writer, orator, merchant or politician, would do well to conceal studiously his inmost beliefs. On such simple themes as the taxation of real estate, regardless of the business of the owner, and a payment of a like wage for a like service without consideration of sex, the statesman who has the temerity to speak out will be quickly relegated to private life. Successful merchants depending on a local constituency find it expedient to cater to popular superstitions by heading subscription-lists for the support of things in which they do not believe. No avowed independent thinker would be tolerated as chief ruler of any of the so-called civilized countries. The fact, however, that the penalty for frank expression is limited now to social and commercial ostracism is very hopeful--a few years ago it meant the scaffold. We have been heirs to a leaden legacy of fear that has well-nigh banished joy and made of life a long nightmare. In very truth, the race has been insane. Hallucinations, fallacies, fears, have gnawed at our hearts, and men have fought men with deadly frenzy. The people who interfered, trying to save us, we have killed. Truly did we say, "There is no health in us," which repetition did not tend to mend the malady. We are now getting convalescent. We are hobbling out into the sunshine on crutches. We have discharged most of our old advisers, heaved the dulling and deadly bottles out of the windows, and are intent on studying and understanding our own case. Our motto is twenty-four centuries old--it is simply this: KNOW THYSELF. * * * * * Socrates was a street preacher, with a beautiful indifference as to whether people liked him or not. To most Athenians he was the town fool. Athens was a little city (only about one hundred fifty thousand), and everybody knew Socrates. The popular plays caricatured him; the topical songs misquoted him; the funny artists on the street-corners who modeled things in clay, while you waited, made figures of him. Everybody knew Socrates--I guess so! Plato, the handsome youth of nineteen, wearing a purple robe, which marked him as one of the nobility, paused to listen to this uncouth man who gave everything and wanted nothing. Ye gods! But it is no wonder they caricatured him--he was a temptation too great to resist. Plato smiled--he never laughed, being too well-bred for that. Then he sighed, and moved a little nearer in. "Individuals are nothing. The State is all. To offend the State is to die. The State is an organization and we are members of it. The State is only as rich as its poorest citizen. We are all given a little sample of divinity to study, model and marvel at. To understand the State you must KNOW THYSELF." Plato lingered until the little crowd had dispersed, and when the old man with the goggle-eyes and full-moon face went shuffling slowly down the street, he approached and asked him a question. This man Socrates was no fool--the populace was wrong--he was a man so natural and free from cant that he appeared to the triflers and pretenders like a pretender, and they asked, "Is he sincere?" What Plato was by birth, breeding and inheritance, Socrates was by nature--a noble man. Up to this time the ambition of Plato had been for place and power--to make the right impression on the people in order to gain political preferment. He had been educated in the school of the Sophists, and his principal studies were poetry, rhetoric and deportment. And now straightway he destroyed the manuscript of his poems, for in their writing he had suddenly discovered that he had not written what he inwardly believed was true, but simply that which he thought was proper and nice to say. In other words, his literature had been a form of pretense. Daily thereafter, where went Socrates there went Plato. Side by side they sat on the curb--Socrates talking, questioning the bystanders, accosting the passers-by; Plato talking little, but listening much. Socrates was short, stout and miles around. Plato was tall, athletic and broad-shouldered. In fact, the word, "plato," or "platon," means broad, and it was given him as a nickname by his comrades. His correct name was Aristocles, but "Plato" suited him better, since it symbols that he was not only broad of shoulder, but likewise in mind. He was not only noble by birth, but noble in appearance. Emerson calls him the universal man. He absorbed all the science, all the art, all the philosophy of his day. He was handsome, kindly, graceful, gracious, generous, and lived and died a bachelor. He never collided with either poverty or matrimony. * * * * * Plato was twenty-eight years old when Socrates died. For eight years they had been together daily. After the death of Socrates, Plato lived for forty-six years, just to keep alive the name and fame of the great philosopher. Socrates comes to us through Plato. Various other contemporaries mention Socrates and quote him, some to his disadvantage, but it was left for Plato to give us the heart of his philosophy, and limn his character for all time in unforgetable outline. Plato is called the "Pride of Greece." His contribution to the wealth of the world consists in the fact that he taught the joys of the intellect--the supreme satisfaction that comes through thinking. This is the pure Platonic philosophy: to find our gratifications in exalted thought and not in bodily indulgence. Plato's theory that five years should be given in early manhood to abstract thought, abstaining from all practical affairs, so as to acquire a love for learning, has been grafted upon a theological stalk and comes down to our present time. It has, however, now been discarded by the world's best thinkers as a fallacy. The unit of man's life is the day, not the month or year, much less a period of five years. Each day we must exercise the mind, just as each day we must exercise the body. We can not store up health and draw upon it at will over long-deferred periods. The account must be kept active. To keep physical energy we must expend physical energy every day. The opinion of Herbert Spencer that thought is a physical function--a vibration set up in a certain area of brain-cells--is an idea never preached by Plato. The brain, being an organ, must be used, not merely in one part for five years to the exclusion of all other parts, but all parts should be used daily. To this end the practical things of life should daily engage our attention, no less than the contemplation of beauty as manifest in music, poetry, art or dialectics. The thought that every day we should look upon a beautiful picture, read a beautiful poem, or listen for a little while to beautiful music, is highly scientific, for this contemplation and appreciation of harmony is a physical exercise as well as a spiritual one, and through it we grow, develop, evolve. That we could not devote five years of our time to purely esthetic exercises, to the exclusion of practical things, without very great risk, is now well known. And when I refer to practical affairs, I mean the effort which Nature demands we should put forth to get a living. Every man should live like a poor man, regardless of the fact that he may have money. Nature knows nothing of bank-balances. In order to have an appetite for dinner, you must first earn your dinner. If you would sleep at night, you must first pay for sweet sleep by physical labor. * * * * * Plato was born on the Island of �gina, where his father owned an estate. His mother was a direct descendant of Solon, and his father, not to be outdone, traced to Codrus. The father of Socrates was a stonecutter and his mother a midwife, so very naturally the son had a beautiful contempt for pedigree. Socrates once said to Plato, "Anybody can trace to Codrus--by paying enough to the man who makes the family-tree." This seems to show that genealogy was a matter of business then as now, and that nothing is new under the sun. Yet with all his contempt for heredity, we find Socrates often expressing pride in the fact that he was a "native son," whereas Plato, Aspasia, the mother of Themistocles, and various other fairly good people, were Athenian importations. Socrates belonged to the leisure class and had plenty of time for extended conversazione, so just how much seriousness we should mix in his dialogues is still a problem. Each palate has to season to suit. Also, we can never know how much is Socrates and how much essence of Plato. Socrates wrote nothing, and Plato ascribes all of his wisdom to his master. Whether this was simple prudence or magnanimity is still a question. The death of Socrates must have been a severe blow to Plato. He at once left Athens. It was his first intention never to return. He traveled through the cities of Greece, Southern Italy and down to Egypt, and everywhere was treated with royal courtesies. After many solicitations from Dionysius, Tyrant of Syracuse, he went to visit that worthy, who had a case of philosophic and literary scabies. Dionysius prided himself on being a Beneficent Autocrat, with a literary and artistic attachment. He ruled his people, educated them, cared for them, disciplined them. Some people call this slavery; others term it applied socialism. Dionysius wanted Syracuse to be the philosophic center of the world, and to this end Plato was importuned to make Syracuse his home and dispense his specialty--truth. This he consented to do. It was all very much like the arrangement between Mæcenas and Horace, or Voltaire and Frederick the Great. The patron is a man who patronizes--he wants something, and the particular thing that Dionysius wanted was to have Plato hold a colored light upon the performances of His Altruistic, Beneficent, Royal Jackanapes. But Plato was a simple, honest and direct man: he had caught the habit from Socrates. Charles Ferguson says that the simple life does not consist in living in the woods and wearing overalls and sandals, but in getting the cant out of one's cosmos and eliminating the hypocrisy from one's soul. Plato lived the simple life. When he spoke he stated what he thought. He discussed exploitation, war, taxation, and the Divine Right of Kings. Kings are very unfortunate--they are shut off and shielded from truth on every side. They get their facts at second hand and are lied to all day long. Consequently they become in time incapable of digesting truth. A court, being an artificial fabric, requires constant bracing. Next to capital, nothing is so timid as a king. Heine says that kings have to draw their nightcaps on over their crowns when they go to bed, in order to keep them from being stolen, and that they are subject to insomnia. Walt Whitman, with nothing to lose--not even a reputation or a hat--was much more kingly walking bareheaded past the White House than Nicholas of Russia or Alfonso of Spain can ever possibly be. Dionysius thought that he wanted a philosophic court, but all he wanted was to make folks think he had a philosophic court. Plato supplied him the genuine article, and very naturally Plato was soon invited to vacate. After he had gone, Dionysius, fearful that Plato would give him a bad reputation in Athens--somewhat after the manner and habit of the "escaped nun"--sent a fast-rowing galley after him. Plato was arrested and sold into slavery on his own isle of �gina. This all sounds very tragic, but the real fact is it was a sort of comedy of errors--as a king's doings are when viewed from a safe and convenient distance. De Wolf Hopper's kings are the real thing. Dionysius claimed that Plato owed him money, and so he got out a body-attachment, and sold the philosopher to the highest bidder. This was a perfectly legal proceeding, being simply peonage, a thing which exists in some parts of the United States today. I state the fact without prejudice, merely to show how hard custom dies. Plato was too big a man conveniently either to secrete or kill. Certain people in Athens plagiarized Doctor Johnson who, on hearing that Goldsmith had debts of several thousand pounds, in admiration exclaimed, "Was ever poet so trusted before!" Other good friends ascertained the amount of the claim and paid it, just as Colonel H. H. Rogers graciously cleared up the liabilities of Mark Twain, after the author of "Huckleberry Finn" had landed his business craft on a sandbar. And so Plato went free, arriving back in Athens, aged forty, a wiser and a better man than when he left. * * * * * Nothing absolves a reputation like silence and absence, or what the village editors call "the grim reaper." To live is always more or less of an offense, especially if you have thoughts and express them. Athens exists, in degree, because she killed Socrates, just as Jerusalem is unforgetable for a similar reason. The South did not realize that Lincoln was her best friend until the assassin's bullet had found his brain. Many good men in Chicago did not cease to revile their chiefest citizen, until the ears of Altgeld were stopped and his hands stiffened by death. The lips of the dead are eloquent. Plato's ten years of absence had given him prestige. He was honored because he had been the near and dear friend of Socrates, a great and good man who was killed through mistake. Most murders and killings of men, judicial and otherwise, are matters of misunderstandings. Plato had been driven out of Syracuse for the very reasons that Socrates had been killed at Athens. And now behold, when Dionysius saw how Athens was honoring Plato, he discovered that it was all a mistake of his bookkeeper, so he wrote to Plato to come back and all would be forgiven. * * * * * Those who set out to live the Ideal Life have a hard trail to travel. The road to Jericho is a rocky one--especially if we are a little in doubt as to whether it really is the road to Jericho or not. Perhaps if we ever find the man who lives the Ideal Life he will be quite unaware of it, so occupied will he be in his work--so forgetful of self. Time had taught Plato diplomacy. He now saw that to teach people who did not want to be taught was an error in judgment for which one might forfeit his head. Socrates was the first Democrat: he stood for the demos--the people. Plato would have done the same, but he saw that the business was extra hazardous, to use the phrase of our insurance friends. He who works for the people will be destroyed by the people. Hemlock is such a rare and precious commodity that few can afford it; the cross is a privilege so costly that few care to pay the price. The genius is a man who first states truths; and all truths are unpleasant on their first presentation. That which is uncommon is offensive. "Who ever heard anything like that before?" ask the literary and philosophic hill tribes in fierce indignation. Says James Russell Lowell, "I blab unpleasant truths, you see, that none may need to state them after me." Plato was a teacher by nature: this was his business, his pastime, and the only thing in life that gave him joy. But he dropped back to the good old ways of making truth esoteric as did the priests of Egypt, instead of exoteric as did Socrates. He founded his college in the grove of his old friend Academus, a mile out of Athens on the road to Eleusis. In honor of Academus the school was called "The Academy." It was secluded, safe, beautiful for situation. In time Plato bought a tract of land adjoining that of Academus, and this was set apart as the permanent school. All the teaching was done out of doors, master and pupils seated on the marble benches, by the fountain-side, or strolling through the grounds, rich with shrubs and flowers and enlivened by the song of birds. The climate of Athens was about like that of Southern California, where the sun shines three hundred days in the year. Plato emphasized the value of the spoken word over the written, a thing he could well afford to do, since he was a remarkably good writer. This for the same reason that the only man who can afford to go ragged is the man with a goodly bank-balance. The shibboleth of the modern schools of oratory is, "We grow through expression." And Plato was the man who first said it. Plato's teaching was all in the form of the "quiz," because he believed that truth was not a thing to be acquired from another--it is self-discovery. Indeed, we can imagine it was very delightful--this walking, strolling, lying on the grass, or seated in semicircles, indulging in endless talk, easy banter, with now and then a formal essay read to start the vibrations. Here it was that Aristotle came from his wild home in the mountains of Macedonia, to remain for twenty years and to evolve into a rival of the master. We can well imagine how Aristotle, the mountain-climber and horseman, at times grew heartily tired of the faultily faultless garden with its high wall and graveled walks and delicate shrubbery, and shouted aloud in protest, "The whole world of mountain, valley and plain should be our Academy, not this pent-up Utica that contracts our powers." Then followed an argument as to the relative value of talking about things or doing them, or Poetry versus Science. Poetry, philosophy and religion are very old themes, and they were old even in Plato's day; but natural science came in with Aristotle. And science is only the classification of the common knowledge of the common people. It was Aristotle who named things, not Adam. He contended that the classification and naming of plants, rocks and animals was quite as important as to classify ideas about human happiness and make guesses at the state of the soul after death. Of course he got himself beautifully misunderstood, because he was advocating something which had never been advocated before. In this lay his virtue, that he outran human sympathy, even the sympathy of the great Plato. Yet for a while the unfolding genius of this young barbarian was a great joy to Plato, as the earnest, eager intellect of an ambitious pupil always is to his teacher. Plato was great in speculation; Aristotle was great in observation. Well has it been said that it was Aristotle who discovered the world. And Aristotle in his old age said, "My attempts to classify the objects of Nature all came through Plato's teaching me first how to classify ideas." And forty years before this Plato had said, "It was Socrates who taught me this game of the correlation and classification of thoughts." * * * * * The writings of Plato consist of thirty-five dialogues, and one essay which is not cast in the dramatic form--"The Apology." These dialogues vary in length from twenty pages, of, say, four hundred words each, to three hundred pages. In addition to these books are many quotations from Plato and references to him by contemporary writers. Plato's work is as impersonal as that of Shakespeare. All human ideas, shades of belief, emotions and desires pass through the colander of his mind. He allows everybody to have his say. What Plato himself thought can only be inferred, and this each reader does for himself. We construct our man Plato in our own image. A critic's highest conception of Plato's philosophy is the highest conception of the critic's own. We, however, are reasonably safe in assuming that Plato's own ideas were put into the mouth of Socrates, for the one intent of Plato's life was to redeem Socrates from the charges that had been made against him. The characters Shakespeare loved are the ones that represent the master, not the hated and handmade rogues. Plato's position in life was that of a spectator rather than that of an actor. He stood and saw the procession pass by, and as it passed, commented on it. He charged his pupils no tuition and accepted no fees, claiming that to sell one's influence or ideas was immoral. It will be remembered that Byron held a similar position at the beginning of his literary career, and declared i' faith, he "would not prostitute his genius for hire." He gave his poems to the world. Later, when his income was pinched, he began to make bargains with Barabbas and became an artist in per centum, collecting close, refusing to rhyme without collateral. Byron's humanity is not seriously disputed. Plato also was human. He had a fixed income and so knew the worthlessness of riches. He issued no tariff, but the goodly honorarium left mysteriously on a marble bench by a rich pupil he accepted, and for it gave thanks to the gods. He said many great things, but he never said this: "I would have every man poor that he might know the value of money." "The Republic" is the best known and best read of any of Plato's dialogues. It outlines an ideal form of government where everybody would be healthy, happy and prosperous. It has served as inspiration to Sir Thomas More, Erasmus, Jean Jacques Rousseau, William Morris, Edward Bellamy, Brigham Young, John Humphrey Noyes and Eugene Debs. The sub-division of labor, by setting apart certain persons to do certain things--for instance, to care for the children--has made its appeal to Upton Sinclair, who jumped from his Utopian woodshed into a rubber-plant and bounced off into oblivion. Plato's plan was intended to relieve marriage from the danger of becoming a form of slavery. The rulers, teachers and artists especially were to be free, and the State was to assume all responsibilities. The reason is plain: he wanted them to reproduce themselves. But whether genius is an acquirement or a natural endowment he touches on but lightly. Also, he seemingly did not realize "that no hovel is safe from it." If all marriage-laws were done away with, Plato thought that the men and women who were mated would still be true to each other, and that the less the police interfered in love-relations, the better. In one respect at least, Plato was certainly right: he advocated the equality of the sexes, and declared that no woman should be owned by a man nor forced into a mode of life, either by economic exigency or marriage, that was repulsive to her. Also, that her right to bear children or not should be strictly her own affair, and to dictate to a mother as to who should father her children tended to the production of a slavish race. The eugenics of "The Republic" were tried for thirty years by the Oneida Community with really good results, but one generation of communal marriages was proved to be the limit, a thing Plato now knows from his heights in Elysium, but which he in his bachelor dreams on earth did not realize. In his division of labor each was to do the thing he was best fitted to do, and which he liked to do. It was assumed that each person had a gift, and that to use this gift all that was necessary was to give him an opportunity. That very modern cry of "equality of opportunity" harks back to Plato. The monastic impulse was a very old thing, even in the time of Plato. The monastic impulse is simply cutting for sanctuary when the pressure of society gets intense--a getting rid of the world by running away from it. This usually occurs when the novitiate has exhausted his capacity for sin, and so tries saintship in the hope of getting a new thrill. Plato had been much impressed by the experiments of Pythagoras, who had actually done the thing of which Plato only talked. Plato now picked the weak points in the Pythagorean philosophy and sought, in imagination, to construct a fabric that would stand the test of time. However, all Utopias, like all monasteries and penitentiaries, are made up of picked people. The Oneida Community was not composed of average individuals, but of people who were selected with great care, and only admitted after severe tests. And great as was Plato, he could not outline an ideal plan of life except for an ideal people. To remain in the world of work and share the burdens of all--to ask for nothing which other people can not have on like terms--not to consider yourself peculiar, unique and therefore immune and exempt--is now the ideal of the best minds. We have small faith in monasticism or monotheism, but we do have great faith in monism. We believe in the Solidarity of the Race. We must all progress together. Whether Pythagoras, John Humphrey Noyes and Brigham Young were ahead of the world or behind it is really not to the point--the many would not tolerate them. So their idealism was diluted with danger until it became as somber, sober and slaty-gray as the average existence, and fades as well as shrinks in the wash. A private good is no more possible for a community than it is for an individual. We help ourselves only as we advance the race--we are happy only as we minister to the whole. The race is one, and this is monism. And here Socrates and Plato seemingly separate, for Socrates in his life wanted nothing, not even joy, and Plato's desire was for peace and happiness. Yet the ideal of justice in Plato's philosophy is very exalted. No writer in that flowering time of beauty and reason which we call "The Age of Pericles" exerted so profound an influence as Plato. All the philosophers that follow him were largely inspired by him. Those who berated him most were, very naturally, the ones he had most benefited. Teach a boy to write, and the probabilities are that his first essay, when he has cut loose from his teacher's apron-strings and starts a brownie bibliomag, will be in denunciation of the man who taught him to push the pen and wield the Faber. Xenophon was more indebted, intellectually, to Plato than to any other living man, yet he speaks scathingly of his master. Plutarch, Cicero, Iamblichus, Pliny, Horace and all the other Roman writers read Plato religiously. The Christian Fathers kept his work alive, and passed it on to Dante, Petrarch and the early writers of the Renaissance, so all of their thought is well flavored with essence of Plato. Well does Addison put into the mouth of Cato those well-known words: It must be so--Plato, thou reasonest well!-- Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality? Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 'T is the divinity that stirs within us; 'T is heaven itself, that points out an hereafter, And intimates eternity to man. All of that English group of writers in Addison's day knew their Plato, exactly as did Cato and the other great Romans of near two thousand years before. From Plato you can prove that there is a life after this for each individual soul, as Francis of Assisi proved, or you can take your Plato, as did Hume, and show that man lives only in his influence, his individual life returning to the mass and becoming a part of all the great pulsing existence that ebbs and flows through plant and tree and flower and flying bird. And today we turn to Plato and find the corroboration of our thought that to live now and here, up to our highest and best, is the acme of wisdom. We prepare to live by living. If there is another world we better be getting ready for it. If heaven is an Ideal Republic it is founded on unselfishness, truth, reciprocity, equanimity and co-operation, and only those will be at home there who have practised these virtues here. Man was made for mutual service. This way lies Elysium. Plato was a teacher of teachers, and like every other great teacher who has ever lived, his soul goes marching on, for to teach is to influence, and influence never dies. Hail, Plato! [Illustration: KING ALFRED] KING ALFRED A saint without superstition, a scholar without ostentation, a warrior who fought only in defense of his country, a conqueror whose laurels were never stained with cruelty, a prince never cast down by adversity, nor lifted up to insolence in the hour of triumph--there is no other name in English history to compare with his. --_Freeman_ KING ALFRED Julius Cæsar, the greatest man of initiative the world has ever seen, had a nephew known as Cæsar Augustus. The grandeur that was Rome occurred in the reign of Augustus. It was Augustus who said, "I found your city mud and I left it marble!" The impetus given to the times by Julius Cæsar was conserved by Augustus. He continued the work his uncle had planned, but before he had completed it, he grew very weary, and the weariness he expressed was also the old age of the nation. There was lime in the bones of the boss. When Cæsar Augustus said, "Rome is great enough--here we rest," he merely meant that he had reached his limit, and had had enough of road-building. At the boundaries of the Empire and the end of each Roman road he set up a statue of the god Terminus. This god gave his blessing to those going beyond, and a welcome to those returning, just as the Stars and Stripes welcome the traveler coming to America from across the sea. This god Terminus also supplied the world, especially the railroad world, a word. Julius Cæsar reached his terminus and died, aged fifty-six, from compulsory vaccination. Augustus, aged seventy-seven, died peacefully in bed. The reign of Augustus marks the crest of the power of Rome, and a crest is a place where no man nor nation stays--when you reach it, you go over and down on the other side. When Augustus set up his Termini, announcing to all mankind that this was the limit, the enemies of Rome took courage and became active. The Goths and Vandals, hanging on the skirts of Rome, had learned many things, and one of the things was that, for getting rich quick, conquest is better than production. The barbarians, some of whom evidently had a sense of humor, had a way of picking up the Termini and carrying them inward, and finally they smashed them entirely, somewhat as country boys, out hunting, shoot railroad-signs full of holes. * * * * * In the Middle Ages the soldier was supreme, and in the name of protecting the people he robbed the people, a tradition much respected, but not in the breach. To escape the scourge of war, certain families and tribes moved northward. It was fight and turmoil in Southern Europe that settled Norway, Sweden and Denmark, and produced the Norsemen. And in making for themselves a home in the wilderness, battling with the climate and unkind conditions, there was evolved a very strong and sturdy type of man. On the north shore of the Baltic dwelt the Norsemen. Along the southern shore were scattered several small tribes or families who were not strong enough in numbers to fight the Goths, and so sought peace with them, and were taxed--or pillaged--often to the point of starvation. They were so poor and insignificant that the Romans really never heard of them, and they never heard of the Romans, save in myth and legend. They lived in caves and rude stone huts. They fished, hunted, raised goats and farmed, and finally, about the year Three Hundred, they secured horses, which they bought from the Goths, who stole them from the Romans. Their Government was the Folkmoot, the germ of the New England Town Meeting. All the laws were passed by all the people, and in the making of these laws, the women had an equal voice with the men. When important steps were to be taken where the interests of the whole tribe were at stake, great deference was paid to the opinions of the mothers. For the mother spoke not only for herself, but for her children. The mother was the home-maker. The word "wife" means weaver; and this deference to the one member of the family who invented, created, preparing both the food and the clothing, is a marked Teutonic instinct. Its survival is seen yet in the sturdy German of the middle class, who takes his wife and children with him when he goes to the concert or to the beer-garden. So has he always taken his family with him on his migrations; whereas the Greeks and the Romans left their women behind. South America was colonized by Spanish men. And the Indians and the Negroes absorbed the haughty grandee, yet preserved the faults and failings of both. The German who moves to America comes to stay--his family is a part of himself. The Italian comes alone, and his intent is to make what he can and return. This is a modified form of conquest. The Romans who came to Brittany in Cæsar's time were men. Those who remained "took to themselves wives among the daughters of Philistia," as strong men ever are wont to do when they seek to govern savage tribes. And note this--instead of raising the savages or barbarians to their level, they sink to theirs. The child takes the status of the mother. The white man who marries an Indian woman becomes an Indian and their children are Indians. With the Negro race the same law holds. The Teutonic races have conquered the world because they took their women with them on their migrations, mental and physical. And the moral seems to be this, that the men who progress financially, morally and spiritually are those who do not leave their women-folk behind. * * * * * When we think of the English, we usually have in mind the British Isles. But the original England was situated along the southern shore of the Baltic Sea. This was the true Eng-Land, the land of the Engles or Angles. To one side lay Jute-Land, the home of the Jutes. On the other was Saxony, where dwelt the Saxons. Jute-Land still lives in Jutland; the land of the Saxons is yet so indicated on the map; but Eng-Land was transported bodily a thousand miles, and her original territory became an abandoned farm where barbarians battled. And now behold how England has diffused herself all over the world, with the British Isles as a base of supplies, or a radiating center. Behind this twenty miles of water that separates Calais and Dover she found safety and security, and there her brain and brawn evolved and expanded. So there are now Anglo-Americans, Anglo-Africans, Anglo-Indians, Anglo-Australians, and Anglo-New-Zealanders. As the native Indians of America and the Maoris of New Zealand have given way before the onward push and persistence of the English, so likewise did the ancient Britons give way and were absorbed by the Anglo-Saxons; and then the Saxons, being a little too fine for the stern competitor, allowed the Engles to take charge. And as Dutch, Germans, Slavs and Swedes are transformed with the second generation into English-Americans when they come to America, so did the people from Eng-Land fuse Saxons, Norsemen, Jutes, Celts and Britons into one people and fix upon them the indelible stamp of Eng-Land. Yet it is obvious that the characters of the people of England have been strengthened, modified and refined by contact with the various races she has met, mixed with and absorbed. To influence others is to grow. Had England been satisfied to people and hold the British Isles, she would ere this have been outrun and absorbed by Spain or France. To stand still is to retreat. It is the same with men as it is with races. England's Colonies have been her strength. They have given her poise, reserve, ballast--and enough trouble to prevent either revolution, stagnation or introspection. Nations have their periods of youth, manhood and old age. Whether England is now passing into decline, living her life in her children, the Colonies, might be indelicate to ask. Perhaps as Briton, Celt, Jute and Saxon were fused to make that hardy, courageous, restless and sinewy man known as the Englishman, so are the English, the Dutch, the Swede, the German, the Slav, transplanted into America, being fused into a composite man who shall surpass any type that the world has ever seen. In the British Isles, just as in the great cities, mankind gets pot-bound. In the newer lands, the roots strike deep into the soil, and find the sustenance the human plant requires. Walls keep folks in as well as shut other folks out. The British Isles, rock-faced and sea-girted, shut out the enemies of England without shutting the English in. A country surrounded by the sea produces sailors, and England's position bred a type of man that made her mistress of the seas. As her drum-taps, greeting the rising sun, girdle the world, so do her lighthouses flash protection to the mariner wherever the hungry sea lies in wait along rocky coasts, the round world over. England has sounded the shallows, marked the rocks and reefs, and mapped the coasts. The first settlement of Saxons in Britain occurred in the year Four Hundred Forty-nine. They did not come as invaders, as did the Romans five hundred years before; their numbers were too few, and their arms too crude to mean menace to the swarthy, black-haired Britons. These fair stranger-folk were welcomed as curiosities and were allowed to settle and make themselves homes. Word was sent back to Saxony and Jute-Land and more settlers came. In a few years came a shipload of Engles, with their women and children, red-haired, freckled, tawny. They tilled the soil with a faith and an intelligence such as the Britons never brought to bear: very much as the German settlers follow the pioneers and grow rich where the Mudsock fails. Naturally the fair-haired girls found favor in the sight of the swarthy Britons. Marriages occurred, and a new type of man-child appeared as the months went by. More Engles came. A century passed, and the coast, from Kent to the Firth of Forth, was dotted with the farms and homes of the people from the Baltic. There were now occasional protests from the original holders, and fights followed, when the Britons retreated before the strangers, or else were very glad to make terms. Victory is a matter of staying-power. The Engles had come to stay. But a new enemy had appeared--the Norsemen or Danes. These were sea-nomads who acknowledged no man as master. Rough, bold, laughing at disaster, with no patience to build or dig or plow, they landed but to ravish, steal and lay waste, and then boarded their craft, sailing away, joying in the ruin they had wrought. The next year they came back. The industry and the thrift of the Engles made Britain a land of promise, a storehouse where the good things of life could be secured much more easily than by creating or producing them. And so now, before this common foe, the Britons, Jutes, Celts, Saxons and Engles united to punish and expel the invaders. The calamity was a blessing--as most calamities are. From being a dozen little kingdoms, Britain now became one. A "Cyng," or captain, was chosen--an Engle, strong of arm, clear of brain, blue of eye, with long yellow hair. He was a man who commanded respect by his person and by his deeds. His name was Egbert. King Alfred, or Elfred, was born at Wantage, Berkshire, in the year Eight Hundred Forty-nine. He was the grandson of Egbert, a great man, and the son of Ethelwulf, a man of mediocre qualities. Alfred was shrewd enough to inherit the courage and persistence of his grandfather. Our D. A. R. friends are right and Mark Twain is wrong--it is really more necessary to have a grandfather than a father. English civilization begins with Alfred. If you will refer to the dictionary you will find that the word "civilization" simply means to be civil. That is, if you are civilized you are gentle instead of violent--gaining your ends by kindly and persuasive means, instead of through coercion, intimidation and force. Alfred was the first English gentleman, and let no joker add "and the last." Yet it is needless and quite irrelevant to say that civilized people are not always civil; nor are gentlemen always gentle--so little do words count. Many gentlemen are only gents. Alfred was civil and gentle. He had been sent to Rome in his boyhood, and this transplantation had done him a world of good. Superior men are always transplanted men: people who do not travel have no perspective. To stay at home means getting pot-bound. You neither search down in the soil for color and perfume nor reach out strong toward the sunshine. It was only a few years before the time of Alfred that a Christian monk appeared at Edin-Borough, and told the astonished Engles and Saxons of the gentle Jesus, who had been sent to earth by the All-Father to tell men they should love their enemies and be gentle and civil and not violent, and should do unto others as they would be done by. The natural religion of the Great Spirit which the ancient Teutonic people held had much in it that was good, but now they were prepared for something better--they had the hope of a heaven of rest and happiness after death. Christianity flourishes best among a downtrodden, poor, subdued and persecuted people. Renan says it is a religion of sorrow. And primitive Christianity--the religion of conduct--is a beautiful and pure doctrine that no sane person ever flouted or scoffed. The parents of Alfred, filled with holy zeal, allowed one of the missionary monks to take the boy to Rome. The idea was that he should become a bishop in the Church. Ethelred, the elder brother of Alfred, had succeeded Ethelwulf, his father, as King. The Danes had overrun and ravished the country. For many years these marauding usurpers had fed their armies on the products of the land. And now they had more than two-thirds of the country under their control, and the fear that they would absolutely subjugate the Anglo-Saxons was imminent. Ethelwulf gave up the struggle in despair and died. Ethelred fell in battle. And as the Greeks of old in their terror cast around for the strongest man they could find to repel the Persian invaders, and picked on the boy Alexander, so did the Anglo-Saxons turn to Alfred, the gentle and silent. He was only twenty-three years old. In build he was slight and slender, but he had given token of his courage for four years, fighting with his brother. He had qualities that were closely akin to those of both Alexander and Cæsar. He had a cool, clear and vivid intellect and he had invincible courage. But he surpassed both of the men just named in that he had a tender, sympathetic heart. The Danes were overconfident, and had allowed their discipline to relax. Alfred had at first evidently encouraged them in their idea that they had won, for he struck feebly and then withdrew his army to the marshes, where the Danish horsemen could not follow. The Danes went into winter quarters, fat and feasting. Alfred made a definite plan for a campaign, drilled his men, prayed with them, and filled their hearts with the one idea that they were going forth to certain victory. And to victory they went. They fell upon the Danes with an impetuosity as unexpected as it was invincible, and before they could get into their armor, or secure their horses, they were in a rout. Every timid Engle and Saxon now took heart--it was the Lord's victory--they were fighting for home--the Danes gave way. This was not all accomplished quite as easily as I am writing it, but difficulties, deprivations and disaster only brought out new resources in Alfred. He was as serenely hopeful as was Washington at Valley Forge, and his soldiers were just as ragged. He, too, like Thomas Paine, cried, "These are the times that try men's souls--be grateful for this crisis, for it will give us opportunity to show that we are men." He had aroused his people to a pitch where the Danes would have had to kill them all, or else give way. As they could not kill them they gave way. Napoleon at twenty-six was master of France and had Italy under his heel, and so was Alfred at the same age supreme in Southern Britain--including Wessex and Mercia. He rounded up the enemy, took away their weapons, and then held a revival-meeting, asking everybody to come forward to the mourners'-bench. There is no proof that he coerced them into Christianity. They were glad to accept it. Alfred seemed to have the persuasive power of the Reverend Doctor Torrey. Guthrum, the Danish King, who had come over to take a personal hand in the looting, was captured, baptized, and then Alfred stood sponsor for him and gave him the name of Ethelstan. He was made a bishop. This acceptance of Christianity by the leaders of the Danes broke their fierce spirit, and peace followed. Alfred told the soldiers to use their horses to plow the fields. The two armies that had fought each other now worked together at road-making and draining the marshes. Some of the Danes fled in their ships, but very many remained and became citizens of the country. The Danish names are still recognizable. Names beginning with the aspirate, say Herbert, Hulett, Hubbard, Hubbs, Harold, Hancock, are Danish, and are the cause of that beautiful muddling of the "H" that still perplexes the British tongue, the rule governing which is to put it on where it is not needed and leave it off where it is. The Danes called the Engles, "Hengles," and the Engles called a man by the name of Henry, "Enry." In saving Wessex, Alfred saved England for the English people; for it was from Wessex, as a center, that his successors began the task of reconquering England from the Danes. * * * * * With the rule of Alfred begins the England that we know. As we call Herodotus the father of history, so could we, with equal propriety, call Asser, who wrote in the time of Alfred, the father of English history. The oldest English book is the "Life of Alfred" by Asser the monk. That Asser was a dependent on his subject and very much in love with him, doubtless gave a very strong bias to the book. That it is right in the main, although occasionally wrong as to details, is proved by various corroborating records. The king's word in Alfred's time was law, and Alfred proved his modesty by publicly proclaiming that a king was not divine, but only a man, and therefore a king's edicts should be endorsed by the people in Folkmoot. Here we get the genesis of popular government, and about the only instance that I can recall where a very strong man acting as chief ruler renounced a part of his power to the people, of his own accord. Kings usually have to be trimmed, and it is revolution that does the shearing. It is the rule that men do not relinquish power of their own accord--they have to be disannexed from it. Alfred, however, knew the popular heart--he was very close to the common people. He had slept on the ground with his soldiers, fared at table with the swineherd's family, tilled the soil with the farmer folk. His heart went out to humanity. He did not overrate the average mind, nor did he underrate it. He had faith in mankind, and knew that at the last power was with the people. He did not say, "Vox populi, vox Dei," but he thought it. Therefore he set himself to educating the plain people. He prophesied a day when all grown men would be able to read and write, and when all would have an intelligent, personal interest in the government. There have been periods in English history when Britain lagged woefully behind, for England has had kings who forgot the rights of mankind, and instead of seeking to serve their people, have battened and fattened upon them. They governed. George the Third thought that Alfred was a barbarian, and spoke of him with patronizing pity. Alfred introduced the system of trial by jury, although the fact has been pointed out that he did not originate it. It goes back to the hardy Norseman who acknowledged no man as master, harking back to a time when there was no law, and to a people whose collective desire was supreme. In fact, it has its origin in "Lynch Law," or the rule of the Vigilantes. From a village turning loose on an offender and pulling him limb from limb, a degree of deliberation comes in and a committee of twelve are selected to investigate the deed and report their verdict. The jury system began with pirates and robbers, but it is no less excellent on that account, and we might add that freedom also began with pirates and robbers, for they were the people who cried, "We acknowledge no man as master." The early Greeks had trials by jury--Socrates was tried by a jury of five hundred citizens. But let the fact stand that Alfred was the man who first introduced the jury system into England. He had absolute power. He was the sole judge and ruler, but on various occasions he abdicated the throne and said: "I do not feel able to try this man, for as I look into my heart I see that I am prejudiced. Neither will I name men to try him, for in their selection I might also be prejudiced. Therefore let one hundred men be called, and from these let twelve be selected by lot, and they shall listen to the charges and weigh the defense, and their verdict shall be mine." We sometimes say that English Common Law is built on the Roman Law, but I can not find that Alfred ever studied the Roman Law, or ever heard of the Justinian Code, or thought it worth while to establish a system of jurisprudence. His government was of the simplest sort. He respected the habits, ways and customs of the common people, and these were the Common Law. If the people had a footpath that was used by their children and their parents and their grandparents, then this path belonged to the people, and Alfred said that even the King could not take it from them. This deference to the innocent ways, habits and natural rights of the people mark Alfred as supremely great, because a great man is one great in his sympathies. Alfred had the imagination to put himself in the place of the lowly and obscure. The English love of law, system and order dates from Alfred. The patience, kindliness, good-cheer and desire for fair play were his, plus. He had poise, equanimity, unfaltering faith and a courage that never grew faint. He was as religious as Cromwell, as firm as Washington, as stubborn as Gladstone. In him were combined the virtues of the scholar and patriot, the efficiency of the man of affairs with the wisdom of the philosopher. His character, both public and private, is stainless, and his whole life was one of enlightened and magnanimous service to his country. * * * * * In the age of Augustus there was one study that was regarded as more important than all others, and this was rhetoric, or the art of the rhetor. The rhetor was a man whose business it was to persuade or convince. The public forum has its use in the very natural town-meeting, or the powwow of savages. But in Rome it had developed and been refined to a point where the public had no voice, although the boasted forum still existed. The forum was monopolized by the professional orators hired by this political clique or that. It was about like the political "forum" in America today. The greatest man in Rome was the man who could put up the greatest talk. So all Roman mammas and matrons had their boys study rhetoric. The father of Seneca had a school of oratory where rich Roman youths were taught to mouth in orotund and gesticulate in curves. He must have been a pretty good teacher, for he had two extraordinary sons, one of whom is mentioned in the Bible, and a most exemplary daughter. Oratory as an end we now regard as an unworthy art. The first requisite is to feel deeply--to have a message--and then if you are a person of fair intelligence and in good health, you'll impress your hearers. But to hire out to impress people with another's theme is to be a pettifogger, and the genus pettifogger has nearly had his day. History moves in circles. The Chicago Common Council, weary of rhetoric, has recently declined to listen to paid attorneys; but any citizen who speaks for himself and his neighbors can come before the Council and state his case. Chief Justice Fuller has given it as his opinion that there will come a day in America when damage-cases will be taken care of by an automatic tribunal, without the help of lawyers. And as a man fills out a request for a money-order at the Post-Office, so will he file his claim for damages, and it will have attention. The contingent fee will yet be a misdemeanor. Also, it will be possible for plain citizens to be able to go before a Court of Equity and be heard without regard to law and precedent and attorney's quillets and quibbles, which so often hamper justice. Justice should be cheap and easy, instead of costly and complex. Evidently the Chief Justice had in mind the usages in the time of King Alfred, when the barrister was an employee of the court, and his business was to get the facts and then explain them to the King in the fewest possible words. Alfred considered a paid advocate, or even a counselor, as without the pale, and such men were never allowed at court. If the barrister accepted a fee from a man suing for justice, he was disbarred. Finally, however, the practise of feeing in order to renew the zeal of a barrister grew so that it had to be tolerated, because things we can't suppress we license, and a pocket was placed on each barrister's back between his shoulders where he could not reach it without taking off his gown, and into this pocket clients were allowed slyly to slip such gratuities as they could afford. But the general practise of the client paying the barrister, instead of the court, was not adopted for several hundred years later, and then it was regarded as an expeditious move to keep down litigation and punish the client for being fool enough not to settle his own troubles. In England the rudimentary pocket still survives, like the buttons on the back of a coat, which were once used to support the sword-belt. In America we have done away with wigs and gowns for attorneys, but attorneys are still regarded as attaches of the court, even though one-half of them, according to Judge DeCourcy of Boston, are engaged most of the time in attempts to bamboozle and befog the judge and jury and defeat the ends of justice. Likewise, we still use the word "Court," signifying the place where lives royalty, even for the dingy office of a country J. P., where sawdust spittoons are the bric-a-brac and patent-office reports loom large, and justice is dispensed with. We now also commonly call the man "the Court." * * * * * Alfred was filled with a desire to educate, and to this end organized a school at the Ox Ford, where his friend Asser taught. This school was the germ of the University of Oxford. Attached to this school was a farm, where the boys were taught how to sow and plant and reap to the best advantage. Here they also bred and raised horses and cattle, and the care of livestock was a part of the curriculum. It was the first College of Agriculture. It comes to us as somewhat of a surprise to see how we are now going back to simplicity, and the agricultural college is being given the due and thoughtful consideration which it deserves. Twenty years ago our agricultural college was considered more or less of a joke, but now that which adds greatly to the wealth of the nation, and the happiness and well-being of the people, is looked upon as worthy of our support and highest respect. Up to the time of Alfred, England had no navy. For the government to own ships seemed quite preposterous, since the people had come to England to stay, and were not marauders intent on exploitation and conquest, like the Norsemen. But after Alfred had vanquished the Danes and they had settled down as citizens, he took their ships, refitted them, built more and said: "No more marauders shall land on these shores. If we are threatened we will meet the enemy on the sea." In a few years along came a fleet of marauding Norse. The English ships on the lookout gave the alarm, and England's navy put out to meet them. The enemy were taken by surprise, and the fate that five hundred years later was to overtake the Spanish Armada, was theirs. From that time to this, England has had a navy that has gradually grown in power. Let no one imagine that peace and rest came to Alfred. His life was a battle, for not only did he have to fight the Danes, but he had to struggle with ignorance, stupidity and superstition at home. To lead men out of captivity is a thankless task. They always ask when you take away their superstition, "What are you going to give us in return?" They do not realize that superstition is a disease, and that to give another disease in return is not nice, necessary or polite. Alfred died, at the age of fifty-two, worn out with his ceaseless labors of teaching, building, planning, inventing and devising methods and means for the betterment and benefit of his people. After his death, the Danes were successful, and Canute became King of England. But he was proud to be called an Englishman, and declared he was no longer a Dane. And so England captured him. Then came the Norman William, claiming the throne by right of succession, and successfully battling for it; but the English people reckoned the Conqueror as of their own blood--their kith and kin--and so he was. He issued an edict forbidding any one to call him or his followers "Norman," "Norse" or "Norsemen," and declared there was a United England. And so he lived and died an Englishman; and after him no ruler, these nine hundred years, has ever sat on the throne of the Engles by right of conquest. Both Canute and William recognized and prized the worth of Alfred's rule. The virtues of Alfred are the virtues that have made it possible for the Teutonic tribes to girdle the globe. It was Alfred who taught the nobility of industry, service, education, patience, loyalty, persistence, and the faith and hope that abide. By pen, tongue, and best of all by his life, Alfred taught the truths which we yet hold dear. And by this sign shall ye conquer! [Illustration: ERASMUS] ERASMUS We see not a few mortals who, striving to emulate this divine virtue with more zeal than success, fall into a feeble and disjointed loquacity, obscuring the subject and burdening the wretched ears of their hearers with a vacant mass of words and sentences crowded together beyond all possibility of enjoyment. And writers who have tried to lay down the principles of this art have gained no other result than to display their own poverty while expounding abundance. --_Erasmus on "Preaching"_ ERASMUS Erasmus was born in Fourteen Hundred Sixty-six, and died in Fifteen Hundred Thirty-six. No thinker of his time influenced the world more. He stood at a pivotal point, and some say he himself was the intellectual pivot of the Renaissance. The critics of the times were unanimous in denouncing him--which fact recommends him to us. Several Churchmen, high in power, live in letters for no other reason than because they coupled their names with that of Erasmus by reviling him. Let the critics take courage--they may outwit oblivion yet, even though they do nothing but carp. Only let them be wise, and carp, croak, cough, cat-call and sneeze at some one who is hitching his wagon to a star. This way immortality lies. Erasmus was a monk who flocked by himself, and found diversion in ridiculing monkery. Also, he was the wisest man of his day. Wisdom is the distilled essence of intuition, corroborated by experience. Learning is something else. Usually, the learned man is he who has delved deep and soared high. But few there be who dive, that fish the murex up. Among those who soar, the ones who come back and tell us of what they have seen, are few. Like Lazarus, they say nothing. Erasmus had a sense of humor. Humor is a life-preserver and saves you from drowning when you jump off into a sea of sermons. A theologian who can not laugh is apt to explode--he is very dangerous. Erasmus, Luther, Beecher, Theodore Parker, Roger Williams, Joseph Parker--all could laugh. Calvin, Cotton Mather and Jonathan Edwards never gurgled in glee, nor chortled softly at their own witticisms--or those of others. Erasmus smiled. He has been called the Voltaire of his day. What Rousseau was to Voltaire, Luther was to Erasmus. Well did Diderot say that Erasmus laid the egg which Luther hatched. Erasmus wrote for the educated, the refined, the learned--Luther made his appeal to the plain and common mind. Luther split the power of the Pope. Erasmus thought it a calamity to do so, because he believed that strife of sects tended to make men lose sight of the one essential in religion--harmony--and cause them simply to struggle for victory. Erasmus wanted to trim the wings of the papal office and file its claws--Luther would have destroyed it. Erasmus considered the Church a very useful and needful organization--for social reasons. It tended to regulate life and conduct and made men "decentable." It should be a school of ethics, and take a leading part in every human betterment. Man being a gregarious animal, the congregation is in the line of natural desire. The excuse for gathering together is religion--let them gather. The Catholic Church is not two thousand years old--it is ten thousand years old and goes back to Egypt. The birth of Jesus formed merely a psychosis in the Church's existence. Here he parted company with Luther, who was a dogmatist and wanted to debate his ninety-five theses. Erasmus laughed at all religious disputations and called them mazes that led to cloudland. Very naturally, people said he was not sincere, since the mediocre mind never knows that only the paradox is true. Hence Erasmus was hated by Catholics and denounced by Protestants. The marvel is that the men with fetters and fagots did not follow him with a purpose. Fifty years later he would have been snuffed out. But at that time Rome was so astonished to think that any one should criticize her that she lost breath. Besides, it was an age of laughter, of revolt, of contests of wit, of love-bouts and love-scrapes, and the monks who lapsed were too many to discipline. Everybody was busy with his own affairs. Happy time! Erasmus was part and parcel of the Italian Renaissance. Over his head blazes, in letters that burn, the unforgetable date, Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two. He was a part of the great unrest, and he helped cause the great unrest. Every great awakening, every renaissance, is an age of doubt. An age of conservatism is an age of moss, of lichen, of rest, rust and ruin. We grow only as we question. As long as we are sure that the present order is perfect, we button our collars behind, a thing which Columbus, Luther, Melanchthon, Erasmus, Michelangelo, Leonardo and Gutenberg, who all lived at this one time, never did. The year of Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two, like the year Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six, was essentially "infidelic," just as the present age is constructively iconoclastic. We are tearing down our barns to build greater. The railroadman who said, "I throw an engine on the scrap-heap every morning before breakfast," expressed a great truth. We are discarding bad things for good ones, and good things for better ones. * * * * * Rotterdam has the honor of being the birthplace of Erasmus. A storm of calumny was directed at him during his life concerning the irregularity of his birth. "He had no business to be born at all," said a proud prelate, as he gathered his robes close around his prebendal form. But souls knock at the gates of life for admittance, and the fact that a man exists is proof of his right to live. The word "illegitimate" is not in the vocabulary of God. If you do not know that, you have not read His instructive and amusing works. The critics variously declared the mother of Erasmus was a royal lady, a physician's only daughter, a kitchen-wench, a Mother Superior--all according to the prejudices preconceived. In one sense she was surely a Mother Superior--let the lies neutralize one another. The fact is, we do not know who the mother of Erasmus was. All we know is that she was the mother of Erasmus. Here history halts. Her son once told Sir Thomas More that she was married to a luckless nobody a few months after the birth of her first baby, and amid the cares of raising a goodly brood of nobodies on a scant allowance of love and rye-bread, she was glad to forget her early indiscretions. Not so the father. The debated question of whether a man really has any parental love is answered here. The father of Erasmus was Gerhard von Praet, and the child was called Gerhard Gerhards--or the son of Gerhard. The father was a man of property and held office under the State. At the time of the birth of the illustrious baby, Gerhard von Praet was not married, and it is reasonable to suppose that the reason he did not wed the mother of his child was because she belonged to a different social station. In any event the baby was given the father's name, and every care and attention was paid the tiny voyager. This father was as foolish as most fond mothers, for he dreamed out a great career for the motherless one, and made sundry prophecies. At six years of age the child was studying Latin, when he should have been digging in a sand-pile. At eight he spoke Dutch and French, and argued with his nurse in Greek as to the value of buttermilk. In the meantime the father had married and settled down in honorable obscurity as a respectable squire. Another account has it that he became a priest. Anyway, the little maverick was now making head alone in a private school. When the lad was thirteen the father died, leaving a will in which he provided well for the child. The amount of property which by this will would have belonged to our hero when he became of age would have approximated forty thousand dollars. Happily, the trustees of the fund were law-wolves. They managed to break the will, and then they showed the court that the child was a waif, and absolutely devoid of legal rights of any and every kind. He was then committed to an orphan asylum to be given "a right religious education." It's a queer old world, Terese, and what would have become of Gerhard Gerhards had he fallen heir to his father's titles and estate, no man can say. He might have accumulated girth and become an honored burgomaster. As it was he became powder-monkey to a monk, and scrubbed stone floors and rushed the growler for cowled and pious prelates. Then he did copying for the Abbe, and proved himself a boy from Missouri Valley. He was small, blue-eyed, fair-haired, slender, slight, with a long nose and sharp features. "With this nose," said Albrecht Durer, many years later, "he successfully hunted down everything but heresy." At eighteen he became a monk and proudly had his flaxen poll tonsured. His superior was fond of him, and prophesied that he would become a bishop or something. Children do not suffer much, nor long. God is good to them. They slide into an environment and accept it. This child learned to dodge the big bare feet of the monks--got his lessons, played a little, worked his wit against their stupidity, and actually won their admiration--or as much of it as men who are alternately ascetics and libertines can give. It was about this time that the lad was taunted with having no name. "Then I'll make one for myself," was his proud answer. Having entered now upon his novitiate, he was allowed to take a new name, and being dead to the world, the old one was forgotten. They called him Brother Desiderius, or the Desired One. He then amended this Latin name with its Greek equivalent, Erasmus, which means literally the Well-Beloved. As to his pedigree, or lack of it, he was needlessly proud. It set him apart as different. He had half-brothers and half-sisters, and these he looked upon as strangers. When they came to see him, he said, "There is no relationship between souls save that of the spirit." His sense of wit came in when he writes to a friend: "Two parents are the rule; no parents the exception; a mother but no father is not uncommon; but I had a father and never had a mother. I was nursed by a man, and educated by monks, all of which shows that women are more or less of a superfluity in creation. God Himself is a man. He had one son, but no daughters. The cherubim are boys. All of the angels are masculine, and so far as Holy Writ informs us, there are no women in heaven." That it was a woman, however, to whom Erasmus wrote this, lets him out on the severity of the argument. He was a joker. And while women did not absorb much of his time, we find that on his travels he often turned aside to visit with intellectual women--no other kind interested him, at all. * * * * * To belong to a religious order is to be owned by it. You trade freedom for protection. The soul of Erasmus revolted at life in a monastery. He hated the typical monks--their food, their ways of life, their sophistry, their stupidity. To turn glutton and welcome folly as a relief from religion, he said, was the most natural thing in the world, when men had once started in to lead an unnatural life. Good food, daintily served, only goes with a co-ed mental regimen. Men eat with their hands, out of a pot, unless women are present to enforce the decencies. Women alone are a little more to be pitied than men alone, if 't were possible. Through emulation does the race grow. Sex puts men and women on their good behavior. Man's desire for power has caused him to enslave himself. Writes Erasmus, "In a monastery, no one is on his good behavior, except when there are visitors, but I am told that this is so in families." The greasy, coarse cooking brought on a nice case of dyspepsia for poor Erasmus--a complaint from which he was never free as long as he lived. His system was too fine for any monastic general trough, but he found a compensation in having his say at odd times and sundry. At one time we hear of his printing on a card this legend, "If I owned hell and a monastery, I would sell the monastery and reside in hell." Thereby did Erasmus supply General Tecumseh Sherman the germ of a famous orphic. Sherman was a professor in a college at Baton Rouge before the War, and evidently had moused in the Latin classics to a purpose. Connected with the monastery where Erasmus lived was a printing-outfit. Our versatile young monk learned the case, worked the ink-balls, manipulated the lever, and evidently dispelled, in degree, the monotony of the place by his ready pen and eloquent tongue. When he wrote, he wrote for his ear. All was tested by reading the matter aloud. At that time great authors were not so wise or so clever as printers, and it fell to the lot of Erasmus to improve upon the text of much of the copy that was presented. Erasmus learned to write by writing; and among modern prose-writers he is the very first who had a distinct literary style. His language is easy, fluid, suggestive. His paragraphs throw a shadow, and are pregnant with meaning beyond what the lexicon supplies. This is genius--to be bigger than your words. If Erasmus had been possessed of a bit more patience and a jigger of diplomacy, he would have been in line for a bishopric. That thing which he praised so lavishly, Folly, was his cause of failure and also his friend. At twenty-six he was the best teacher and the most clever scholar in the place. Also, he was regarded as a thorn in the side of the monkery, since he refused to take it seriously. He protested that no man ever became a monk of his own accord--he was either thrust into a religious order by unkind kinsmen or kicked into it by Fate. And then comes the Bishop of Cambray, with an attack of literary scabies, looking for a young religieux who could correct his manuscript. The Bishop was going to Paris after important historical facts, and must have a competent secretary. Only a proficient Latin and Greek scholar would do. The head of the monastery recommended Erasmus, very much as Artemus Ward volunteered all of his wife's relatives for purposes of war. Andrew Carnegie once, when about to start for Europe, said to his ironmaster, Bill Jones, "I am never so happy or care-free, Bill, as when on board ship, headed for Europe, and the shores of Sandy Hook fade from sight." And Bill solemnly replied, "Mr. Carnegie, I can truthfully say for myself and fellow-workers, that we are never so happy and care-free as when you are on board ship, headed for Europe." Very properly Mr. Carnegie at once raised Bill's salary five thousand a year. The Carthusian Brothers parted with Erasmus in pretended tears, but the fact was they were more relieved than bereaved. And then began the travels of Erasmus. The Bishop was of middle age, with a dash of the cavalier in his blood, which made him prefer a saddle to the cushions of a carriage. And so they started away on horseback, the Bishop ahead, followed at a discreet distance by Erasmus, his secretary; and ten paces behind with well-loaded panniers, rode a servant as rearguard. To be free and face the world and on a horse! Erasmus lifted up his heart in a prayer of gratitude. He said that it was the first feeling of thankfulness he had ever experienced, and it was the first thing which had ever come to him worth gratitude. And so they started for Paris. Erasmus looked back and saw the monastery, where he had spent ten arduous years, fade from view. It was the happiest moment he had ever known. The world lay beyond. * * * * * The Bishop of Cambray introduced Erasmus to a mode of life for which he was eminently fitted. It consisted in traveling, receiving honors, hospitality and all good things in a material way, and giving his gracious society in return. Doors flew open on the approach of the good Bishop. Everywhere he went a greeting was assured. He was a Churchman--that was enough. Erasmus shared in the welcomes, for he was handsome in face and figure, had a ready tongue, and could hold his own with the best. Europe was then dotted with monasteries, nunneries and other church institutions. Their remains are seen there yet--one is really never out of sight of a steeple. But the exclusive power of the Church is gone, and in many places there are only ruins where once were cloisters, corridors, chapels, halls and gardens teeming with life and industry. The "missions" of California were founded on the general plan of the monasteries of Europe. They afforded a lodging for the night--a resting-place for travelers--and were a radiatory center of education--at least all of the education that then existed. In California these "missions" were forty miles apart--one day's journey. In France, Italy and Germany they were, say, ten miles apart. Between them, trudged or rode on horseback or in carriages, a picturesque array of pilgrims, young and old, male and female. To go anywhere and be at home everywhere, this was the happy lot of a church dignitary. The parts in church institutions were interchangeable; and by a system of migration, life was made agreeable, and reasonable honesty was assured. I have noticed that certain Continental banking institutions, with branches in various cities, keep their cashiers rotating. The idea was gotten from Rome. Rome was very wise--her policies were the crystallizations of the world-wisdom of centuries. The church-militant battle-cry, "The world for Christ," simply means man's lust for ownership, with Christ as an excuse. If ever there was a man-made institution, it is the Church. To control mankind has been her desire, and the miracle is that, with a promise of heaven, a threat of hell, and a firm grip on temporal power--social and military--she was ever induced partially to loosen her grip. To such men as Savonarola, Luther and Erasmus, do we owe our freedom. These men cared more for truth than for power, and their influence was to disintegrate the ankylosis of custom and make men think. And a thought is mental dynamite. No wonder the Church has always feared and hated a thinker! The Bishop of Cambray was not a thinker. Fenelon, who was later to occupy his office, was to make the bishopric of Cambray immortal. Conformists die, but heretics live on forever. They are men who have redeemed the cross and rendered the gallows glorious. * * * * * And so the Bishop of Cambray and his little light-haired secretary fared forth to fame and fortune--the Bishop to be remembered because he had a secretary, and the secretary to be remembered because he grew into a great teacher. At each stopping-place the Bishop said mass--the workers, students and novitiates quitting their tasks to hear the words of encouragement from the lips of the great man. Occasionally Erasmus was pushed forward to say a few words, by the Bishop, who had to look after his own personal devotions. The assembled friends liked the young man--he was so bright and witty and free from cant. They even laughed out loud, and so, often two smiles were made to grow where there were no smiles before. Leisurely they rode--stopping at times for several days at places where the food and drink were at their best, and the society sulphide. At nunneries and monasteries were always guest-chambers for the great, and they were usually occupied. Thus it was that every church-house was a sort of university, depending of course on the soul-size of the Superior or Abbe. These constant journeyings and pilgrimages served in lieu of the daily paper, the Western Union Telegraph, and the telephone. Things have slipped back, I fear me, for now Mercury merely calls up his party on the long-distance, instead of making a personal visit--the Angel Gabriel as well. We save time, but we miss the personal contact. The monastic impulse was founded on a human need. Like most good things, it has been sadly perverted; but the idea of a sanctuary for stricken souls--a place of refuge, where simplicity, service and useful endeavor rule--will never die from out the human heart. The hospice stands for hospitality, but we have now only a hotel and a hospital. The latter stands for iodoform, carbolic acid and formaldehyde; the former often means gold, glitter, gluttony and concrete selfishness, with gout on one end, paresis at the other and Bright's Disease between. The hospice was a part of the monastery. It was a home for the homeless. There met men of learning--men of wit--men of brains and brawn. You entered and were at home. There was no charge--you merely left something for the poor. Any man who has the courage, and sufficient faith in humanity to install the hospice system in America will reap a rich reward. If he has the same faith in his guests that Judge Lindsey has in his bad boys, he will succeed; but if he hesitates, defers, doubts, and begins to plot and plan, the Referee in Bankruptcy will beckon. The early universities grew out of the monastic impulse. Students came and went, and the teachers were a part of a great itinerancy. Man is a migratory animal. His evolution has come about through change of environment. Transplantation changes weeds into roses, and the forebears of all the products of our greenhouses and gardens once grew in hedgerows or open fields, choked by unkind competition or trampled beneath the feet of the heedless. The advantage of university life is in the transplantation. Get the boy out of his home environment; sever the cord that holds him to his "folks"; let him meet new faces, see new sights, hear new sermons, meet new teachers, and his efforts at adjustment will work for growth. Alexander Humboldt was right--one year at college is safer than four. One year inspires you--four may get you pot-bound with pedant prejudice. The university of the future will be industrial--all may come and go. All men will be university men, and thus the pride in an imaginary proficiency will be diluted to a healthful attenuation. To work and to be useful--not merely to memorize and recite--will be the only initiation. The professors will be interchangeable, and the rotation of intellectual crops will work for health, harmony and effectiveness. The group, or college, will be the unit, not the family. The college was once a collection of men and women grouped for a mutual intellectual, religious or economic good. To this group or college idea will we return. Man is a gregarious animal, and the Christ-thought of giving all, and receiving all, some day in the near future will be found practical. The desire for exclusive ownership must be sloughed. Universities devoted to useful work--art in its highest sense: head, hand and heart--will yet dot the civilized world. The hospice will return higher up the scale, and the present use of the word "hospitality" will be drowned in its pink tea, choked with cheese-wafers, rescued from the nervous clutch of the managing mama, and the machinations of the chaperone. A society built on the sands of silliness must give way to the universal university, and the strong, healthful, helpful, honest companionship and comradeship of men and women prevail. * * * * * The objective point of the Bishop was the University of Paris. Here in due time, after their lingering ride from Holland, the Bishop and his secretary arrived. They settled down to literary work; and in odd hours the beauty and wonder of Paris became familiar to Erasmus. The immediate task completed, the Bishop proposed going home, and thought, of course, his secretary was a fixture and would go with him. But Erasmus had evolved ideas concerning his own worth. He had already collected quite a little circle of pupils about him, and these he held by his glowing personality. At this time the vow of poverty was looked upon lightly. And anyway, poverty is a comparative term. There were monks who always trudged afoot with staff and bag, but not so our Erasmus. He was Bishop of the Exterior. The Bishop of Cambray, on parting with Erasmus, thought so much of him that he presented him with the horse he rode. Erasmus used to take short excursions about Paris, taking with him a student and often two, as servants or attendants. Teaching then was mostly on an independent basis, each pupil picking his tutors and paying them direct. Among other pupils whom Erasmus had at Paris was a young Englishman by the name of Lord Mountjoy. A great affection arose between these two, and when Lord Mountjoy returned to England he was accompanied by Erasmus. At London, Erasmus met on absolute equality many of the learned men of England. We hear of his dining at the house of the Lord Mayor of London, and there meeting Sir Thomas More and crossing swords with that worthy in wordy debate. Erasmus seems to have carried the "New Humanism" into England. It has been said that the world was discovered in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two, but Man was not discovered until Seventeen Hundred Seventy-six. This is hardly literal truth, since in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two, there was a theologico-scientific party of young men in all of the European Universities who were reviving the Greek culture, and with it arose the idea of the dignity and worth of Man. To this movement Erasmus brought the enthusiasm of his nature. Perhaps he did as much as any other to fan the embers which grew into a flame called "The Reformation." He constantly ridiculed the austerities, pedantry, priggishness and sciolism of the old-time Churchmen, and when a new question came up, he asked, "What good is there in it?" Everything was tested by him in the light of commonsense. What end does it serve and how is humanity to be served or benefited by it? Thus the good of humanity, not the glory of God, was the shibboleth of this rising party. Erasmus gave lectures and taught at Cambridge, Oxford and London. Italy had been the objective point of his travels, but England had, for a time, turned him aside. In the year Fifteen Hundred, Erasmus landed at Calais, saddled his horse, and started southward, visiting, writing, teaching, lecturing, as he went. The stimulus of meeting new people and seeing new scenes, all tended toward intellectual growth. The genius monk made mendicancy a fine art, and Erasmus was heir to most of the instincts of the order. His associations with the laity were mostly with the nobility or those with money. He was not slow in asking for what he wanted, whether it was a fur-lined cloak, a saddle, top riding-boots, a horse, or a prayer-book. He made no apologies--but took as his divine right all that he needed. And he justified himself in taking what he needed by the thought that he gave all he had. He supplied Sir Thomas More the germ of "Utopia," for Erasmus pictured again and again an ideal society where all would have enough, and none suffer from either want or surfeit--a society in which all would be at home wherever they went. Had Erasmus seen fit to make England his home, his head, too, would have paid the forfeit, as did the head that wrote "Utopia." What an absurd use to make of a head--to separate it from the man's body! Italy received Erasmus with the same royal welcome that England had supplied. Scholars who knew the Greek and Roman classics were none too common. Most monks stopped with the writings of the saints, as South Americans balk at long division. Erasmus could illumine an initial, bind a book, give advice to printers, lecture to teachers, give lessons on rhetoric and oratory, or entertain the ladies with recitations from the Iliad and the Odyssey. So he went riding back and forth, stopping at cities and towns, nunneries and monasteries, until his name became a familiar one to every scholar of England, Germany and Italy. Scholarly, always a learner, always a teacher, gracious, direct, witty, men began to divide on an Erasmus basis. There were two parties: those for Erasmus and those against him. In Fifteen Hundred Seventeen, came Luther with his bombshells of defiance. This fighting attitude was far from Erasmus--his weapons were words. Between bouts with prelates, Luther sent a few thunderbolts at Erasmus, accusing him of vacillation and cowardice. Erasmus replied with dignity, and entered into a lengthy dispute with Melanchthon, Luther's friend, on the New Humanism which was finding form in revolution. Erasmus prophesied that by an easy process of evolution, through education, the monasteries would all become schools and workshops. He would not destroy them, but convert them into something different. He fell into disfavor with the Catholics, and was invited by Henry the Eighth to come to England and join the new religious regime. But this English Catholicism was not to the liking of Erasmus. What he desired was to reform the Church, not to destroy it or divide it. His affairs were becoming critical: monasteries where he had once been welcomed now feared to have him come near, lest they should be contaminated and entangled. It was rumored that warrants of arrest were out. He was invited to go to Rome and explain his position. Erasmus knew better than to acknowledge receipt of the letter. He headed his horse for Switzerland, the land of liberty. At Basel he stopped at the house of Froben, the great printer and publisher. He put his horse in the barn, unsaddled him, and said, "Froben, I've come to stay." * * * * * I was mousing around the other day in a book that is somewhat disjointed and disconnected, and yet interesting--"The Standard Dictionary"--when I came across the word "scamp." It is a handy word to fling, and I am not sure but that it has been gently tossed once or twice in my direction. Condemnation is usually a sort of subtle flattery, so I'm not sad. To scamp means to cut short, to be superficial, slipshod, careless, indifferent--to say, "Let 'er go, who cares--this is good enough!" If anybody ever was a stickler for honest work, I am that bucolic party. I often make things so fine that only one man out of ten thousand can buy them, and I have to keep 'em myself. You know that, when you get an idea in your head, how everything you read contains allusions to the same thing. Knowledge is mucilaginous. Well, next day after I was looking up that pleasant word "scamp," I was reading in the Amusing Works of Erasmus, when I ran across the word again, but spelled in Dutch, thus, "schamp." Now Erasmus was a successful author, and he was also the best authority on paper, inks, bindings, and general bookmaking in Italy, Holland or Germany. Being a lover of learning, and listening to the lure of words, he never wallowed in wealth. But in his hunt for ideas he had a lot of fun. Kipling says, "There is no hunt equal to a man hunt." But Kip is wrong--to chase a thought is twice the sport. Erasmus chased ideas, and very naturally the preachers chased Erasmus--out of England, through France, down to Italy and then he found refuge at Basel with Froben, the great Printer and Publisher. Up in Frankfort was a writer-printer, who, not being able to answer the arguments of Erasmus, called him bad names. But this gentle pen-pusher in Frankfort, who passed his vocabulary at Froben's proofreader, Erasmus in time calls a "schamp," because he used cheap paper, cheap ink and close margins. Soon after, the word was carried to England and spelled "scamp"--a man who cheats in quality, weight, size and count. But the first use merely meant a printer who scamps his margins and so cheats on paper. I am sorry to see that Erasmus imitated his enemies and at times was ambidextrous in the use of the literary stinkpot. His vocabulary was equal to that of Muldoon. Erasmus refers to one of his critics as a "scenophylax-stikken," and another he calls a "schnide enchologion-schistosomus." And perhaps they may have been--I really do not know. But as an authority on books Erasmus can still be read. He it was who fixed the classic page margin--twice as wide at the top as on the inside; twice as wide at the outside as the top; twice as wide at the bottom as at the side. And any printer who varies from this displays his ignorance of proportion. Erasmus says, "To use poor paper marks the decline of taste, both in printer and in patron." After the death of Erasmus, Froben's firm failed because they got to making things cheap. "Compete in quality, not in price," was the working motto of Erasmus. All of the great bookmaking centers languished when they began to scamp. That worthy wordissimus at Frankfort who called Erasmus names gave up business and then the ghost, and Erasmus wrote his epitaph, and thus supplied Benjamin Franklin an idea--"Here lies an old book, its cover gone, its leaves torn, the worms at work on its vitals." The wisdom of doing good work still applies, just as it did in the days of Erasmus. Erasmus proved a very valuable acquisition to Froben. He became general editor and literary adviser of this great publishing-house, which was then the most important in the world. Besides his work as editor, Erasmus also stood sponsor for numerous volumes which we now know were written by literary nobodies, his name being placed on the title-page for commercial reasons. At that time and for two hundred years later, the matter of attributing a book to this man or that was considered a trivial affair. Piracies were prevalent. All printers revised the work of classic authors if they saw fit, and often they were specially rewarded for it by the Church. It was about this time that some one slipped that paragraph into the works of Josephus about Jesus. The "Annals" of Tacitus were similarly doctored, if in fact they were not written entire, during the Sixteenth Century. It will be remembered that the only two references in contemporary literature to Jesus are those in Josephus and Tacitus, and these the Church proudly points to yet. During the last few years of his life Erasmus accumulated considerable property. By his will he devised that this money should go to educate certain young men and women, grandchildren and nephews and nieces of his old friend, Johann Froben. He left no money for masses, after the usual custom of Churchmen, and during his last illness was not attended by a priest. For several years before his death he made no confessions and very seldom attended church service. He said, "I am much more proud of being a printer than a priest." A statue of Erasmus in bronze adorns one of the public squares in Rotterdam, and Basel and Freiburg have honored themselves, and him also, in like manner. As a sample of the subtle and keen literary style of Erasmus, I append the following from "In Praise of Folly:" The happiest times of life are youth and old age, and this for no reason but that they are the times most completely under the rule of folly, and least controlled by wisdom. It is the child's freedom from wisdom that makes it so charming to us; we hate a precocious child. So women owe their charm, and hence their power, to their "folley," that is, to their obedience to the impulse. But if, perchance, a woman wants to be thought wise, she only succeeds in being doubly a fool, as if one should train a cow for the prize-ring, a thing wholly against Nature. A woman will be a woman, no matter what mask she wear, and she ought to be proud of her folly and make the most of it. Is not Cupid, that first father of all religion, is not he stark blind, that he can not himself distinguish of colors, so he would make us as mope-eyed in judging falsely of all love concerns, and wheedle us into a thinking that we are always in the right? Thus every Jack sticks to his own Jill; every tinker esteems his own trull; and the hobnailed suitor prefers Joan the milkmaid before any of milady's daughters. These things are true, and are ordinarily laughed at, and yet, however ridiculous they seem, it is hence only that all societies receive their cement and consolidation. Fortune we still find favoring the blunt, and flushing the forward; strokes smooth up fools, crowning all their undertakings with success; but wisdom makes her followers bashful, sneaking and timorous, and therefore you commonly see that they are reduced to hard shifts; must grapple with poverty, cold and hunger; must lie recluse, despised, and unregarded; while fools roll in money, are advanced to dignities and offices, and in a word have the whole world at command. If any one thinks it happy to be a favorite at court, and to manage the disposal of places and preferments, alas, this happiness is so far from being attainable by wisdom, that the very suspicion of it would put a stop to advancement. Has any man a mind to raise himself a good estate? Alas, what dealer in the world would ever get a farthing, if he be so wise as to scruple at perjury, blush at a lie, or stick at a fraud and overreaching? It is the public charter of all divines, to mold and bend the sacred oracles till they comply with their own fancy, spreading them (as Heaven by its Creator) like a curtain, closing together, or drawing them back, as they please. Thus, indeed, Saint Paul himself minces and mangles some citations he makes use of, and seems to wrest them to a different sense from what they were first intended for, as is confessed by the great linguist, Saint Hieron. Thus when that apostle saw at Athens the inscription of the altar, he draws from it an argument for the proof of the Christian religion; but leaving out great parts of the sentence, which perhaps if fully recited might have prejudiced his cause, he mentions only the last two words, namely, "To the Unknown God"; and this, too, not without alteration, for the whole inscription runs thus: "To the Gods of Asia, Europe, and Africa, to all Foreign and Unknown Gods." 'T is an imitation of the same pattern, I will warrant you, that our young divines, by leaving out four or five words in a place and putting a false construction on the rest, can make any passage serviceable to their own purpose; though from the coherence of what went before, or follows after, the genuine meaning appears to be either wide enough, or perhaps quite contradictory to what they would thrust and impose upon it. In which knack the divines are grown now so expert that the lawyers themselves begin to be jealous of an encroachment on what was formerly their sole privilege and practise. And indeed what can they despair of proving, since the forementioned commentator did upon a text of Saint Luke put an interpretation no more agreeable to the meaning or the place than one contrary quality is to another. But because it seemed expedient that man, who was born for the transaction of business, should have so much wisdom as should fit and capacitate him for the discharge of his duty herein, and yet lest such a measure as is requisite for this purpose might prove too dangerous and fatal, I was advised with for an antidote, and prescribed this infallible receipt of taking a wife, a creature so harmless and silly, and yet so useful and convenient, as might mollify and make pliable the stiffness and morose humor of man. Now that which made Plato doubt under what genus to rank woman, whether among brutes or rational creatures, was only meant to denote the extreme stupidness and Folly of that sex, a sex so unalterably simple that for any one of them to thrust forward and reach at the name of wise, is but to make themselves the more remarkable fools, such an endeavor being but a swimming against the stream, nay, the turning the course of Nature, the bare attempting whereof is as extravagant as the effecting of it is impossible: for as it is a trite proverb, that an ape will be an ape, though clad in purple, so a woman will be a woman, that is, a fool, whatever disguise she takes up. And yet there is no reason women should take it amiss to be thus charged, for if they do but rightly consider, they will find to Folly they are beholden for those endowments wherein they so far surpass and excel Man; as first for their unparalleled beauty, by the charm whereof they tyrannize over the greatest of tyrants; for what is it but too great a smatch of wisdom that makes men so tawny and thick-skinned, so rough and prickly-bearded, like an emblem of winter or old age, while women have such dainty, smooth cheeks, such a low, gentle voice, and so pure a complexion, as if Nature had drawn them for a standing pattern of all symmetry and comeliness? Besides, what greater or juster aim and ambition have they than to please their husbands? In order whereunto they garnish themselves with paint, washes, curls, perfumes, and all other mysteries of ornament; yet, after all, they become acceptable to them only for their Folly. Wives are always allowed their humor, yet it is only in exchange for titillation and pleasure, which indeed are but other names for Folly; as none can deny, who consider how a man must dandle, and kittle, and play a hundred little tricks for his helpmate. But now some blood-chilled old men, that are more for wine than wenching, will pretend that in their opinion the greatest happiness consists in feasting and drinking. Grant it be so; yet certainly in the most luxurious entertainments it is Folly must give the sauce and relish to the daintiest delicacies; so that if there be no one of the guests naturally fool enough to be played upon by the rest, they must procure some comical buffoon, that by his jokes and flouts and blunders shall make the whole company split themselves with laughing; for to what purpose were it to be stuffed and crammed with so many dainty bits, savory dishes, and toothsome rarities, if after all this epicurism, the eyes, the ears, and the whole mind of man, were not so well foisted and relieved with laughing, jesting, and such like divertisements, which, like second courses, serve for the promoting of digestion? And as to all those shoeing-horns of drunkenness, the keeping every one his man, the throwing high jinks, the filling of bumpers, the drinking two in a hand, the beginning of mistresses' healths; and then the roaring out of drunken catches, the calling in a fiddler, the leading out every one his lady to dance, and such like riotous pastimes--these were not taught or dictated by any of the wise men of Greece, but of Gotham rather, being my invention, and by me prescribed as the best preservative of health: each of which, the more ridiculous it is, the more welcome it finds. And indeed, to jog sleepingly through the world, in a dumpish, melancholy posture, can not properly be said to live. [Illustration: BOOKER T. WASHINGTON] BOOKER T. WASHINGTON There is something in human nature which always makes people reward merit, no matter under what color of skin merit is found. I have found, too, that it is the visible, the tangible, that goes a long way in softening prejudices. The actual sight of a good house that a Negro has built is ten times more potent than pages of discussion about a house that he ought to build, or perhaps could build. The individual who can do something that the world wants done will, in the end, make his way regardless of his race. --_Booker T. Washington_ BOOKER T. WASHINGTON This is a story about a Negro. The story has the peculiarity of being true. The man was born a slave in Virginia. His mother was a slave, and was thrice sold in the market-place. This man is Booker T. Washington. The name Booker was a fanciful one given to the lad by playmates on account of his love for a certain chance dog-eared spelling-book. Before this he was only Mammy's Pet. The T. stood for nothing, but later a happy thought made it Taliaferro. Most Negroes, fresh from slavery, stood sponsor to themselves, and chose the name Washington; if not this, then Lincoln, Clay or Webster. This lad when but a child, being suddenly asked for his name, exclaimed, "Washington," and stuck to it. The father of this boy was a white man; but children always take the status of the mother, so Booker T. Washington is a Negro, and proud of it, as he should be, for he is standard by performance, even if not by pedigree. This Negro's father is represented by the sign _x_. By remaining in obscurity the fond father threw away his one chance for immortality. We do not even know his name, his social position, or his previous condition of turpitude. We assume he was happily married and respectable. Concerning him legend is silent and fable dumb. As for the child, we are not certain whether he was born in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight or Eighteen Hundred Fifty-nine, and we know not the day or the month. There were no signs in the East. The mother lived in a log cabin of one room, say ten by twelve. This room was also a kitchen, for the mother was cook to the farmhands of her owner. There were no windows and no floor in the cabin save the hard-trodden clay. There were a table, a bench and a big fireplace. There were no beds, and the children at night simply huddled and cuddled in a pile of straw and rags in the corner. Doubtless they had enough food, for they ate the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table--who, by the way, wasn't so very rich. One of the earliest recollections of Black Baby Booker was of being awakened in the middle of the night by his mother to eat fried chicken. Imagine the picture--it is past midnight. No light in the room save the long, flickering streaks that dance on the rafters. Outside the wind makes mournful, sighing melody. In the corner huddled the children, creeping close together with intertwining arms to get the warmth of each little half-naked body. The dusky mother moves swiftly, deftly, half-frightened at her task. She has come in from the night with a chicken! Where did she get it? Hush! Where do you suppose oppressed colored people get chickens? She picks the bird--prepares it for the skillet--fries it over the coals. And then when it is done just right, Maryland style, this mother full of mother-love, an ingredient which God never omits, shakes each little piccaninny into wakefulness, and gives him the forbidden dainty--drumstick, wishbone, gizzard, white meat, or the part that went through the fence last--anything but the neck. Feathers, bones, waste are thrown into the fireplace, and what the village editor calls the "devouring element" hides all trace of the crime. Then all lie down to sleep, until the faint flush of pink comes into the East, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the mountain-tops. * * * * * This ex-slave remembers a strange and trying time, when all of the colored folk on the plantation were notified to assemble at the "big house." They arrived and stood around in groups, waiting and wondering, talking in whispers. The master came out, and standing on the veranda read from a paper in a tremulous voice. Then he told them that they were all free, and shook hands with each. Everybody cried. However, they were very happy in spite of the tears, for freedom to them meant heaven--a heaven of rest. Yet they bore only love towards their former owners. Most of them began to wander--they thought they had to leave their old quarters. In a few days the wisest came back and went to work just as usual. Booker T.'s mother quit work for just half a day. But in a little while her husband arrived--a colored man to whom she had been married years before, and who had been sold and sent away. Now he came and took her and the little monochrome brood, and they all started away for West Virginia, where they heard that colored men were hired to work in coalmines and were paid wages in real money. It took months and months to make the journey. They carried all their belongings in bundles. They had no horses--no cows--no wagon--they walked. If the weather was pleasant they slept out of doors; if it rained they sought a tobacco-shed, a barn, or the friendly side of a straw-stack. For food they depended on a little cornmeal they carried, with which the mother made pone-cakes in the ashes of a campfire. Kind colored people on the way replenished the meal-bag, for colored people are always generous to the hungry and needy if they have anything to be generous with. Then Providence sent stray, ownerless chickens their way, at times, just as the Children of Israel were fed on quails in the wilderness. Once they caught a 'possum--and there was a genuine banquet, where the children ate until they were as tight as drums. Finally they reached the promised land of West Virginia, and at the little village of Maiden, near Charleston, they stopped, for here were the coal mine and the salt-works where colored men were hired and paid in real money. Booker's stepfather found a job, and he also found a job for little Booker. They had nothing to live on until pay-day, so the kind man who owned the mine allowed them to get things at the store on credit. This was a brand-new experience--and no doubt they bought a few things they did not need, for prices and values were absolutely out of their realm. Besides, they did not know how much wages they were to get, neither could they figure the prices of the things they bought. At any rate, when pay-day came they were still in debt, so they saw no real money--certainly little Booker at this time of his life never did. * * * * * General Lewis Ruffner owned the salt-works and the coalmine where little Booker worked. He was stern, severe, strict. But he believed Negroes were human beings, and there were those then who disputed the proposition. Ruffner organized a night-school for his helpers, and let a couple of his bookkeepers teach it. At this time there was not a colored person in the neighborhood who could spell cat, much less write his name. A few could count five. Booker must have been about ten years old when one day he boasted a bit of his skill in mathematics. The foreman told him to count the loads of coal as they came out of the mine. The boy started in bravely, "One--two--three--four--dere goes one, dere goes anoder, anoder, anoder, anoder, anoder!" The foreman laughed. The boy was abashed, then chagrined. "Send me to the night-school and in a month I'll show you how to count!" The foreman wrote the lad an order which admitted him to the night-school. But now there was another difficulty--the boy worked until nine o'clock at night, the last hour's work being to sweep out the office. The night-school began at nine o'clock and it was two miles away. The lad scratched his head and thought and thought. A great idea came to him--he would turn the office clock ahead half an hour. He could then leave at nine o'clock, and by running part of the way could get to school at exactly nine o'clock. The scheme worked for two days, when one of the clerks in the office said that a spook was monkeying with the clock. They tried the plan of locking the case, and all was well. Booker must have been about twelve years old, goin' on thirteen, when one day as he lay on his back in the coalmine, pushing out the broken coal with his feet, he overheard two men telling of a very wonderful school where colored people were taught to read, write and cipher--also, how to speak in public. The scholars were allowed to work part of the time to pay for their board. The lad crawled close in the darkness and listened to the conversation. He caught the names "Hampton" and "Armstrong." Whether Armstrong was the place and Hampton was the name of the man, he could not make out, but he clung to the names. Here was a school for colored people--he would go there! That night he told his mother about it. She laughed, patted his kinky head, and indulged him in his dream. She was only a poor black woman; she could not spell ab, nor count to ten, but she had a plan for her boy--he would some day be a preacher. This was the very height of her imagination--a preacher! Beyond this there was nothing in human achievement. The night-school came after a day of fourteen hours' work. Little Booker sat on a bench, his feet dangling about a foot from the floor. As he sat there one night trying hard to drink in knowledge, he went to sleep. He nodded, braced up, nodded again, and then pitched over in a heap on the floor, to the great amusement of the class, and his own eternal shame. The next day, however, as he was feeling very sorrowful over his sad experience, he heard that Mrs. Ruffner wanted a boy for general work at the big house. Here was a chance. Mrs. Ruffner was a Vermont Yankee, which meant that she had a great nose for dirt, and would not stand for a "sassy nigger." Her reputation had gone abroad, and of how she pinched the ears of her "help," and got them up at exactly a certain hour, and made them use soap and water at least once a day, and even compelled them to use a toothbrush; all this was history, well defined. Booker said he could please her, even if she was a Yankee. He applied for the job and got it, with wages fixed at a dollar a week, with a promise of twenty-five cents extra every week, if he did his work without talking back and breaking a tray of dishes. * * * * * "Genius! No hovel is safe from it!" says Whistler. Genius consists in doing the right thing without being told more than three times. Booker silently studied the awful Yankee woman to see what she really wanted. He finally decided that she desired her servants to have clean skins, fairly neat clothing, do things promptly, finish the job and keep still when they had nothing to say. He set himself to please her--and he did. She loaned him books, gave him a lead-pencil, and showed him how to write with a pen without smearing his hands and face with ink. He told her of his dream and asked about Armstrong and Hampton. She told him that Armstrong was the man and Hampton the place. At last he got her consent to leave and go to Hampton. When he started she gave him a comb, a toothbrush, two handkerchiefs and a pair of shoes. He had been working for her for a year, and she thought, of course, he saved his wages. He never told her that his money had gone to keep the family, because his stepfather had been on a strike and therefore out of work. So the boy started away for Hampton. It was five hundred miles away. He didn't know how far five hundred miles is--nobody does unless he has walked it. He had three dollars, so he gaily paid for a seat in the stage. At the end of the first day he was forty miles from home and out of money. He slept in a barn, and a colored woman handed him a ham-bone and a chunk of bread out of the kitchen-window, and looked the other way. He trudged on east--always and forever east--towards the rising sun. He walked weeks--months--years, he thought. He kept no track of the days. He carried his shoes as a matter of economy. Finally he sold the shoes for four dollars to a man who paid him ten cents cash down, and promised to pay the rest when they should meet at Hampton. Nearly forty years have passed and they have never met. On he walked--on and on--east, and always forever east. He reached the city of Richmond, the first big city he had ever seen. The wide streets--the sidewalks--the street-lamps entranced him. It was just like heaven. But he was hungry and penniless, and when he looked wistfully at a pile of cold fried chicken on a street-stand and asked the price of a drumstick, at the same time telling he had no money, he discovered he was not in heaven at all. He was called a lazy nigger and told to move on. Later he made the discovery that a "nigger" is a colored person who has no money. He pulled the piece of rope that served him for a belt a little tighter, and when no one was looking, crawled under a sidewalk and went to sleep, disturbed only by the trampling overhead. When he awoke he saw he was near the dock, where a big ship pushed its bowsprit out over the street. Men were unloading bags and boxes from the boat. He ran down and asked the mate if he could help. "Yes!" was the gruff answer. He got in line and went staggering under the heavy loads. He was little, but strong, and best of all, willing, yet he reeled at the work. "Have you had any breakfast? Yes, you liver-colored boy--you, I say, have you had your breakfast?" "No, sir," said the boy; "and no supper last night nor dinner yesterday!" "Well, I reckoned as much. Now you take this quarter and go over to that stand and buy you a drumstick, a cup of coffee and two fried cakes!" The lad didn't need urging. He took the money in his palm, went over to the man who the night before had called him a lazy nigger, and showing the silver, picked out his piece of chicken. The man hastened to wait on him, and said it was a fine day and hoped he was well. * * * * * Arriving at Hampton, this colored boy, who had tramped the long, weary miles, stood abashed before the big brick building which he knew was Hampton Institute. He was so little--the place was so big--by what right could he ask to be admitted? Finally he boldly entered, and in a voice meant to be firm, but which was very shaky, said, "I am here!" and pointed to the bosom of his hickory shirt. The Yankee woman motioned him to a chair. Negroes coming there were plentiful. Usually they wanted to live the Ideal Life. They had a call to preach--and the girls wanted to be music-teachers. The test was simple and severe: would they and could they do one useful piece of work well? Booker sat and waited, not knowing that his patience was being put to the test. Then Miss Priscilla, in a hard, Neill Burgess voice, "guessed" that the adjoining recitation-room needed sweeping and dusting. She handed Booker a broom and dust-cloth, motioned to the room, and went away. Oho! Little did she know her lad. The colored boy smiled to himself--sweeping and dusting were his specialties--he had learned the trade from a Yankee woman from Vermont! He smiled. Then he swept that room--moved every chair, the table, the desk. He dusted each piece of furniture four times. He polished each rung and followed around the baseboard on hands and knees. Miss Priscilla came back--pushed the table around and saw at once that the dirt had not been concealed beneath it. She took out her handkerchief and wiped the table top, then the desk. She turned, looked at the boy, and her smile met his half-suppressed triumphant grin. "You'll do," she said. * * * * * General Samuel C. Armstrong, the founder of Hampton Institute, and the grandfather of Tuskegee, was a white man who fought the South valiantly and well. He seems about the only man in the North who, at the close of the war, clearly realized that the war had just begun--that the real enemies were not subdued, and that these enemies were ignorance, superstition and incompetence. The pitiable condition of four million human beings, flung from slavery into freedom, thrown upon their own resources, with no thought of responsibility, and with no preparation for the change, meant for them only another kind of slavery. General Armstrong's heart went out to them--he desired to show them how to be useful, helpful, self-reliant, healthy. For the whites of the South he had only high regard and friendship. He, of all men, knew how they had suffered from the war--and he realized also that they had fought for what they believed was right. In his heart there was no hate. He resolved to give himself--his life--his fortune--his intellect--his love--his all, for the upbuilding of the South. He saw with the vision of a prophet that indolence and pride were the actual enemies of white and black alike. The blacks must be taught to work--to know the dignity of human labor--to serve society--to help themselves by helping others. He realized that there are no menial tasks--that all which serves is sacred. And this is the man who sowed the seeds of truth in the heart of the nameless black boy--Booker Washington. Armstrong's shibboleth, too, was, "With malice toward none, but with charity for all, let us finish the work God has given us to do." * * * * * I do not know very much about this subject of education, yet I believe I know as much about what others know about it as most people. I have visited the principal colleges of America and Europe, and the methods of Preparatory and High Schools are to me familiar. I know the night-schools of the cities, the "Ungraded Rooms," the Schools for Defectives, the educational schemes in prisons, the Manual-Training Schools, the New Education (first suggested by Socrates) as carried out by G. Stanley Hall, John Dewey, and dozens of other good men and women in America. I am familiar with the School for the Deaf at Malone, New York, and the School for the Blind at Batavia, where even the sorely stricken are taught to be self-sufficient, self-supporting and happy. I have tumbled down the circular fire-escape at Lapeer with the inmates of the Home of Epileptics, and heard the shouts of laughter from lips that never laughed before. I have seen the Jewish Manual Training School of Chicago transform Russian refugees into useful citizens--capable, earnest and excellent. I know a little about Swarthmore, Wellesley, Vassar, Radcliffe, and have put my head into West Point and Annapolis, and had nobody cry, "Genius!" Of Harvard, Yale and Princeton I know something, having done time in each. I have also given jobs to graduates of Oxford, Cambridge and Heidelberg, to my sorrow and their chagrin. This does not prove that graduates of the great universities are, as a rule, out of work, or that they are incompetent. It simply means that it is possible for a man to graduate at these institutions and secure his diploma and yet be a man who has nothing the world really wants, either in way of ideas or services. The reason that my "cum laude" friends did not like me, and the cause of my having to part with them--getting them a little free transportation from your Uncle George--was not because they lacked intelligence, but because they wanted to secure a position, while I simply offered them a job. They were like Cave-of-the-Winds of Oshkosh, who is an ice-cutter in August, and in winter is an out-of-door horticulturist--a hired man is something else. As a general proposition, I believe this will not now be disputed: the object of education is that a man may benefit himself by serving society. To benefit others, you must be reasonably happy: there must be animation through useful activity, good-cheer, kindness and health--health of mind and health of body. And to benefit society you must also have patience, persistency, and a firm determination to do the right thing, and to mind your own business so that others, too, may mind theirs. Then all should be tinctured with a dash of discontent with past achievements, so you will constantly put forth an effort to do more and better work. When what you have done in the past looks large to you, you haven't done much today. So there you get the formula of Education: health and happiness through useful activity--animation, kindness, good-cheer, patience, persistency, willingness to give and take, seasoned with enough discontent to prevent smugness, which is the scum that grows over every stagnant pond. Of course no college can fill this prescription--no institution can supply the ingredients--all that the college can do is to supply the conditions so that these things can spring into being. Plants need the sunlight--mushrooms are different. The question is, then, what teaching concern in America supplies the best quality of actinic ray? And I answer, Tuskegee is the place, and Booker Washington is the man. "What!" you exclaim. "The Ideal School a school for Negroes, instituted by a Negro, where only Negroes teach, and only Negroes are allowed to enter as students?" And the answer is, "Exactly so." At Tuskegee there are nearly two thousand students, and over one hundred fifty teachers. There are two classes of students--"day-school" and "night-school" students. The night-school students work all day at any kind of task they are called upon to do. They receive their board, clothing and a home--they pay no tuition, but are paid for their labor, the amount being placed to their credit, so when fifty dollars is accumulated they can enter as "day students." The "day students" make up the bulk of the scholars. Each pays fifty dollars a year. These all work every other day at manual labor or some useful trade. Tuskegee has fully twice as many applicants as it can accommodate; but there is one kind of applicant who never receives any favor. This is the man who says he has the money to pay his way, and wishes to take the academic course only. The answer always is: "Please go elsewhere--there are plenty of schools that want your money. The fact that you have money will not exempt you here from useful labor." This is exactly what every college in the world should say. The Tuskegee farm consists of about three thousand acres. There are four hundred head of cattle, about five hundred hogs, two hundred horses, great flocks of chickens, geese, ducks and turkeys, and many swarms of bees. It is the intention to raise all the food that is consumed on the place, and to manufacture all supplies. There are wagon-shops, a sawmill, a harness-shop, a shoe-shop, a tailor-shop, a printing-plant, a model laundry, a canning establishment. Finer fruit and vegetables I have never seen, and the thousands of peach, plum and apple trees, and the vast acreage of berries that have been planted, will surely some day be a goodly source of revenue. The place is religious, but not dogmatically so--the religion being merely the natural safety-valve for emotion. At Tuskegee there is no lacrimose appeal to confess your sins--they do better--they forget them. I never heard more inspiring congregational singing, and the use of the piano, organ, orchestra and brass band are important factors in the curriculum. In the chapel I spoke to an audience so attentive, so alert, so receptive, so filled with animation, that the whole place looked like a vast advertisement for Sozodont. No prohibitive signs are seen at Tuskegee. All is affirmative, yet it is understood that some things are tabu--tobacco, for instance, and strong drink, of course. We have all heard of Harvard Beer and Yale Mixture, but be it said in sober justice, Harvard runs no brewery, and Yale has no official brand of tobacco. Yet Harvard men consume much beer, and many men at Yale smoke. And if you want to see the cigarette-fiend on his native heath, you'll find him like the locust on the campus at Cambridge and New Haven. But if you want to see the acme of all cigarette-bazaars, just ride out of Boylston Street, Boston, any day at noon, and watch the boys coming out of the Institute of Technology. I once asked a Tech Professor if cigarette-smoking was compulsory in his institution. "Yes," he replied; "but the rule is not strictly enforced, as I know three students who do not smoke." Tuskegee stands for order, system, cleanliness, industry, courtesy and usefulness. There are no sink-holes around the place, no "back yards." Everything is beautiful, wholesome and sanitary. All trades are represented. The day is crammed so full of work from sunrise to sunset that there is no time for complaining, misery or faultfinding--three things that are usually born of idleness. At Tuskegee there are no servants. All of the work is done by the students and teachers--everybody works--everybody is a student, and all are teachers. We are all teachers, whether we will it or not--we teach by example, and all students who do good work are good teachers. When the Negro is able to do skilled work, he ceases to be a problem--he is a man. The fact that Alexandre Dumas was a Negro does not count against him in the world's assize. The old-time academic college, that cultivated the cerebrum and gave a man his exercise in an indoor gymnasium, or not at all, has ruined its tens of thousands. To have top--head and no lungs--is not wholly desirable. The student was made exempt from every useful thing, just as the freshly freed slave hoped and expected to be, and after four years it was often impossible for him to take up the practical lessons of life. He had gotten used to the idea of one set of men doing all the work and another set of men having the culture. To a large degree he came to regard culture as the aim of life. And when a man begins to pride himself upon his culture, he hasn't any to speak of. Culture must be merely incidental, and to clutch it is like capturing a butterfly: you do not secure the butterfly at all--you get only a grub. Let us say right here that there is only one way in which a Negro, or a white man, can ever make himself respected. Statute law will not do it; rights voted him by the State are of small avail; making demands will not secure the desired sesame. If we ever gain the paradise of freedom it will be because we have earned it--because we deserve it. A make-believe education may suffice for a white man--especially if he has a rich father, but a Negro who has to carve out his own destiny must be taught order, system, and quiet, persistent, useful effort. A college that has its students devote one-half their time to actual, useful work is so in line with commonsense that we are amazed that the idea had to be put into execution by the ex-slave as a life-saver for his disenfranchised race. Our great discoveries are always accidents: we work for one thing and get another. I expect that the day will come, and erelong, when the great universities of the world will have to put the Tuskegee Idea into execution in order to save themselves from being distanced by the Colored Race. If life were one thing and education another, it might be all right to separate them. Culture of the head over a desk, and indoor gymnastics for the body, are not the ideal, and that many succeed in spite of the handicap is no proof of the excellence of the plan. Ships that go around the world accumulate many barnacles, but barnacles as a help to the navigator are an iridescent dream. A little regular manual labor, rightly mixed with the mental, eliminates draw-poker, highballs, brawls, broils, Harvard Beer, Yale Mixture, Princeton Pinochle, Chippee dances, hazing, roistering, rowdyism and the bulldog propensity. The Heidelberg article of cocked hat and insolent ways is not produced at Tuskegee. At Tuskegee there is no place for those who lie in wait for insults and regard scrapping as a fine art. As for college athletics at the Orthodox Universities, only one man out of ten ever does anything at it anyway--the college man who needs the gymnasium most is practically debarred from everything in it and serves as a laughing-stock whenever he strips. Coffee, cocaine, bromide, tobacco and strong drink often serve in lieu of exercise and ozone, and Princeton winks her woozy eye in innocency. Freedom can not be bestowed--it must be achieved. Education can not be given--it must be earned. Lincoln did not free the slaves--he only freed himself. The Negroes did not know they were slaves, and so they had no idea of what freedom meant. Until a man wants to be free, each kind of freedom is only another form of slavery. Booker Washington is showing the colored man how to secure a genuine freedom through useful activity. To get freedom you must shoulder responsibility. If college education were made compulsory by the State, and one-half of the curriculum consisted of actual, useful manual labor, most of our social ills would be solved, and we would be well out on the highway towards the Ideal City. Without animation, man is naught--nothing is accomplished, nothing done. People who inspire other people have animation plus. And animation plus is ecstasy. In ecstasy the spirit rushes out, runs over and saturates all. Oratory is an ecstasy that inundates the hearer and makes him ride upon the crest of another's ideas. Art is born of ecstasy--art is ecstasy in the concrete. Beautiful music is ecstasy expressed in sound, regulated into rhythm, cadence and form. "Statuary is frozen music," said Heine. A man who is not moved into ecstasy by ecstasy is hopeless. A people that has not the surging, uplifting, onward power that ecstasy gives, is decadent--dead. The Negro is easily moved to ecstasy. Very little musical training makes him a power in song. At Tuskegee the congregational singing is a feature that, once heard, is never to be forgotten. Fifteen hundred people lifting up their hearts in an outburst of emotion--song! Fifteen hundred people of one mind, doing anything in unison--do you know what it means? Ecstasy is essentially a matter of sex. In art and religion sex can not be left out of the equation. The simple fact that in forty years the Negro race in America has increased from four million to ten million tells of their ecstasy as a people. "Only happy beings reproduce themselves," says Darwin. Depress your animal and it ceases to breed; so there are a whole round of animals that do not reproduce in captivity. But in slavery or freedom the Negro sings, and reproduces--he is not doomed nor depressed--his soul arises superior to circumstance. Without animation, education is impossible. And the problem of the educator is to direct this singing, flowing, moving spirit of the hive into useful channels. Education is simply the encouragement of right habits--the fixing of good habits until they become a part of one's nature, and are exercised automatically. The man who is industrious by habit is the only man who wins. The man who is not industrious except when driven to it, or when it occurs to him, accomplishes little. Man gets his happiness by doing: and work to a slave is always distasteful. The power of mimicry and imitation is omitted--the owner does not work--the strong man does not work. Ergo--to grow strong means to cease work. To be strong means to be free--to be free means no work! It has been a frightfully bad education that the Negro has had--work distasteful, and work disgraceful! And the slave-owner suffered most of all, for he came to regard work as debasing. And now a Negro is teaching the Negro that work is beautiful--that work is a privilege--that only through willing service can he ever win his freedom. Architecture is fixed ecstasy, inspired always by a strong man who gives a feeling of security. Athens was an ecstasy in marble. Tuskegee is an ecstasy in brick and mortar. Don't talk about the education of the Negro! The experiment has really never been tried, except spasmodically, of educating either the whites or the blacks in the South--or elsewhere. A Negro is laying hold upon the natural ecstasy of the Negro, and directing it into channels of usefulness and excellence. Can you foretell where this will end--this formation of habits of industry, sobriety and continued, persistent effort towards the right? Booker Washington, child of a despised race, has done and is doing what the combined pedagogic and priestly wisdom of ages has failed to do. He is the Moses who by his example is leading the children of his former oppressors out into the light of social, mental, moral and economic freedom. I am familiar in detail with every criticism brought against Tuskegee. On examination these criticisms all reduce themselves down to three: 1. A vast sum of money has been collected by Booker Washington for his own aggrandizement and benefit. 2. Tuskegee is a show-place where all the really good work is done by picked men from the North. 3. Booker Washington is a tyrant, a dictator and an egotist. If I were counsel for Tuskegee--as I am not--I would follow the example of the worthy accusers, and submit the matter without argument. Booker Washington can afford to plead guilty to every charge; and he has never belittled himself by answering his accusers. But let the facts be known, that this man has collected upward of six million dollars, mostly from the people of the North, and has built up the nearest perfect educational institution in the world. It is probably true that many of his teachers and best workers are picked people--but they are Negroes, and were selected by a Negro. The great general reveals his greatness in the selection of his generals: it was the marshals whom Napoleon appointed who won for him his victories; but his spirit animated theirs, and he chose them for this one reason--he could dominate them. He infused into their souls a goodly dash of his own enthusiasm. Booker Washington is a greater general than Napoleon. For the Tuskegee idea no Waterloo awaits. And as near as I can judge, Booker Washington's most noisy critics are merely camp-followers. That the man is a tyrant and a dictator there is no doubt. He is a beneficent tyrant, but a tyrant still, for he always, invariably, has his own way in weighty matters--in trivialities others can have theirs. And as for dictatorship, the man who advances on chaos and transforms it into cosmos is perforce a dictator and an egotist. Booker Washington believes he is in the right, and he makes no effort to conceal the fact that he is on earth. In him there is no disposition to run and peep about, and find himself a dishonorable grave. All live men are egotists, and they are egotists just in proportion as they have life. Dead men are not egotists. Booker Washington has life in abundance, and through him I truly believe runs the spirit of Divinity, if ever a living man had it. A man like this is the instrument of Deity. Tuskegee Institute has applications ahead all the time, from all over America, for competent colored men and women who can take charge of important work and do it. Dressmakers, housekeepers, cooks, farmers, stockmen, builders, gardeners, are in demand. The world has never yet had enough people to bear its burdens. Recently we have heard much of the unemployed, but a very little search will show that the people out of work are those of bad habits, which make them unreliable and untrustworthy. The South, especially, needs the willing worker and the practical man. And best of all the South knows it, and stands ready to pay for the service. A few years ago there was a fine storm of protest from Northern Negroes to the effect that Booker Washington was endeavoring to limit the Negro to menial service--that is, thrust him back into servility. The first ambition of the Negro was to get an education so that he might become a Baptist preacher. To him, education meant freedom from toil, and of course we do not have to look far to see where he got the idea. Then when Tuskegee came forward and wanted to make blacksmiths, carpenters and brick-masons out of black men, there was a cry, "If this means education, we will none of it--treason, treason!" It was assumed that the Negro who set other Negroes to work was not their friend. This phase of the matter requires neither denial nor apology. We smile and pass on. In Eighteen Hundred Seventy-seven, the Negro was practically disenfranchised throughout the South, by being excluded from the primaries. He had no recognized ticket in the field. For both the blacks and the whites this has been well. To most of the blacks freedom meant simply exemption from work. So there quickly grew up a roistering, turbulent, idle and dangerous class of black men who were used by the most ambitious of their kind for political ends. To preserve the peace of the community, the whites were forced to adopt heroic measures, with the result that we now have the disenfranchised Negro. Early in the Eighties, Booker Washington realized that, politically, there was no hope for his race. He saw, however, that commerce recognized no color line. We would buy, sell and trade with the black man on absolute equality. Life-insurance companies would insure him, banks would receive his deposits, and if honest and competent, would loan him money. If he could shoe a horse, we waived his complexion; and in every sort and kind of craftsmanship he stood on absolute equality with the whites. The only question ever asked was, "Can you do the work?" And Booker Washington set out to help the Negro win success for himself by serving society through becoming skilled in doing useful things. And so it became Head, Hand and Heart. The manual was played off against the intellectual. But over and beyond the great achievement of Booker Washington in founding and carrying to a successful issue the most complete educational scheme of this age, or any other, stands the man himself. He is one without hate, heat or prejudice. No one can write on the lintels of his doorpost the word, "Whim." He is half-white, but calls himself a Negro. He sides with the disgraced and outcast black woman who gave him birth, rather than with the respectable white man who was his sire. He rides in the Jim Crow cars, and on long trips, if it is deemed expedient to use a sleeping-car, he hires the stateroom, so that he may not trespass or presume upon those who would be troubled by the presence of a colored man. Often in traveling he goes for food and shelter to the humble home of one of his own people. At hotels he receives and accepts, without protest or resentment, the occasional contumely of the inferior whites--whites too ignorant to appreciate that one of God's noblemen stands before them. For the whites of the South he has only words of kindness and respect; the worst he says about them is that they do not understand. His modesty, his patience, his forbearance, are sublime. He is a true Fabian--he does what he can, like the royal Roycroft opportunist that he is. Every petty annoyance is passed over; the gibes and jeers and the ingratitude of his own race are forgotten. "They do not understand," he calmly says. He does his work. He is respected by the best people of North and South. He has the confidence of the men of affairs--he is a safe man. [Illustration: THOMAS ARNOLD] THOMAS ARNOLD Let me mind my own personal work; keep myself pure and zealous and believing; laboring to do God's will in this fruitful vineyard of young lives committed to my charge, as my allotted field, until my work be done. --_Thomas Arnold_ THOMAS ARNOLD Thomas Arnold was born in Seventeen Hundred Ninety-five, and died in Eighteen Hundred Forty-two. His life was short, as men count time, but he lived long enough to make for himself a name and a fame that are both lasting and luminous. Though he was neither a great writer nor a great preacher, yet there were times when he thought he was both. He was only a schoolteacher. However, he was an artist in schoolteaching, and art is not a thing--it is a way. It is the beautiful way--the effective way. Schoolteachers have no means of proving their prowess by conspicuous waste, and no time to convince the world of their excellence through conspicuous leisure; consequently, for histrionic purposes, a schoolteacher's cosmos is a plain, slaty gray. Schoolteachers do not wallow in wealth nor feed fat at the public trough. No one ever accuses them of belonging to the class known as the predatory rich, nor of being millionaire malefactors. They have to do their work every day at certain hours and dedicate its results to time. For many years Thomas Arnold has been known as the father of his son. Several great men have been thus overshadowed. The father of Disraeli, for instance, was favored by fame and fortune, until his gifted son moved into the limelight, and after that Pater shone mostly in a reflected glory. Jacopo Bellini was the greatest painter in Venice until his two sons, Gian and Gentile, surpassed him, and history writes him down as the father of the Bellinis. Lyman Beecher was regarded as America's greatest preacher until Henry Ward moved the mark up a few notches. The elder Pitt was looked upon as a genuine statesman until his son graduated into the Cabinet, and then "the terrible cornet of horse" became known as the father of Pitt. Now that both are dust, and we are getting the proper perspective, we see that "the great commoner" was indeed a great man, and so they move down the corridors of time together, arm in arm, this father and son. That excellent person who carried the gripsacks of greatness so long that he thought the luggage was his own, Major James B. Pond, launched at least one good thing. It was this: "Matthew Arnold gave fifty lectures in America, and nobody ever heard one of them; those in his audience who could no longer endure the silence slipped quietly out." Matthew Arnold was a critic and writer who, having secured a tuppence worth of success through being the son of his father, and thus securing the speaker's eye, finally got an oratorical bee in his bonnet and went a-barnstorming. He cultivated reserve and indifference, both of which he was told were necessary factors of success in a public speaker. And this is true. But they will not make an orator, any more than long hair, a peculiar necktie, and a queer hat will float a poet on the tide of time safely into the Hall of Fame. Matthew Arnold cultivated repose, but instead of convincing the audience that he had power, he only made them think he was sleepy. Major Pond, having lived much with orators, and thinking the trick easy, tried oratory on his own account, and succeeded as well as did Matthew Arnold. No one ever heard Major Pond: his voice fell over the footlights, dead, into the orchestra; only those with opera-glasses knew he was talking. But to be unintelligible is not a special recommendation. Men may be moderate for two reasons--through excess of feeling and because they are actually dull. Matthew Arnold has slipped back into his true position--that of a man of letters. The genius is a man of affairs. Humanity is the theme, not books. Books are usually written about the thoughts of men who wrote books. Books die and disintegrate, but humanity is an endless procession, and the souls that go marching on are those who fought for freedom, not those who speculate on abstrusities. The credential of Thomas Arnold to immortality is not that he was the father of Matthew and eight other little Arnolds, but it lies in the fact that he fought for a wider horizon in life through education. He lifted his voice for liberty. He believed in the divinity of the child, not in its depravity. Arnold of Rugby was a teacher of teachers, as every great teacher is. The pedagogic world is now going back to his philosophy, just as in statesmanship we are reverting to Thomas Jefferson. These men who spoke classic truth, not transient--truth that fits in spite of fashion, time and place--are the true prophets of mankind. Such was Thomas Arnold! * * * * * If Thomas Arnold had been just a little bigger, the world probably would never have heard of him, for an interdict would have been placed upon his work. The miracle is that, as it was, the Church and the State did not snuff him out. He stood for sweet reasonableness, but unintentionally created much opposition. His life was a warfare. Yet he managed to make himself acceptable to a few; so for fourteen years this head master of a preparatory school for boys lived his life and did his work. He sent out his radiating gleams, and grew straight in the strength of his spirit, and lived out his life in the light. His sudden death sanctified and sealed his work before he was subdued and ironed out by the conventions. Happy Arnold! If he had lived, he might have met the fate of Arnold of Brescia, who was also a great teacher. Arnold of Brescia was a pupil of Abelard, and was condemned by the Church as a disturber of the peace for speaking in eulogy of his master. Later, he attacked the profligacy of the idle prelates, as did Luther, Savonarola and all the other great church-reformers. When ordered into exile and silence, he still protested his right to speak. He was strangled on order of the Pope, his body burned, and the ashes thrown into the Tiber. The Baptists, I believe, claim Arnold of Brescia as the forerunner of their sect, and certain it is that he was of the true Roger Williams type. Thomas Arnold, too, was filled with a passion for righteousness. His zeal for the upright, manly life constituted his strength. Of course he would not have been executed, as was Arnold of Brescia--the times had changed--he would simply have been shelved, pooh-poohed, deprived of his living and socially Crapseyized. Death saved him--aged forty-seven--and his soul goes marching on! * * * * * The parents of Thomas Arnold belonged to the great Middle Class--that class which Disraeli said never did any thinking on its own account, but to the best of its ability deferred to and imitated the idle rich in matters of religion, education and politics. Doctor Johnson maintained that if members of the Middle Class worked hard and economized, it was in the hope that they might leave money and name for their children and make them exempt from all useful effort. "To indict a class," said Burke, "is neither reasonable nor right." But certain it is that a vast number of fairly intelligent people in England and elsewhere regard the life of the "aristocracy" as very desirable and beautiful. To this end they want their boys to become clergymen, lawyers, doctors or army officers. "Only two avenues of honor are open to aspiring youth in England," said Gladstone--"the Army and the Church." The father of Thomas Arnold was Collector of Customs at Cowes, Isle of Wight. Holding this petty office under the Government, with a half-dozen men at his command, we can easily guess his caliber, habits, belief and mode of life. He was respectable; and to be respectable, a Collector of Customs must be punctilious in Church matters, in order to be acceptable to Church people, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. The parents of Thomas Arnold very naturally centered their ambitions for him on the Church, as he was not very strong. When the child was only six years old, the father died from "spasm of the heart." At this time the boy had begun to take Latin, and his education was being looked after by a worthy governess, who daily drilled his mental processes and took him walking, leading him by the hand. On Sundays he wore a wide, white collar, shiny boots and a stiff hat. The governess cautioned him not to soil his collar, nor to get mud on his boots. In later years he told how he looked covetously at the boys who wore neither hats nor boots, and who did not have a governess. His mother had a fair income, and so this prim, precise, exact and crystallized mode of education was continued. Out of her great love for her child, the mother sent him away from home when he was eight years old. Of course there were tears on both sides; but now a male man must educate him, and women were to be dropped out of the equation--this that the evil in the child should be curbed, his spirit chastened, and his mind disciplined. The fact that a child rather liked to be fondled by his mother, or that his mother cared to fondle him, was proof of total depravity on the part of both. The Reverend Doctor Griffiths, who took charge of the boy for two years, was certainly not cruel, but at the same time he was not exactly human. In Nature we never hear of a she-lion sending her cubs away to be looked after by a denatured lion. It is really doubtful whether you could ever raise a lion to lionhood by this method. Some goat would come along and butt the life out of him, even after he had evolved whiskers and a mane. After two years with Doctor Griffiths, young Arnold was sent to Manchester, where he remained in a boys' boarding-house from his tenth to his fourteenth year. To the teachers here--all men--he often paid tribute, but uttered a few heretical doubts as to whether discipline as a substitute for mother-love was not an error of pious but overzealous educators. At sixteen years of age he was transferred to Corpus Christi College at Oxford. In Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, being then twenty years of age, he was elected a Fellow of Oriel College, and there he resided until he was twenty-four. He was a prizeman in Latin, Greek and English, and was considered a star scholar--both by himself and by others. Ten years afterwards he took a backward glance, and said: "At twenty-two I was proud, precise, stiff, formal, uncomfortable, unhappy, and unintentionally made everybody else unhappy with whom I came in contact. The only people I really mixed with were those whose lives were dedicated to the ablative." When twenty-four he was made a deacon and used to read prayers at neighboring chapels, for which service he was paid five shillings. Being now thrown on his own resources, he did the thing a prizeman always does: he showed others how. As a tutor he was a success: more scholars came to him than he could really take care of. But he did not like the work, since all the pupil desired, and all the parents desired, was that he should help the backward one get his marks, and glide through the eye of a needle into pedagogic paradise. At twenty-six he was preaching, teaching and writing learned essays about things he did not understand. From this brief sketch it will be seen that the early education of Thomas Arnold was of the kind and type that any fond parent of the well-to-do Middle Class would most desire. He had been shielded from all temptations of the world; he could do no useful thing with his hands; his knowledge of economics--ways and means--was that of a child; of the living present he knew little, but of the dead past he assumed and believed he knew much. It was purely priestly, institutional education. It was the kind of education that every well-to-do Briton would like to have his sons receive. It was, in short, England's Ideal. * * * * * Rugby Grammar School was endowed in Sixteen Hundred Fifty-three by one Laurence Sherif, a worthy grocer. The original gift was comparatively small, but the investment being in London real estate, has increased in value until it yields now an income of about thirty-five thousand dollars a year. In the time of Arnold there were about three hundred pupils. It is not a large school now; there are high schools in a hundred cities of America that surpass it in many ways. Rugby's claim to special notice lies in its traditions--the great men who were once Rugby boys, and the great men who were Rugby teachers. Also, in the fact that Thomas Hughes wrote a famous story called, "Tom Brown at Rugby." Rugby Grammar School was one hundred twenty-five years old when Sir Joshua Reynolds commissioned Lord Cornwallis to go to America and fetch George Washington to England, that Sir Joshua might paint his portrait. For a hundred years prior to the time of Arnold, there had not been a perceptible change in the methods of teaching. The boys were herded together. They fought, quarreled, divided into cliques; the big boys bullied the little ones. Fagging was the law; so the upper forms enslaved the lower ones. There was no home life, and the studies were made irksome and severe, purposely, as it was thought that pleasant things were sinful. If any better plan could have been devised to make study absolutely repulsive, so the student would shun it as soon as he was out of school, we can not guess it. The system was probably born of inertia on the part of the teachers. The pastor who pushes through his prescribed services, with mind on other things, and thus absolves his conscience for letting his congregation go drifting straight to Gehenna, was duplicated in the teacher. He did his duty--and nothing more. Selfishness, heartlessness and brutality manipulated the birch. Head was all; heart and hand nothing. This was schoolteaching. As a punishment for failure to memorize lessons, there were various plans to disgrace and discourage the luckless ones. Standing in the corner with face to the wall, and the dunce-cap, had given place to a system of fines, whereby "ten lines of Vergil for failure to attend prayers," and ten more for failure to get the first, often placed the boy in hopeless bankruptcy. If he was a fag, or slave of a higher-form boy, cleaning the other's boots, scrubbing stairs, running on foolish and needless errands, getting cuffs and kicks by way of encouragement, he saw his fines piling up and no way ever to clear them off and gain freedom by promotion. Viewed from our standpoint, the thing has a ludicrous bouffe air that makes us smile. But to the boy caught in the toils it was tragic. To work and evolve in an environment of such brutality was impossible to certain temperaments. Success lay in becoming calloused and indifferent. If the boy of gentle habits and slight physical force did not sink into mental nothingness, he was in danger of being bowled over by disease and death. Indeed, the physical condition of the pupils was very bad: smallpox, fevers, consumption, and breaking out with sores and boils, were common. Thomas Arnold was thirty-three years old when he was called as head master to Rugby. He was married, and babies were coming along with astonishing regularity. He had taken priestly orders and was passing rich on one hundred pounds a year. Poverty and responsibility had given him ballast, and love for his own little brood had softened his heart and vitalized his soul. As a writer and speaker he had made his presence felt at various college commencements and clergymen's meetings. He had challenged the brutal, indifferent, lazy and so-called disciplinary methods of teaching. And so far as we know, he is the first man in England to declare that the teacher should be the foster-parent of the child, and that all successful teaching must be born of love. The well-upholstered conservatives twiddled their thumbs, coughed, and asked: "How about the doctrine of total depravity? Do you mean to say that the child should not be disciplined? What does Solomon say about the use of the rod? Does the Bible say that the child is good by nature?" But Thomas Arnold could not explain all he knew. Moreover, he did not wish to fight the Church--he believed in the Church--to him it was a divine institution. But there were methods and practises in the Church that he would have liked to forget. "My sympathies go out to inferiority," he said. The weakling often needed encouragement, not discipline. The bad boy must be won, not suppressed. In one of these conferences of clergymen, Arnold said: "I once chided a pupil, a little, pale, stupid boy--undersized and seemingly half-sick--for not being able to recite his very simple lesson. He looked up at me and said with a touch of spirit: 'Sir, why do you get angry with me? Do you not know I am doing the best I can?'" One of the clergymen present asked Arnold how he punished the boy for his impudence. And Arnold replied: "I did not punish him--he had properly punished me. I begged his pardon." The idea of a teacher begging the pardon of a pupil was a brand-new thing. Several clergymen present laughed--one scowled--two sneezed. But a Bishop, shortly after this, urged the name of Thomas Arnold as master of Rugby, and added to his recommendation this line: "If elected to the office he will change the methods of schoolteaching in every public school in England." The ayes had it, and Arnold was called to Rugby. The salary was so-so, the pupils between two and three hundred in number--many were home on sick-leave--the Sixth Form was in charge. The genius of Arnold was made manifest, almost as soon as he went to Rugby, by the way in which he managed the boys who bullied the whole school, and what is worse, did it legally. Fagging was official. The Sixth Form was composed of thirty boys who stood at the top, and these boys ran the school. They were boys who, by reason of their size, strength, aggressiveness and mental ability, got the markings that gave them this autocratic power. They were now immune from authority--they were free. In a year they would gravitate to the University. We can hardly understand now how a bully could get markings through his bullying propensities; but a rudimentary survival of the idea may yet be seen in big football-players, who are given good marks, and very gentle mental massage in class. If the same scholars were small and skinny, they would certainly be plucked. The faculty found freedom in shifting responsibility for discipline to the Sixth Form. Read the diary of Arnold, and you will be amazed on seeing how he fought against taking from the Sixth Form the right to bodily chastise any scholar in the school that the king of the Sixth Form declared deserved it. If a teacher thought a pupil needed punishment, he turned the luckless one over to the Sixth Form. Can we now conceive of a system where the duty of certain scholars was to whip other scholars? Not only to whip them, but to beat them into insensibility if they fought back? Such was schoolteaching in the public schools of England in Eighteen Hundred Thirty. Against this brutality there was now a growing sentiment--a piping voice bidding the tide to stay! But now that Arnold was in charge of Rugby, he got the ill-will of his directors by declaring that he did not intend to curtail the powers of the Sixth Form--he proposed to civilize it. To try out the new master, the Sixth Form, proud in their prowess, sent him word that if he interfered with them in any way, they would first "bust up the school," and then resign in a body. Moreover, they gave it out that if any pupil complained to the master concerning the Sixth Form, the one so complaining would be taken out by night and drowned in the classic Avon. There were legends among the younger boys of strange disappearances, and these were attributed to the swift vengeance of "The Bloody Sixth." Above the Sixth Form there was no law. Every scholar took off his hat to a "Sixth." A Sixth uncovered to nobody, and touched his cap only to a teacher. And custom had become so rooted that the Sixth Form was regarded as a sort of police necessity--a caste which served the school just as the Army served the Church. To reach the Sixth Form were paradise--it meant liberty and power--liberty to do as you pleased, and power to punish all who questioned your authority. To uproot the power of the Sixth Form was the intent of a few reformers in pedagogics. There were two ways to deal with the boys of the Sixth--fight them or educate them. Arnold called the Rugby Sixth together and assured them that he could not do without their help. He needed them: he wanted to make Rugby a model school, a school that would influence all England--would they help him? The dogged faces before him showed signs of interest. He continued, without waiting for their reply, to set before them his ideal of an English Gentleman. He persuaded them, melted them by his glowing personality, shook hands with each, and sent them away. The next day he again met them in the same intimate way, and one of the boys made bold to assure him that if he wanted anybody licked--pupils or teachers--they stood ready to do his bidding. He thanked the boy, but assured him that he was of the opinion that it would not be necessary to do violence to any one; he was going to unfold to them another way--a new way, which was very old, but which as yet England had not tried. * * * * * The great teacher is not the one who imparts the most facts--he is the one who inspires by supplying a nobler ideal. Men are superior or inferior just in the ratio that they possess certain qualities. Truth, honor, frankness, health, system, industry, kindliness, good-cheer and a spirit of helpfulness are so far beyond any mental acquisition that comparisons are not only odious, but absurd. Arnold inspired qualities, and in this respect his work at Rugby forms a white milestone on the path of progress in pedagogy. To an applicant for a position as teacher, Arnold wrote: What I want is a man who is a Christian and a gentleman, an active man, and one who has commonsense, and understands boys. I do not so much care about scholarship, as he will have immediately under him the lowest forms in the school, but yet, on second thought, I do care about it very much, because his pupils may be in the highest forms; and besides, I think that even the elements are best taught by a man who has a thorough knowledge of the matter. However, if one must give way, I prefer activity of mind and an interest in his work to high scholarship; for the one may be acquired far more easily than the other. I should wish it also to be understood that the new master may be called upon to take boarders in his house, it being my intention for the future to require this of all masters as I see occasion, that so in time the school-barracks may die a natural death. With this to offer, I think I have a right to look rather high for the man whom I fix upon, and it is my great object to get here a society of intelligent, gentlemanly and active men, who may permanently keep up the character of the school, and if I were to break my neck tomorrow, carry it on. Ideas are in the air, and great inventions are worked out in different parts of the world at the same time. Rousseau had written his "Emile," but we are not aware that Arnold ever read it. And if he had, he probably would have been shocked, not inspired, by its almost brutal frankness. The French might read it--the English could not. Pestalozzi was working out his ideas in Switzerland, and Froebel, an awkward farmer lad in Germany, was dreaming dreams that were to come true. But Thomas Arnold caught up the threads of feeling in England and expressed them in the fabric of his life. His plans were scientific, but his reasons, unlike those of Pestalozzi, will not always stand the test of close analysis. Arnold was true to the Church, but he found it convenient to forget much for which the Church stood. He went back to a source nearer the fountainhead. All reforms in organized religion lie in returning to the primitive type. The religion of Jesus was very simple; that of a modern church dignitary is very complex. One can be understood; the other has to be explained and expounded, and usually several languages are required. Arnold would have his boys evolve into Christian gentlemen. And his type of English gentleman he did not get out of books on theology--it was his own composite idea. But having once evolved it, he cast around to justify it by passages of Scripture. This was beautiful, too, but from our standpoint it wasn't necessary. From his it was. A gentleman to him was a man who looked for the best in other people, and not for their faults; who overlooked slights; who forgot the good he had done; who was courteous, kind, cheerful, industrious and clean inside and out; who was slow to wrath, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord. And the "Lord" to Arnold was embodied in Church and State. Arnold used to say that schoolteaching should not be based upon religion, but it should be religion. And to him religion and conduct were one. That he reformed Rugby through the Sixth Form is a fact. He infused into the big boys the thought that they must help the little ones; that for a first offense a lad must never be punished; that he should have the matter fully explained to him, and be shown that he should do right because it is right, and not for fear of punishment. The Sixth Form was taught to unbend its dignity and enter into fellowship with its so-called inferiors. To this end Arnold set the example of playing cricket with the "scrubs." He never laughed at a poor player nor at a poor scholar. He took dull pupils into his own house, and insisted that his helpers, the other teachers, should do the same. He showed the Sixth Form how much better it was to take the part of the weak, and stop bullying the lower forms, than to set the example of it in the highest. Before Arnold had been at Rugby a year, the Sixth Form had resolved itself into a Reception Committee that greeted all newcomers, got them located, introduced them to the other boys, showed them the sights, and looked after their wants like big brothers or foster-fathers. Christianity to Arnold was human service. In his zeal to serve, to benefit, to bless, to inspire, he never tired. Such a disposition as this is contagious. In every big business or school, there is one man's mental attitude that animates the whole institution. Everybody partakes of it. When the leader gets melancholia, the shop has it--the whole place becomes tinted with ultra-marine. The best helpers begin to get out, and the honeycombing process of dissolution is on. A school must have a soul, just as surely as a shop, a bank, a hotel, a store, a home, or a church has to have. When an institution grows so great that it has no soul--simply a financial head and a board of directors--dry-rot sets in and disintegration in a loose wrapper is at the door. This explains why the small colleges are the best, when they are: there is a personality about them, an animating spirit that is pervasive and preservative. Thomas Arnold was not a man of vast learning, nor could one truthfully say he had a surplus of intellect; but he had soul, plus. He never sought to save himself. He gave himself to the boys of Rugby. His heart went out to them, he believed in them--and he believed them even when they lied, and he knew they lied. He knew that humanity was sound at heart; he believed in the divinity of mankind, and tried hard to forget the foolish theology that taught otherwise. Like Thomas Jefferson, who installed the honor system in the University of Virginia, he trusted young men. He made his appeal to that germ of goodness which is in every human soul. In some ways he anticipated Ben Lindsey in his love for the boy, and might have conjured forth from his teeming brain the Juvenile Court, and thus stopped the creation of criminals, had his life not been consumed in a struggle with stupidity and pedantry gone to seed that cried to him, "Oh, who ever heard of such a thing as that!" The Kindergarten utilizes the propensity to play; and Arnold utilizes the thirst for authority. Altruism is flavored with a desire for approbation. The plan of self-government by means of utilizing the Sixth Form was quite on the order of our own "George Junior Republic." "A school," he said, "should be self-governing and cleanse itself from that which is harmful." And again he says: "If a pupil can gratify his natural desire for approbation by doing that which is right, proper and best, he will work to this end instead of being a hero by playing the rowdy. It is for the scholars to set the seal of their approval on character, and they will do so if we as teachers speak the word. If I find a room in a tumult, I blame myself, not the scholars. It is I who have failed, not they. Were I what I should be, every one of my pupils would reflect my worth. I key the situation, I set the pace, and if my soul is in disorder, the school will be in confusion." Nothing is done without enthusiasm. It is heart that wins, not head, the round world over. And yet head must systematize the promptings of the heart. Arnold had a way of putting soul into a hand-clasp. His pupils never forgot him. Wherever they went, no matter how long they lived, they proclaimed the praises of Arnold of Rugby. How much this earnest, enthusiastic, loving and sincere teacher has influenced civilization, no man can say. But this we know, that since his day there has come about a new science of teaching. The birch has gone with the dunce-cap. The particular cat-o'-nine-tails that was burned in the house of Thomas Arnold as a solemn ceremony, when the declaration was made, "Henceforth I know my children will do right!" has found its example in every home of Christendom. We no longer whip children. Schools are no longer places of dread, pain and suffering, and we as teachers are repeating with Friedrich Froebel the words of the Nazarene, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Also, we say with Thomas Arnold: "The boy is father to the man. A race of gentlemen can only be produced by fostering in the boy the qualities that make for health, strength and a manly desire to bless, benefit and serve the race." [Illustration: FRIEDRICH FROEBEL] FRIEDRICH FROEBEL The purpose of the Kindergarten is to provide the necessary and natural help which poor mothers require who have to be about their work all day, and must leave their children to themselves. The occupations pursued in the Kindergarten are the following: free play of a child by itself; free play of several children by themselves; associated play under the guidance of a teacher; gymnastic exercises; several sorts of handiwork suited to little children; going for walks; learning music, both instrumental and vocal; learning the repetition of poetry; story-telling; looking at really good pictures; aiding in domestic occupations; gardening. --_Froebel_ FRIEDRICH FROEBEL Friedrich Froebel was born in a Thuringian village, April Twenty-first, Seventeen Hundred Eighty-two. His father was pastor of the Lutheran Church. When scarcely a year old his mother died. Erelong a stepmother came to fill her place--but didn't. This stepmother was the kind we read about in the "Six Best Sellers." Her severity, lack of love, and needlessly religious zeal served the future Kindergartner a dark background on which to paint a joyous picture. Froebel was educated by antithesis. His home was the type etched so unforgetably by Colonel Ed. Howe in his "Story of a Country Town," which isn't bad enough to be one of the Six Best Sellers. At the age of ten, out of pure pity, young Friedrich was rescued from the cuckoo's nest by an uncle who had a big family of his own and love without limit. There was a goodly brood left, so little Friedrich, slim, slender, yellow, pensive and sad, was really never missed. The uncle brought the boy up to work, but treated him like a human being, answering his questions, even allowing him to have stick horses and little log houses and a garden of his own. At fifteen his nature had begun to awaken, and the uncle, harkening to the boy's wish, apprenticed him for two years to a forester. The young man's first work was to make a list of the trees in a certain tract and approximate their respective ages. The night before his work began he lay awake thinking of the fun he was going to have at the job. In after-years he told of this incident in showing that it was absurd to try to divorce work from play. The two years as forester's apprentice, from fifteen to seventeen, were really better for him than any university could have been. His stepmother's instructions had mostly been in the line of prohibition. From earliest babyhood he had been warned to "look out." When he went on the street it was with a prophecy that he would get run over by a cart, or stolen by the gypsies, or fall off the bridge and be drowned. The idea of danger had been dinged into his ears so that fear had become a part of the fabric of his nature. Even at fifteen, he took pains to get out of the woods before sundown to avoid the bears. At the same time his intellect told him there were no bears there. But the shudder habit was upon him. Yet by degrees the work in the woods built up his body and he grew to be at home in the forest, both day and night. His duties taught him to observe, to describe, to draw, to investigate, to decide. Then it was transplantation, and perhaps the best of college life consists in taking the youth out of the home environment and supplying him new surroundings. Forestry in America is a brand-new science. To clear the ground has been our desire, and so to strip, burn and destroy, saving only such logs as appealed to us for "lumber," was the desideratum. But now we are seriously considering the matter of tree-planting and tree-preservation, and perhaps it would be well to ask ourselves if two years at forestry, right out of doors, in contact with Nature, wrestling with the world of wood, rock, plant and living things, wouldn't be better for the boy than double the time in stuffy dormitories and still more stuffy recitation-rooms--listening to stuffy lectures about things that are foreign to life. I would say that a boy is a savage, but I do not care to give offense to fond mammas. To educate him in the line of his likes, as the race has been educated, seems sensible and right. How would Yellowstone Park answer for a National University, with Captain Jack Crawford, William Muldoon, John Burroughs, John Dewey, Stanley Hall and a mixture of men of these types, for a faculty? Froebel thought his two years in the forest saved him from consumption, and perhaps from insanity, for it taught him to look out, not in, and to lend a hand. At times he was a little too sentimental, as it was, and a trifle more of morbidity and sensitiveness would have ruined his life, absolutely. The woods and God's great out-of-doors gave him balance and ballast, good digestion and sweet sleep o' nights. The two years past, he went to Jena, where he had an elder brother. This brother was a star scholar, and Friedrich looked up to him as a pleiad of pedagogy. He became a professor in a Jena preparatory school and then practised medicine; but he never had the misfortune to affront public opinion, and so oblivion lured and won him, and took him as her own. At Jena poor Froebel did not make head. His preparatory work hadn't prepared him. He floundered in studies too deep for one of his age, then followed some foolish advice and hired a tutor to help him along. Then he fell down, was plucked, got into debt, and also into the "carcer," where he boarded for nine weeks at the expense of the State. In the carcer he didn't catch up with his studies, quite naturally, and the imprisonment almost broke his health. Had he been in the carcer for dueling, he would have emerged a hero. But debt meant that he had neither money nor friends. When he was given his release, as an economic move, he slipped away between two days and made his way to the Forestry Office, where he applied for a job as laborer. He got it. In a few days he was promoted to chief of apprentices. Forestry meant a certain knowledge of surveying, and this Froebel soon acquired. Then came map-making, and that was only fun. From map-making to architecture is but a step, and Froebel quit the woods to work as assistant to an architect at ten pounds a year and found, it was confining work, and a trifle more exacting than he had expected--it required a deal of mathematics, and mathematics was Froebel's short suit. Froebel was disappointed and so was his employer--when something happened. It usually does in books, and in life, always. * * * * * Genius has its prototype. Before Froebel comes Pestalozzi, the Swiss, who studied theology and law, and then abandoned them both as futile to human evolution, and turned his attention to teaching. Pestalozzi was inspired by Jean Jacques Rousseau, and read his "Emile" religiously. To teach by natural methods and mix work and study, and make both play, was his theme. Pestalozzi believed in teaching out of doors, because children are both barbaric and nomadic--they want to go somewhere. His was the Aristotle method, as opposed to those of the closet and the cloister. But he made the mistake of saying that teaching should be taken out of the hands and homes of the clergy, and then the clergy said a few things about him. Pestalozzi at first met with very meager encouragement. Only poor and ignorant people entrusted their children to his care, and some of the parents were actually paid in money for the services of the children. The thought that the children were getting an education and being useful at the same time was quite beyond their comprehension. Pestalozzi educated by stealth. At first he took several boys and girls of eight, ten or twelve years of age, and had them work with him in his garden. They cared for fowls, looked after the sheep, milked the cows. The master worked with them, and as they worked they talked. Going to and from their duties, Pestalozzi would call their attention to the wild birds, and to the flowers, plants and weeds. They would draw pictures of things, make collections of leaves and flowers, and keep a record of their observations and discoveries. Through keeping these records they learned to read and write and acquired the use of simple mathematics. Things they did not understand they would read about in the books found in the teacher's library. But books were secondary and quite incidental in the scheme of study. When work seemed to become irksome they would all stop and play games. At other times they would sit and just talk about what their work happened to suggest. If the weather was unpleasant, there was a shop where they made hoes and rakes and other tools they needed. They also built bird-houses, and made simple pieces of furniture, so all the pupils, girls and boys, became more or less familiar with carpenter's and blacksmith's tools. They patched their shoes, mended their clothing, and at times prepared their own food. Pestalozzi found that the number of pupils he could look after in this way was not more than ten. But to his own satisfaction, at least, he proved that children taught by his method surpassed those who were given the regular set courses of instruction. His chief difficulties lay in the fact that the home did not co-operate with the school, and that there was always a tendency to "return to the blanket." Pestalozzi wrote accounts of his experiments and emphasized his belief that we should educate through the child's natural activities; also that all growth should be pleasurable. His shibboleth was, "From within, out." He thought education was a development and not an acquirement. One of Pestalozzi's little pamphlets fell into the hands of Friedrich Froebel, architect's assistant, at Frankfort. Froebel was twenty-two years old, and Fate had tossed him around from one thing to another since babyhood. All of his experiences had been of a kind that prepared his mind for the theories that Pestalozzi expressed. Besides that, architecture had begun to pall upon him. "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach." This was said in derision, but it holds a grain of truth. Froebel had a great desire to teach. Now, in Frankfort there was a Model School or a school for teachers, of which one Herr Gruner was master. This school was actually carrying out some of the practical methods suggested by Pestalozzi. Quite by accident Gruner and Froebel met. Gruner wanted a teacher who could teach by the Pestalozzi methods. Froebel straightway applied to Herr Gruner for the position. He was accepted as a combination janitor and instructor and worked for his board and ten marks, or two and a half dollars a week. The good-cheer and enthusiasm of Froebel won Gruner's heart. Together they discussed Pestalozzi and his works, read all that he had written, and opened up a correspondence with the great man. This led to an invitation that Froebel should visit him at his farm-school, near Yverdon, in Switzerland. Gruner supplied Froebel the necessary money to replace his very seedy clothes for something better, and the young man started away. It was a walk of more than two hundred miles, but youth and enthusiasm count such a tramp as an enjoyable trifle. Froebel wore his seedy clothes and carried his good ones, and so he appeared before the master spick and span. Pestalozzi was sixty years old at this time, and his hopes for the "new method" were still high. He had met opposition, ridicule and indifference, and had spent most of his little fortune in the fight, but he was still at it and resolved to die in the harness. Froebel was not disappointed in Pestalozzi, and certainly Pestalozzi was delighted and a bit amused at the earnestness of the young man. Pestalozzi was working in a very economical way, but all the place lacked Froebel, in his exuberant imagination, made good. Froebel found much, for he had brought much with him. * * * * * Froebel returned to Frankfort from his visit to Pestalozzi, full of enthusiasm, and that is the commodity without which no teacher succeeds. Gruner allowed him to gravitate. And soon Froebel's room was the central point of interest for the whole school. But trouble was ahead for Froebel. He had no college degrees. His pedagogic pedigree was very short. He hoped to live down his university record, but it followed him. Gruner's school was under government inspection, and the gentlemen with double chins, who came from time to time to look the place over, asked who this enthusiastic young person was, and why had the worthy janitor and ex-forester been so honored by promotion. In truth, during his life, Froebel never quite escaped the taunt that he was not an educated man. That is to say, no college had ever supplied him an alphabetic appendage. He had been a forester, a farmer, an architect, a guardian for boys and a teacher of women, but no institution had ever said officially he was fit to teach men. Gruner tried to explain that there are two kinds of teachers: people who are teachers by nature, and those who have acquired the methods by long study. The first, having little to learn, and a love for the child, with a spontaneous quality of giving their all, succeed best. But poor Gruner's explanation did not explain. Then the matter was gently explained to Froebel, and he saw that in order to hold a place as teacher he must acquire a past. "Time will adjust it," he said, and started away on a second visit to Pestalozzi. His plan was to remain with the master long enough so he could secure a certificate of proficiency. Again Pestalozzi welcomed the young man, and he slipped easily into the household and became both pupil and teacher. His willingness to work--to do the task that lay nearest him--his good-nature, his gratitude, won all hearts. At this time the plan of sending boys to college with a tutor who was both a companion and a teacher, was in vogue with those who could afford it. It will be remembered that William and Alexander von Humboldt received their early education in this way--going with their tutor from university to university, teacher and pupils entering as special students, getting into the atmosphere of the place, soaking themselves full of it, and then going on. And now behold, through Gruner or Pestalozzi or both, a woman of wealth with three boys to educate applied to Froebel to come over into Macedonia and help her. It was in Eighteen Hundred Seven that Froebel became tutor in the Von Holzhausen family. He was twenty-five years old, and this was his first interview with wealth and leisure. That he was hungry enough to appreciate it need not be emphasized. He got goodly glimpses of Gottingen, Berlin, and was long enough at Jena to rub the blot off the 'scutcheon. A stay at Weimar, in the Goethe country, completed the four years' course. The boys had grown to men, and proved their worth in after-years; but whether they had gotten as much from the migrations as their teacher is very doubtful. He was ripe for opportunity--they had had a surfeit of it. Then came war. The order to arms and the rush of students to obey their country's call caught Froebel in the patriotic vortex, and he enlisted with his pupils. His service was honorable, even if not brilliant, and it had this advantage: the making of two friends, companions in arms, who caught the Pestalozzian fever, and lived out their lives preaching and teaching "the new method." These men were William Middendorf and Henry Langenthal. This trinity of brothers evolved a bond as beautiful as it is rare in the realm of friendship. Forty years after their first meeting, Middendorf gave an oration over the dead body of Froebel that lives as a classic, breathing the love and faith that endure. And then Middendorf turned to his work, and dared prison and disgrace by upholding the Kindergarten System and the life and example of his dear, dead friend. The Kindergarten Idea would probably have been buried in the grave with Froebel--interred with his bones--were it not for Middendorf and Langenthal. * * * * * The first Kindergarten was established in Eighteen Hundred Thirty-six, at Blankenburg, a little village near Keilhau. Froebel was then fifty-four years old, happily married to a worthy woman who certainly did not hamper his work, even if she did not inspire it. He was childless, that all children might call him father. The years had gone in struggles to found Normal Schools in Germany after the Pestalozzian and Gruner methods. But disappointment, misunderstanding and stupidity had followed Froebel. The set methods of the clergy, accusations of revolution and heresy, tilts with pious pedants as to the value of dead languages, all combined with his own lack of business shrewdness, had wrecked his various ventures. Froebel's argument that women were better natural teachers than men on account of the mother-instinct, brought forth a retort from a learned monk to the effect that it was indelicate if not sinful for an unmarried female, who was not a nun, to study the natures of children. Parents with children old enough to go to school would not entrust their darlings with the teaching experimenter--this on the advice of their pastors. Middendorf and Langenthal were still with him, partners in the disgrace or failure, for none was willing to give up the fight for education by the natural methods. A great thought and a great word came to them, all at once--out on the mountain-side! Begin with the children before the school age, and call it the Kindergarten! Hurrah! They shouted for joy, and ran down the hill to tell Frau Froebel. The schools they had started before had been called, "The Institution for Teaching According to the Pestalozzi Method and the Natural Activities of the Child," "Institution for the Encouragement and Development of the Spontaneous Activities of the Pupil," and "Friedrich Froebel's School for the Growth of the Creative Instinct Which Makes for a Useful Character." A school with such names, of course, failed. No one could remember it long enough to send his child there--it meant nothing to the mind not prepared for it. What's in a name? Everything. Books sell or become dead stock on the name. Commodities the same. Railroads must have a name people are not afraid to pronounce. The officers of the law came and asked to see Froebel's license for manufacturing. Others asked as to the nature of his wares, and one dignitary called and asked, "Is Herr Pestalozzi in?" The Kindergarten! The new name took. The children remembered it. Overworked mothers liked the word and were glad to let the little other-mothers take the children to the Kindergarten, certainly. Froebel had grown used to disappointments--he was an optimist by nature. He saw the good side of everything, including failure. He made the best of necessity. And now it was very clear to him that education must begin "a hundred years before the child is born." He would reach the home and the mother through the children. "It will take three generations to prove the truth of the Kindergarten Idea," he said. And so the songs, the gifts, the games--all had to be invented, defended, tried and tried again. Pestalozzi had a plan for teaching the youth; now a plan had to be devised for teaching the child. Love was the keystone, and joy, unselfishness and unswerving faith in the Natural or Divine impulses of humanity crowned the structure. * * * * * Froebel invented the schoolma'am. That is, he discovered the raw product and adapted it. He even coined the word, and it struck the world as being so very funny that we forthwith adopted it as a term of provincial pleasantry and quasi-reproach. The original term used was "school mother," but when it reached these friendly shores we translated it "schoolmarm." Then we tittered, also sneezed. Froebel died in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-two. His first Kindergarten was not a success until he was nearly sixty years old, but the idea had been perfecting itself in his mind more or less unconsciously for over thirty years. He had been thinking, writing, working, experimenting all these years on the subject of education, and he had become well-nigh discouraged. He had observed that six was the "school age." That is, no child could go to school until he was six years old--then his education began. But Froebel had been teaching in a country school and boarding 'round, and he had discovered that long before this the child had been learning by observing and playing, and that these were formative influences, quite as potent as actual school. In the big families where Froebel boarded, he noticed that the older girls took charge of the younger ones. So, often a girl of ten, with dresses to her knees, carried one baby in her arms and two toddled behind her, and this child of ten was really the other-mother. The true mother worked in the fields or toiled at her housework, and the little other-mother took the children out to play and thus amused them while the mother worked. The desire of Froebel was to educate the race, but what are a few hours a day in a schoolroom with a totally unsympathetic home environment! To reach and interest the mother in the problem of education was well-nigh impossible. Toil, deprivation, poverty, had killed all the romance and enthusiasm in her heart. She was the victim of arrested development; but the little other-mother was a child, impressionable, immature, and she could be taught. The home must co-operate with the school, otherwise all the school can teach will be forgotten in the home. Froebel saw, too, that often the little other-mother was so overworked in the care of her charges that she was taken from school. Besides, the idea was abroad that education was mostly for boys, anyway. And here Froebel stepped in and proved himself a law-breaker, just as Ben Lindsey was when he inaugurated the juvenile court and waived the entire established legal procedure, even to the omission of swearing his witnesses, and believed in the little truant even though he lied. Froebel told the little other-mothers to come to school anyway and bring the babies with them. And then he set to work showing these girls how to amuse, divert and teach the babies. And he used to say the babies taught him. Some of these half-grown girls showed a rare adaptability as teachers. They combined mother-love and the teaching instinct. Froebel utilized their services in teaching others in order that he might teach them. He saw that the teacher is the one who gets the most out of the lessons, and that the true teacher is a learner. These girl teachers he called school-mothers, and thus was evolved the word and the person. Froebel founded the first normal and model school for the education of women as teachers, and this was less than a hundred years ago. The years went by and the little mothers had children of their own, and these children were the ones that formed the first actual, genuine kindergarten. Also, these were the mothers who formed the first mothers' clubs. And it was the success of these clubs that attracted the attention of the authorities, who could not imagine any other purpose for a club than to hatch a plot against the government. Anyway, a system which taught that women were just as wise, just as good and just as capable as men--just as well fitted by nature to teach--would upset the clergy. If women can break into the school, they will also break into the church. Moreover, the encouragement of play was atrocious. Mein Gott, or words to that effect, play in a schoolroom! Why, even a fool would know that that is the one thing that stood in the way of education, the one fly in the pedagogic ointment. If Mynheer Froebel would please invent a way to do away with play in schoolrooms, he would be given a pension. The idea that children were good by nature was rank heresy. Where does the doctrine of regeneration come in, and how about being born again! The natural man is at enmity toward God. We are conceived in sin and born in iniquity. The Bible says it again and again. And here comes a man who thinks he knows more than all the priests and scholars who have ever lived, and fills the heads of fool women with the idea that they are born to teach instead of to work in the fields and keep house and wait on men. Mein Gott in Himmel, the women know too much, already! If this thing keeps on, men will have to get off the earth, and women and children will run the world, and do it by means of play. Aha! What does Solomon say? Spare the rod and spoil the child. Aber nicht, say these girls. This thing has got to stop before Germany becomes the joke of mankind--the cat-o'-nine-tails for anybody who uses the word kindergarten! * * * * * "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." Had the man who uttered these words been given a little encouragement, he probably would have inaugurated a child-garden and provided a place and environment where little souls could have bloomed and blossomed. He was by nature a teacher, and his best pupils were women and children. Male men are apt to think they already know and so are immune from ideas. Jerusalem, nineteen hundred years ago, was about where Berlin was in Eighteen Hundred Fifty. In both instances the proud priest and the aristocrat-soldier were supreme. And both were quite satisfied with their own mental attainments and educational methods. They were sincere. It was a very similar combination that crucified Jesus to that which placed an interdict on Friedrich Froebel, making the Kindergarten a crime, and causing the speedy death of one of the gentlest, noblest, purest men who have ever blessed this earth. Froebel was just seventy when he passed out. "His eye was not dimmed nor his natural force abated"--he was filled with enthusiasm and hope as never before. His ideas were spreading--success, at last, was at the door, he had interested the women and proved the fitness of women to teach--his mothers' clubs were numerous--love was the watchword. And in the midst of this flowering time, the official order came, without warning, apology or explanation, and from which there was no appeal. The same savagery, chilled with fear, that sent Richard Wagner into exile, crushed the life and broke the heart of Friedrich Froebel. But these names now are the pride and glory of the land that once scorned them. Men who govern should be those with a reasonable doubt concerning their own infallibility, and an earnest faith in men, women and children. To teach is better than to rule. We are all children in the Kindergarten of God. [Illustration: HYPATIA] HYPATIA Neo-Platonism is a progressive philosophy, and does not expect to state final conditions to men whose minds are finite. Life is an unfoldment, and the further we travel the more truth we can comprehend. To understand the things that are at our door is the best preparation for understanding those that lie beyond. --_Hypatia_ HYPATIA The father of Hypatia was Theon, a noted mathematician and astronomer of Alexandria. He would have been regarded as a very great man had he not been cast into the shadow by his daughter. Let male parents beware. At that time, astronomy and astrology were one. Mathematics was useful, not for purposes of civil engineering, but principally in figuring out where a certain soul, born under a given planet, would be at a certain time in the future. No information comes to us about the mother of Hypatia--she was so busy with housework that her existence is a matter of assumption or a priori reasoning; thus, given a daughter, we assume the existence of a mother. Hypatia was certainly the daughter of her father. He was her tutor, teacher, playmate. All he knew he taught to her, and before she was twenty she had been informed by him of a fact which she had previously guessed--that considerable of his so-called knowledge was conjecture. Theon taught his daughter that all systems of religion that pretend to teach the whole truth were to a great degree false and fraudulent. He explained to her that his own profession of astronomy and astrology was only for other people. By instructing her in all religions she grew to know them comparatively, and so none took possession of her to the exclusion of new truth. To have a religion thrust upon you, and be compelled to believe in it or suffer social ostracism, is to be cheated of the right to make your own. In degree it is letting another live your life. A child does not need a religion until he is old enough to evolve it, and then he must not be robbed of the right of independent thinking by having a fully-prepared plan of salvation handed out to him. The brain needs exercise as much as the body, and vicarious thinking is as erroneous as vicarious exercise. Strength comes from personal effort. To think is natural, and if not intimidated or coerced the man will evolve a philosophy of life that is useful and beneficent. Religious mania is a result of dwelling on a borrowed religion. If let alone no man would become insane on religious topics, for the religion he would evolve would be one of joy, laughter and love, not one of misery or horror. The religion that contemplates misery and woe is one devised by priestcraft for a purpose, and that purpose is to rule and rob. From the blunt ways of the road we get a polite system of intimidation which makes the man pay. It is robbery reduced to a system, and finally piously believed in by the robbers, who are hypnotized into the belief that they are doing God's service. "All formal dogmatic religions are fallacious and must never be accepted by self-respecting persons as final," said Theon to Hypatia. "Reserve your right to think, for even to think wrongly is better than not to think at all." Theon gave lectures, and had private classes in esoterics, wherein the innermost secrets of divinity were imparted. Also, he had a plan for the transmutation of metals and a recipe for perpetual youth. When he had nothing else to do, he played games with his daughter. At twenty-one Hypatia had mastered the so-called art of Rhetoric, or the art of expression by vocal speech. It will be remembered that the Romans considered rhetoric, or the art of the rhetor, or orator, as first in importance. To impress people by your personal presence they regarded as the gift of gifts. This idea seems to have been held by the polite world up to the Italian Renaissance, when the art of printing was invented and the written word came to be regarded as more important than the spoken. One lives, and the other dies on the air, existing only in memory, growing attenuated and diluted as it is transferred. The revival of sculpture and painting also helped oratory to take its proper place as one of the polite arts, and not a thing to be centered upon to the exclusion of all else. Theon set out to produce a perfect human being; and whether his charts, theorems and formulas made up a complete law of eugenics, or whether it was dumb luck, this we know: he nearly succeeded. Hypatia was five feet nine, and weighed one hundred thirty-five pounds. This when she was twenty. She could walk ten miles without fatigue; swim, row, ride horseback and climb mountains. Through a series of gentle calisthenics invented by her father, combined with breathing exercises, she had developed a body of rarest grace. Her head had corners, as once Professor O. S. Fowler told us that a woman's head must have, if she is to think and act with purpose and precision. So having evolved this rare beauty of face, feature and bodily grace, combined with superior strength and vitality, Hypatia took up her father's work and gave lectures on astronomy, mathematics, astrology and rhetoric, while he completed his scheme for the transmutation of metals. Hypatia's voice was flute-like, and used always well within its compass, so as never to rasp or tire the organs. Theon knew the proper care of nose and throat, a knowledge which with us moderns is all too rare. Hypatia told of and practised the vocal ellipse, the pause, the glide, the slide and the gentle, deliberate tones that please and impress. That the law of suggestion was known to her was very evident, and certain it is that she practised hypnotism in her classes, and seemed to know as much about the origin of the mysterious agent as we do now, even though she never tagged or labeled it. One very vital thought she worked out was, that the young mind is plastic, impressionable and accepts without question all that it is told. The young receive their ideas from their elders, and ideas once impressed upon this plastic plate of the mind can not be removed. Said Hypatia: "Fables should be taught as fables, myths as myths, and miracles as poetic fancies. To teach superstitions as truths is a most terrible thing. The child-mind accepts and believes them, and only through great pain and perhaps tragedy can he be in after-years relieved of them. In fact, men will fight for a superstition quite as quickly as for a living truth--often more so, since a superstition is so intangible you can not get at it to refute it, but truth is a point of view, and so is changeable." Gradually, over the mind of the beautiful and gifted Hypatia, there came stealing a doubt concerning the value of her own acquirements, since these were "acquirements," and not evolutions or convictions gathered from experience, but things implanted upon her plastic mind by her father. In this train of thought Hypatia had taken a step in advance of her father, for he seems to have had a dogmatic belief in a few things incapable of demonstration; but these things he taught to the plastic mind, just the same as the things he knew. Theon was a dogmatic liberal. Possibly the difference between an illiberal Unitarian and a liberal Catholic is microscopic. Hypatia clearly saw that knowledge is the distilled essence of our intuitions, corroborated by experience. But belief is the impress made upon our minds when we are under the spell of or in subjection to another. These things caused the poor girl many unhappy hours, which fact, in itself, is proof of her greatness. Only superior people have a capacity for doubting. Probably not one person in a million ever gets away far enough from his mind to take a look at it, and see the wheels go round. Opinions become ossified and the man goes through life hypnotizing others, never realizing for an instant that in youth he was hypnotized and that he has never been able to cast off the hypnosis. This is what our pious friends mean when they say, "Give me the child until he is ten years old and you may have him afterward." That is, they can take the child in his plastic age and make impressions on his mind that are indelible. Reared in an orthodox Jewish family a child will grow up a dogmatic Jew, and argue you on the Talmud six nights and days together. Catholic, Presbyterian, Baptist, the same. I once knew an Arapahoe Indian who was taken to Massachusetts when four years old. He grew up not only with New England prejudices, but with a New England accent, and saved his pennies to give to missionaries that they might "convert" the Red Men. When the suspicion seized upon the soul of Hypatia that her mind was but a wax impression taken from her father's, she began to make plans to get away from him. Her efforts at explanations were futile, but when placed upon the general ground that she wished to travel, see the world and meet people of learning and worth, her father acquiesced and she started away on her journeyings. He wanted to go, too, but this was the one thing she did not desire, and he never knew nor could know why. She spent several months at Athens, where her youth, beauty and learning won her entry into the houses of the most eminent. It was the same at Rome and in various other cities of Italy. Money may give you access to good society, but talent is always an open sesame. She traveled like a princess and was received as one, yet she had no title nor claim to nobility nor station. Beauty of itself is not a credential--rather it is an object of suspicion, unless it goes with intellect. Hypatia gave lectures on mathematics; and there was a fallacy abroad then as there is now that the feminine mind is not mathematical. That the great men whom Hypatia met in each city were first amazed and then abashed by her proficiency in mathematics is quite probable. Some few male professors being in that peculiar baldheaded hypnotic state when feminine charms dazzle and lure, listened in rapture as Hypatia dissolved logarithms and melted calculi, and not understanding a word she said, declared that she was the goddess Minerva, reincarnated. Her coldness on near approach confirmed their suspicions. * * * * * Just how long a time Hypatia spent upon her pilgrimage, visiting all of the great living philosophers, we do not know. Some accounts have it one year, others ten. Probably the pilgrimages were extended over a good many years, and were not continuous. Several philosophers proved their humanity by offering to marry her, and a prince or two did likewise, we are credibly informed. To these persistent suitors, however, Hypatia gently broke the news that she was wedded to truth, which is certainly a pretty speech, even if it is poor logic. The fact was, however, that Hypatia never met a man whose mind matched her own, otherwise logic would have bolstered love, instead of discarding it. Travel, public speaking and meeting people of note form a strong trinity of good things. The active mind is the young mind, and it is more than the dream of a poet which declares that Hypatia was always young and always beautiful, and that even Father Time was so in love with her that he refused to take toll from her, as he passed with his hourglass and scythe. In degree she had followed the example of her great prototype, Plotinus, and had made herself master of all religions. She knew too much of all philosophies to believe implicitly in any. Alexandria was then the intellectual center of the world. People who resided there called it the hub of the universe. It was the meeting-place of the East and the West. And Hypatia, with her Thursday lectures, was the chief intellectual factor of Alexandria. Her philosophy she called Neo-Platonism. It was Plato distilled through the psychic alembic of Hypatia. Just why the human mind harks back and likes to confirm itself by building on another, it would be interesting to inquire. To explain Moses; to supply a key to the Scriptures; to found a new School of Philosophy on the assumption that Plato was right, but was not understood until the Then and There, is alluring. And now the pilgrims came from Athens, and Rome, and the Islands of the Sea to sit at the feet of Hypatia. * * * * * Hypatia was born in the year Three Hundred Seventy, and died in Four Hundred Thirty. She exerted an influence in Alexandria not unlike that which Mrs. Eddy exerted in Boston. She was a person who divided society into two parts: those who regarded her as an oracle of light, and those who looked upon her as an emissary of darkness. Strong men paid her the compliment of using immoderate language concerning her teaching. But whether they spoke ill or well of her matters little now. The point is this: they screeched, sneezed, or smiled on those who refused to acknowledge the power of Hypatia. Some professors of learning tried to waive her; priests gently pooh-poohed her; and some elevated an eyebrow and asked how the name was spelled. Others, still, inquired, "Is she sincere?" She was the Ralph Waldo Emerson of her day. Her philosophy was Transcendentalism. In fact, she might be spoken of as the original charter member of the Concord School of Philosophy. Her theme was the New Thought, for New Thought is the oldest form of thought of which we know. Its distinguishing feature is its antiquity. Socrates was really the first to express the New Thought, and he got his cue from Pythagoras. The ambition of Hypatia was to revive the flowering-time of Greece, when Socrates and Plato walked arm in arm through the streets of Athens, followed by the greatest group of intellectuals the world has ever seen. It was charged against Hypatia that Aspasia was her ideal, and that her ambition was to follow in the footsteps of the woman who was beloved by Pericles. If so, it was an ambition worthy of a very great soul. Hypatia, however, did not have her Pericles, and never married. That she should have had love experiences was quite natural, and that various imaginary romances should have been credited to her was also to be expected. Hypatia was nearly a thousand years removed from the time of Pericles and Aspasia, but to bridge the gulf of time with imagination was easy. Yet Hypatia thought that the New Platonism should surpass the old, for the world had had the Age of Augustus to build upon. Hypatia's immediate prototype was Plotinus, who was born two hundred four years after Christ, and lived to be seventy. Plotinus was the first person to use the phrase "Neo-Platonism," and so the philosophy of Hypatia might be called "The New Neo-Platonism." To know but one religion is not to know that one. In fact, superstition consists in this one thing--faith in one religion, to the exclusion of all others. To know one philosophy is to know none. They are all comparative, and each serves as a small arc of the circle. A man living in a certain environment, with a certain outlook, describes the things he sees; and out of these, plus what he imagines, is shaped his philosophy of life. If he is repressed, suppressed, frightened, he will not see very much, and what he does see will be out of focus. Spiritual strabismus and mental myopia are the results of vicarious peeps at the universe. All formal religions have taught that to look for yourself was bad. The peephole through the roof of his garret cost Copernicus his liberty, but it was worth the price. Plotinus made a study of all philosophies--all religions. He traveled through Egypt, Greece, Assyria, India. He became an "adept", and discovered how easily the priest drifts into priestcraft, and fraud steps in with legerdemain and miracle to amend the truth. As if to love humanity were not enough to recommend the man, they have him turn water into wine and walk on the water. Out of the labyrinth of history and speculation Plotinus returned to Plato as a basis or starting-point for all of the truth which man can comprehend. Plotinus believed in all religions, but had absolute faith in none. It will be remembered that Aristotle and Plato parted as to the relative value of poetry and science--science being the systematized facts of Nature. Plotinus comes in and says that both were right, and each was like every good man who exaggerates the importance of his own calling. In his ability to see the good in all things, Hypatia placed Plotinus ahead of Plato, but even then she says: "Had there been no Plato, there would have been no Plotinus; although Plotinus surpassed Plato, yet it is plain that Plato, the inspirer of Plotinus and so many more, is the one man whom philosophy can not spare. Hail, Plato!!" * * * * * The writings of Hypatia have all disappeared, save as her words come to us, quoted by her contemporaries. If the Essays of Emerson should all be swept away, the man would still live in the quotations from his pen, given to us by every writer of worth who has put pencil to paper during the last fifty years. So lives Sappho, and thus did Charles Kingsley secure the composite of the great woman who lives and throbs through his book. Legend pictures her as rarely beautiful, with grace, poise and power, plus. She was sixty when she died. History kindly records it forty-five--and all picture her as a beautiful and attractive woman to the last. The psychic effects of a gracefully-gowned first reader, with sonorous voice, using gesture with economy, and packing the pauses with feeling, have never been fully formulated, analyzed and explained. Throngs came to hear Hypatia lecture--came from long distances, and listened hungrily, and probably all they took away was what they brought, except a great feeling of exhilaration and enthusiasm. To send the hearer away stepping light, and his heart beating fast--this is oratory--which isn't so much to bestow facts, as it is to impart a feeling. This Hypatia surely did. Her theme was Neo-Platonism. "Neo" means new, and all New Thought harks back to Plato, who was the mouthpiece of Socrates. "Say what you will, you'll find it all in Plato." Neo-Platonism is our New Thought, and New Thought is Neo-Platonism. There are two kinds of thought: New Thought and Secondhand Thought. New Thought is made up of thoughts you, yourself, think. The other kind is supplied to you by jobbers. The distinguishing feature of New Thought is its antiquity. Of necessity it is older than Secondhand Thought. All genuine New Thought is true for the person who thinks it. It only turns sour and becomes error when not used, and when the owner forces another to accept it. It then becomes a secondhand revelation. All New Thought is revelation, and secondhand revelations are errors half-soled with stupidity and heeled with greed. Very often we are inspired to think by others, but in our hearts we have the New Thought; and the person, the book, the incident, merely remind us that it is already ours. New Thought is always simple; Secondhand Thought is abstruse, complex, patched, peculiar, costly, and is passed out to be accepted, not understood. That no one comprehends it is often regarded as a recommendation. For instance, "Thou shalt not make unto thyself any graven image," is Secondhand Thought. The first man who said it may have known what it meant, but surely it is nothing to us. However, that does not keep us from piously repeating it, and having our children memorize it. We model in clay or wax, and carve if we can, and give honors to those who do, and this is well. This commandment is founded on the fallacy that graven images are gods, whatever that is. The command adds nothing to our happiness, nor does it shape our conduct, nor influence our habits. Everybody knows and admits its futility, yet we are unable to eliminate it from our theological system. It is strictly secondhand--worse, it is junk. Conversely, the admonition, "Be gentle and keep your voice low," is New Thought, since all but savages know its truth, comprehend its import, and appreciate its excellence. Dealers in Secondhand Thought always declare that theirs is the only genuine, and that all other is spurious and dangerous. Dealers in New Thought say, "Take this only as it appeals to you as your own--accept it all, or in part, or reject it all--and in any event, do not believe it merely because I say so." New Thought is founded on the laws of your own nature, and its shibboleth is, "Know Thyself." Secondhand Thought is founded on authority, and its war-cry is, "Pay and Obey." New Thought offers you no promise of paradise or eternal bliss if you accept it; nor does it threaten you with everlasting hell, if you don't. All it offers is unending work, constant effort, new difficulties; beyond each success is a new trial. Its only satisfactions are that you are allowing your life to unfold itself according to the laws of its nature. And these laws are divine, therefore you yourself are divine, just as you allow the divine to possess your being. New Thought allows the currents of divinity to flow through you unobstructed. Secondhand Thought affords no plan of elimination; it tends to congestion, inflammation, disease and disintegration. New Thought holds all things lightly, gently, easily--even thought. It works for a healthy circulation, and tends to health, happiness and well-being now and hereafter. It does not believe in violence, force, coercion or resentment, because all these things react on the doer. It has faith that all men, if not interfered with by other men, will eventually evolve New Thought, and do for themselves what is best and right, beautiful and true. Secondhand Thought has always had first in its mind the welfare of the dealer. The rights of the consumer, beyond keeping him in subjection, were not considered. Indeed, its chief recommendation has been that "it is a good police system." New Thought considers only the user. To "Know Thyself" is all there is of it. When a creator of New Thought goes into the business of retailing his product, he often forgets to live it, and soon is transformed into a dealer in Secondhand Thought. That is the way all purveyors in secondhand revelation begin. In their anxiety to succeed, they call in the police. The blessing that is compulsory is not wholly good, and any system of morals which has to be forced on us is immoral. New Thought is free thought. Its penalty is responsibility. You either have to live it, or else lose it. Its reward is Freedom. * * * * * It was only a little more than a hundred years before the time of Hypatia that the Roman Empire became Christian. When Constantine embraced Christianity, all of his loyal subjects were from that moment Christians--Christians by edict, but Pagans by character, for the natures of men can not be changed by the passing of a resolution. From that time every Pagan temple became a Christian church, and every Pagan priest a Christian preacher. Alexandria was under the rule of a Roman Prefect, or Governor. It had been the policy of Rome to exercise great tolerance in religious matters. There was a State Religion, to be sure, but it was for the nobility or those who helped make the State possible. To look after the thinking of the plain people was quite superfluous--they were allowed their vagaries. The Empire had been bold, brazen, cruel, coercive in its lust for power, but people who paid were reasonably safe. And now the Church was coming into competition with the State and endeavoring to reduce spoliation to a system. To keep the people down and under by mental suppression--by the engine of superstition--were cheaper and more effective than to employ force or resort to the old-time methods of shows, spectacles, pensions and costly diversions. When the Church took on the functions of the State, and sought to substitute the gentle Christ for Cæsar, she had to recast the teachings of Christ. Then for the first time coercion and love dwelt side by side. "Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire prepared for the devil and his angels," and like passages were slipped into the Scriptures as matters of wise expediency. This was continued for many hundred years, and was considered quite proper and legitimate. It was slavery under a more subtle form. The Bishop of Alexandria clashed with Orestes the Prefect. To hold the people under by psychologic methods was better than the old plans of alternate bribery and force--so argued the Bishop. Orestes had come under the spell of Hypatia, and the Republic of Plato was saturating his mind. "To rule by fettering the mind through fear of punishment in another world is just as base as to use force," said Hypatia in one of her lectures. Orestes sat in the audience and as she spoke the words he clapped his hands. The news was carried to the Bishop, who gently declared that he would excommunicate him. Orestes sent word back that the Emperor should be informed of how this Bishop was misusing his office by making threats of where he could land people he did not like, in another world. Neither the Bishop nor the Prefect could unseat each other--both derived their power from the Emperor. For Orestes to grow interested in the teachings of Hypatia, instead of siding with the Bishop, was looked upon by the loyalists as little short of treason. Orestes tried to defend himself by declaring that the policy of the Cæsars had always been one of great leniency toward all schools of philosophy. Then he quoted Hypatia to the effect that a fixed, formal and dogmatic religion would paralyze the minds of men and make the race, in time, incapable of thought. Therefore, the Bishop should keep his place, and not try to usurp the functions of the police. In fact, it was better to think wrongly than not to think at all. We learn to think by thinking, and if the threats of the Bishop were believed at all, it would mean the death of science and philosophy. The Bishop made answer by declaring that Hypatia was endeavoring to found a Church of her own, with Pagan Greece as a basis. He intimated, too, that the relationship of Orestes with Hypatia was very much the same as that which once existed between Cleopatra and Mark Antony. He called her "that daughter of Ptolemy," and by hints and suggestions made it appear that she would, if she could, set up an Egyptian Empire in this same city of Alexandria where Cleopatra once so proudly reigned. The excitement increased. The followers of Hypatia were necessarily few in numbers. They were thinkers--and to think is a task. To believe is easy. The Bishop promised his followers a paradise of ease and rest. He also threatened disbelievers with the pains of hell. A promise on this side--a threat on that! Is it not a wonder that a man ever lived who put his honest thought against such teaching when launched by men clothed in almost absolute authority! Hypatia might have lived yesterday, and her death at the hands of a mob was an accident that might have occurred in Boston, where a respectable company once threw a rope around the neck of a good man and ran him through streets supposed to be sacred to liberty and free speech. A mob is made up of cotton waste, saturated with oil, and a focused idea causes spontaneous combustion. Let a fire occur in almost any New York State village, and the town turns wrecker, and loot looms large in the limited brain of the villager. Civilization is a veneer. When one sees emotionalism run riot at an evangelistic revival, and five thousand people are trooping through an undesirable district at midnight, how long, think you, would a strong voice of opposition be tolerated? Hypatia was set upon by a religious mob as she was going in her carriage from her lecture-hall to her home. She was dragged to a near-by church with the intent of making her publicly recant, but the embers became a blaze, and the blaze became a conflagration, and the leaders lost control. The woman's clothes were torn from her back, her hair torn from her head, her body beaten to a pulp, dismembered, and then to hide all traces of the crime and distribute the guilt so no one person could be blamed, a funeral-pyre quickly consumed the remains of what but an hour before had been a human being. Daylight came, and the sun's rays could not locate the guilty ones. Orestes made a report of the affair, resigned his office, asked the Government at Rome to investigate, and fled from the city. Had Orestes endeavored to use his soldiery against the Bishop, the men in the ranks would have revolted. The investigation was postponed from time to time for lack of witnesses, and finally it was given out by the Bishop that Hypatia had gone to Athens, and there had been no mob and no tragedy. The Bishop nominated a successor to Orestes, and the new official was confirmed. Dogmatism as a police system was supreme. It continued until the time of Dante, or the Italian Renaissance. The reign of Religious Dogmatism was supreme for well-nigh a thousand years--we call it the Dark Ages. [Illustration: SAINT BENEDICT] SAINT BENEDICT If any pilgrim monk come from distant parts, if with wish as a guest to dwell in the monastery, and will be content with the customs which he finds in the place, and do not perchance by his lavishness disturb the monastery, but is simply content with what he finds: he shall be received, for as long a time as he desires. If, indeed, he find fault with anything, or expose it, reasonably, and with the humility of charity, the Abbot shall discuss it prudently, lest perchance God had sent for this very thing. But, if he have been found gossipy and contumacious in the time of his sojourn as guest, not only ought he not to be joined to the body of the monastery, but also it shall be said to him, honestly, that he must depart. If he does not go, let two stout monks, in the name of God, explain the matter to him. --_St. Benedict_ SAINT BENEDICT As the traveler journeys through Southern Italy, Sicily and certain parts of what was Ancient Greece, he will see broken arches, parts of viaducts, and now and again a single, beautiful column pointing to the sky. All about is the desert or solitary pastures, and only this white milestone, marking the path of the centuries and telling in its own silent, solemn and impressive way of a day that is dead. In the Fifth Century a monk called Simeon the Syrian, and known to us as Simeon Stylites, having taken the vow of chastity, poverty and obedience, began to fear greatly lest he might not be true to his pledge. And that he might live absolutely beyond reproach, always in public view, free from temptation, and free from the tongue of scandal, he decided to live in the world, and still not be of it. To this end he climbed to the top of a marble column, sixty feet high, and there on the capstone he lived a life beyond reproach. Simeon was then twenty-four years old. The environment was circumscribed, but there was outlook, sunshine, ventilation--three good things. But beyond these the place had certain disadvantages. The capstone was a little less than three feet square, so Simeon could not lie down. He slept sitting, with his head bowed between his knees, and indeed, in this posture he passed most of his time. Any recklessness in movement, and he would have slipped from his perilous position and been dashed to death upon the stones beneath. As the sun arose he stood up, just for a few moments, and held his arms out in greeting, blessing and prayer. Three times during the day did he thus stretch his cramped limbs, and pray with his face to the East. At such times those who stood near shared in his prayers, and went away blessed and refreshed. How did Simeon get to the top of the column? Well, his companions at the monastery, a mile away, said he was carried there in the night by a miraculous power; that he went to sleep in his stone cell and awoke on the pillar. Other monks said that Simeon had gone to pay his respects to a fair lady, and in wrath God had caught him and placed him on high. The probabilities are, however, Terese, as viewed by an unbeliever, that he shot a line over the column with a bow and arrow and then drew up a rope ladder and ascended with ease. However, in the morning the simple people of the scattered village saw the man on the column. All day he stayed there. The next day he was still there. The days passed, with the scorching heat of the midday sun, and the cool winds of the night. Still Simeon kept his place. The rainy season came on. When the nights were cold and dark, Simeon sat there with bowed head, and drew the folds of his single garment, a black robe, over his face. Another season passed; the sun again grew warm, then hot, and the sand-storms raged and blew, when the people below almost lost sight of the man on the column. Some prophesied he would be blown off, but the morning light revealed his form, naked from the waist up, standing with hands outstretched to greet the rising sun. Once each day, as darkness gathered, a monk came with a basket containing a bottle of goat's milk and a little loaf of black bread, and Simeon dropped down a rope and drew up the basket. Simeon never spoke, for words are folly, and to the calls of saint or sinner he made no reply. He lived in a perpetual attitude of adoration. Did he suffer? During those first weeks he must have suffered terribly and horribly. There was no respite nor rest from the hard surface of the rock, and aching muscles could find no change from the cramped and perilous position. If he fell, it was damnation for his soul--all were agreed as to this. But man's body and mind accommodate themselves to almost any condition. One thing at least, Simeon was free from economic responsibilities, free from social cares and intrusion. Bores with sad stories of unappreciated lives and fond hopes unrealized, never broke in upon his peace. He was not pressed for time. No frivolous dame of tarnished fame sought to share with him his perilous perch. The people on a slow schedule, ten minutes late, never irritated his temper. His correspondence never got in a heap. Simeon kept no track of the days, having no engagements to meet, or offices to perform, beyond the prayers at morn, midday and night. Memory died in him, the hurts became calluses, the world-pain died out of his heart, to cling became a habit. Language was lost in disuse. The food he ate was minimum in quantity; sensation ceased, and the dry, hot winds reduced bodily tissue to a dessicated something called a saint--loved, feared and reverenced for his fortitude. This pillar, which had once graced the portal of a pagan temple, again became a place of pious pilgrimage, and people flocked to Simeon's rock, so that they might be near when he stretched out his black, bony hands to the East, and the spirit of Almighty God, for a space, hovered close around. So much attention did the abnegation of Simeon attract that various other pillars, marking the ruins of art and greatness gone, in that vicinity, were crowned by pious monks. Their thought was to show how Christianity had triumphed over heathenism. Imitators were numerous. About that time the Bishops in assembly asked, "Is Simeon sincere?" To test the matter of Simeon's pride, he was ordered to come down from his retreat. As to his chastity, there was little doubt, and his poverty was beyond question; but how about obedience to his superiors? The order was shouted up to him in a Bishop's voice--he must let down his rope, draw up a ladder, and descend. Straightway Simeon made preparation to obey. And then the Bishops relented and cried, "We have changed our minds, and now order you to remain!" Simeon lifted his hands in adoration and thankfulness and renewed his lease. And so he lived on and on and on--he lived on the top of that pillar, never once descending, for thirty years. All of his former companions grew a-weary; one by one they died, and the monastery-bells tolled their requiem as they were laid to rest. Did Simeon hear the bells and say, "Soon it will be my turn"? Probably not. His senses had flown, for what good were they! The young monk who now at eventide brought the basket with the bottle of goat's milk and the loaf of dry bread was born since Simeon had taken his place on the pillar. "He has always been there," the people said, and crossed themselves hurriedly. But one evening when the young monk came with his basket, no line was dropped from above. He waited and then called aloud, but all in vain. When sunrise came, there sat the monk, his face between his knees, the folds of his black robe drawn over his head. But he did not rise and lift his hands in prayer. All day he sat there, motionless. The people watched in whispered silence. Would he arise at sundown and pray, and with outstretched hands bless the assembled pilgrims? But as they watched a vulture came sailing slowly through the blue ether, and circled nearer and nearer; and off on the horizon was another--and still another, circling nearer and nearer. * * * * * In humanity's march of progress there are a vanguard and a rearguard. The rearguard dwindles away into a mob of camp-followers, who follow for diversion and to escape starvation. Both the vanguard and the rearguard are out of step with the main body, and therefore both are despised by the many who make up the rank and file. And yet, out of pity, the main body supplies ambulances and "slum-workers," who aim to do "good"--but this good is always for the rearguard and the camp-followers, never for those who lead the line of march, and take the risk of ambush and massacre. But this scorn of the vanguard has its recompense--often delayed, no doubt--but those who compose it are the only ones whom history honors and Clio crowns. If they get recognition in life, it is wrung tardily from an ungrateful and ungracious world. And this is the most natural thing in the world, and it would be a miracle if it were otherwise, for the very virtue of the vanguard consists in that their acts outrun human sympathy. Benedict was a scout of civilization. In his day he led the vanguard. He found the prosperous part of the world given over to greed and gluttony. The so-called religious element was in partnership with fraud, superstition, ignorance, incompetence, and an asceticism like that of Simeon Stylites, leading to nothing. Men know the good and grow through experience. To realize the worthlessness of place and position and of riches, you must have been at some time in possession of these. Benedict was born into a rich Roman family, in the year Four Hundred Eighty. His parents wished to educate him for the law, so he would occupy a position of honor in the State. But at sixteen years of age, at that critical time when nerves are vibrating between manhood and youth, Benedict cut the umbilical domestic cord, and leaving his robes of purple and silken finery, suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a note which was doubtless meant to be reassuring and which was quite the reverse, for it failed to tell where his mail should be forwarded. He had gone to live with a hermit in the fastnesses of the mountains. He had desired to do something peculiar, strange, unusual, unique and individual, and now he had done it. Back of it all was the Cosmic Urge, with a fair slip of a girl, and meetings by stealth in the moonlight; and then those orders from his father to give up the girl, which he obeyed with a vengeance. Monasticism is a reversal or a misdirection of the Cosmic Urge. The will brought to bear in fighting temptation might be a power for good, if used in co-operation with Nature. But Nature to the priestly mind has always been bad. The worldly mind was one that led to ruin. To be good by doing good was an idea the monkish mind had not grasped. His way of being good was to be nothing, do nothing--just resist. Successfully to fight temptation, the Oriental Monk regarded as an achievement. One day, out on that perilous and slippery rock on the mountain-side, Benedict ceased saluting the Holy Virgin long enough to conceive a thought. It was this: To be acceptable to God, we must do something in the way of positive good for man. To pray, to adore, to wander, to suffer, is not enough. We must lighten the burdens of the toilers and bring a little joy into their lives. Suffering has its place, but too much suffering would destroy the race. Only one other man had Benedict ever heard of, who put forth this argument, and that was Saint Jerome; and many good men in the Church regarded Saint Jerome as little better than an infidel. Saint Jerome was a student of the literature of Greece and Rome--"Pagan Books," they were called, "rivals of the Bible." Saint Anthony had renounced and denounced these books and all of the learning of Paganism. Saint Anthony, the father of Christian Monasticism, dwelt on the terrible evils of intellectual pride, and had declared that the joys of the mind were of a more subtle and devilish character than those of the flesh. Anthony, assisted by inertia, had won the ear of the Church; and dirt, rags and idleness had come to be regarded as sacred things. Benedict took issue with Anthony. * * * * * The Monastic Impulse is a protest against the Cosmic Urge, or reproductive desire. Necessarily, the Cosmic Urge is older than the Monastic Impulse; and beyond a doubt it will live to dance on the grave of its rival. The Cosmic Urge is the creative instinct. It includes all planning, purpose, desire, hope, unrest, lust and ambition. In its general sense, it is Unfulfilled Desire. It is the voice constantly crying in the ears of success, "Arise and get thee hence, for this is not thy rest." It is the dissatisfaction with all things done--it is our Noble Discontent. In its first manifestation it is sex. In its last refinement it means the love of man and woman, with the love of children, the home-making sense, and an appreciation of art, music and science--which is love with seeing eyes--as natural results. Deity creates through its creatures, of which man is the highest type. But man, evolving a small spark of intellect, sits in judgment on his Creator, and finds the work bad. Of all the animals, man is the only one so far known that criticizes his environment, instead of accepting it. And we do this because, in degree, we have abandoned intuition before we have gotten control of intellect. The Monastic Instinct is the disposition ever to look outside of ourselves for help. We expect the Strong Man to come and give us deliverance from our woes. All nations have legends of saviors and heroes who came and set the captives free, and who will come again in greater glory and mightier power and even release the dead from their graves. The Monastic Impulse is based on world-weariness, with disappointed love, or sex surfeit, which is a phase of the same thing, as a basis. Its simplest phase is a desire for solitude. "Mon" means one, and monasticism is simply living alone, apart from the world. Gradually it came to mean living alone with others of a like mind or disposition. The clan is an extension of the family, and so is originally a monastic impulse. The Group Idea is a variant of monasticism, but if it includes men and women, it always disintegrates with the second generation, if not before, because the Cosmic Urge catches the members, and they mate, marry and swing the circle. Ernst Haeckel has recently intimated his belief that monogamy, with its exclusive life, is a diluted form of monasticism. And his opinion seems to be that, in order to produce the noblest race possible, we must have a free society, with a State that reverences and respects maternity and pensions any mother who personally cares for her child. Monasticism and enforced monogamy often carry a disrespect, if not a positive contempt, for motherhood, especially free motherhood. We breed from the worst, under the worst conditions, and as punishment God has made us a race of scrubs. If we had deliberately set about to produce the worst, we could not do better. It will at once be seen that a penalized free motherhood is exactly like the Monastic Impulse--a protest and a revolt from the Cosmic Urge. Hence Ernst Haeckel, harking back to Schopenhauer, declares that we must place a premium upon parenthood, and the State must subsidize all mothers, visiting them with tenderness, gentleness, sanctity and respect, before we shall be able to produce a race of demigods. The Church has aureoled and sainted the men and women who have successfully fought the Cosmic Urge. Emerson says, "We are strong as we ally ourselves with Nature, and weak as we fight against her or disregard her." Thus does Emerson place himself squarely in opposition to the Church, for the Church has ever looked upon Nature as a lure and a menace to holy living. Now, is it not possible that the prevalency of the Monastic Impulse is proof that it is in itself a movement in the direction of Nature? Possibly its error lies in swinging out beyond the norm. A few great Churchmen have thought so. And the greatest and best of them, so far as I know, was Benedict. Through his efforts, monasticism was made a power for good, and for a time, at least, it served society and helped humanity on its way. That the flagellants, anchorites, or monks with iron collars, and Simeon Stylites living his life perched on a pillar, benefited the human race--no one would now argue. Simeon was simply trying to please God--to secure salvation for his soul. His assumption was that the world was base and bad. To be pure in heart you must live apart from it. His persistence was the only commendable thing about him, and this was the persistence of a diseased mind. It was beautiful just as the persistence of cancer is beautiful. Benedict, while agreeing that the world was bad, yet said that our business was to make it better, and that everything we did which was done merely to save our own souls, was selfish and unworthy. He advocated that, in order to save our own souls, we should make it our business to save others. Also, to think too much about your own soul was to have a soul not worth saving. If this life is a preparation for another, as Simeon thought, he was not preparing himself for a world where we would care to go. The only heaven in which any sane man or woman, be he saint or sinner, would care to live, would be one whose inhabitants would be at liberty to obey the Cosmic Urge just as freely as the Monastic Impulse, and where one would be regarded as holy as the other. So thought Saint Benedict. * * * * * There is a natural law, well recognized and defined by men who think, called the Law of Diminishing Returns, sometimes referred to as the Law of Pivotal Points. A man starts in to take systematic exercise, and he finds that his strength increases. He takes more exercise and keeps on until he gets "stale"--that is, he becomes sore and lame. He has passed the Pivotal Point and is getting a Diminishing Return. In running a railroad-engine a certain amount of coal is required to pull a train of given weight a mile, say at the rate of fifty miles an hour. You double the amount of your coal, and simple folks might say you double your speed, but railroad men know better. The double amount of coal will give you only about sixty miles instead of fifty. Increase your coal and from this on you get a Diminishing Return. If you insist on eighty miles an hour, you get your speed at a terrific cost and a terrible risk. Another case: Your body requires a certain amount of food--the body is an engine; food is fuel; life is combustion. Better the quality and quantity of your food, and up to a certain point you increase your strength. Go on increasing your food and you get death. Loan money at five per cent and your investment is reasonably secure and safe. Loan money at ten per cent and you do not double the returns; on the contrary, you have taken on so much risk. Loan money at twenty per cent and you will probably lose it; for the man who borrows at twenty per cent does not intend to pay if he can help it. The Law of Diminishing Returns was what Oliver Wendell Holmes had in mind when he said, "Because I like a pinch of salt in my soup is no reason I wish to be immersed in brine." Churches, preachers and religious denominations are good things in their time and place, and up to a certain point. Whether for you the church has passed the Pivotal Point is for you yourself to decide. But remember this, because a thing is good up to a certain point, or has been good, is no reason why it should be perpetuated. The Law of Diminishing Returns is the natural refutation of the popular fallacy that because a thing is good you can not get too much of it. It is this law that Abraham Lincoln had in mind when he said, "I object to that logic which seeks to imply that because I wish to make the negro free, I desire a black woman for a wife." Benedict had spent five years in resistance before it dawned upon him that Monasticism carried to a certain point was excellent and fraught with good results, but beyond that it rapidly degenerated. To carry the plan of simplicity and asceticism to its summit and not go beyond was now his desire. To withdraw from society he felt was a necessity, for the petty and selfish ambitions of Rome were revolting. But the religious life did not for him preclude the joys of the intellect. In his unshaven and unshorn condition, wearing a single garment of goatskin, he dared not go back to his home. So he proceeded to make himself acceptable to decent people. He made a white robe, bathed, shaved off his beard, had his hair cut, and putting on his garments, went back to his family. The life in the wilderness had improved his health. He had grown in size and strength and he now, in his own person, proved that a religious recluse was not necessarily unkempt and repulsive. His people greeted him as one raised from the dead. Crowds followed him wherever he went. He began to preach to them and to explain his position. Some of his old school associates came to him. As he explained his position, it began more and more to justify itself in his mind. Things grow plain as we analyze them to others--by explaining to another the matter becomes luminous to ourselves. To purify the monasteries and carry to them all that was good and beautiful in the classics, was the desire of Benedict. His wish was to reconcile the learning of the past with Christianity, which up to that time had been simply ascetic. It had consisted largely of repression, suppression and a killing-out of all spontaneous, happy, natural impulses. Very naturally, he was harshly criticized, and when he went back to the cave where he had dwelt and tried to teach some of his old companions how to read and write, they flew first at him, and then from him. They declared that he was the devil in the guise of a monk; that he wished to live both as a monk and as a man of the world--that he wanted to eat his cake and still keep it. By a sort of divine right he took control of affairs, and insisted that his companions should go to work with him, and plant a garden and raise vegetables and fruits, instead of depending upon charity or going without. The man who insists that all folks shall work, be they holy or secular, learned or illiterate, always has a hard road to travel. Benedict's companions declared that he was trying to enslave them, and one of them brewed a poison and substituted it for the simple herb tea that Benedict drank. Being discovered, the man and his conspirators escaped, although Benedict offered to forgive and forget if they would go to work. Benedict adhered to his new inspiration with a persistency that never relaxed--the voice of God had called to him that he must clear the soil of the brambles and plant gardens. The thorn-bush through which he had once rolled his naked body, he now cut down and burned. He relaxed the vigils and limited the prayers and adorations to a few short exercises just before eating, sleeping and going to work. He divided the day into three parts--eight hours for work, eight hours for study, eight hours for sleep. Then he took one-half hour from each of these divisions for silent prayer and adoration. He argued that good work was a prayer, and that one could pray with his heart and lips, even as his hands swung the ax, the sickle or the grub-hoe. All that Benedict required of others, he did himself, and through the daily work he evolved a very strong and sturdy physique. From the accounts that have come to us he was rather small in stature, but in strength he surpassed any man in his vicinity. Miraculous accounts of his physical strength were related, and in the minds of his simple followers he was regarded as more than a man, which shows us that the ideals of what a man should be, or might be, were not high. We are told that near Benedict's first monastery there was a very deep lake, made in the time of Nero by damming up a mountain stream. Along this lake the brambles and vines had grown in great confusion. Benedict set to work to clear the ground from this lake to his monastery, half a mile up the hillside. One day a workman dropped an ax into the lake. Benedict smiled, his lips moved in prayer and the ax came to the surface. The story does not say that Benedict dived to the bottom and brought up the ax, which he probably did. The next day the owner of the ax fell into the water, and the story goes that Benedict walked out on the water and brought the man in on his shoulders. We who do not believe that the age of miracles has passed, can well understand how Benedict was an active, agile and strong swimmer, and that through the natural powers which he evolved by living a sane and simple life, he was able to perform many feats which peasants round about considered miraculous. Benedict had what has been called the Builder's Itch. He found great joy in planning, creating and constructing. He had an eye for architecture and landscape-gardening. He utilized the materials of old Roman temples to construct Christian churches, and from the same quarry he took stone and built a monastery. A Roman ruin had a lure for him. It meant building possibilities. He stocked the lake with fish, and then made catches that rivaled the parable of the loaves and fishes. Only the loaves of Benedict were made from the wheat he himself raised, and the people he fed were the crowds who came to hear him preach the gospel he himself practised--the gospel of work, moderation and the commonsense exercise of head, hand and heart. * * * * * To Benedict came twelve disciples. But further applications becoming numerous, to meet the pressure Benedict kept organizing them into groups of twelve, appointing a superior over each group. In order to prove his sense of equality, he had but eleven besides himself in the monastery. He recognized that leadership was a necessity; but the clothes he wore were no better than, and the food he ate no different from, what the others had. Yet to enforce discipline, rules were made and instant obedience was exacted. Benedict took his turn at waiting on the table and doing the coarsest tasks. Were it not for the commonsense methods of life, and the element of human service, the Christian monastery and probably Christianity itself would not have survived. The dogma of religion was made acceptable by blending it with a service for humanity. And even to this day the popular plan of proving the miracles of the Old Testament to have been actual occurrences is to point to the schools, hospitals and orphan asylums that Christian people have provided. In the efforts of Benedict to combine the life of unselfish service with intellectual appreciation of classic literature, he naturally was misunderstood. Several times he came near having serious collisions with the authorities of the Church at Rome. His preaching attracted the jealous attention of certain churchmen, but as he was not a priest, the Pope refused to take notice of his supposed heresies. An effort was made to compel him to become a priest, but Benedict refused on the plea that he was not worthy. The fact was, however, that he did not wish to be bound by the rules of the Church. In one sense, his was a religion inside a religion, and a slight accident might have precipitated an opposition denomination, just as the Protestant issue of Luther was an accident, and the Methodism of the Wesleys, another. Several times the opposition, in the belief that Benedict was an enemy of the Church, went so far as to try to kill him. And once a few pious persons in Rome induced a company of wanton women to go out to Benedict's monastery and disport themselves through his beautiful grounds. This was done with two purposes in view; one was to work the direct downfall of the Benedictines, with the aid of the trulls, and the other was to create a scandal among the visitors, who would carry the unsavory news back to Rome and supply the gossips raw stock. Benedict was so deeply grieved by the despicable trick that he retired to his former home, the cave in the hillside, and there remained without food for a month. But during this time of solitude his mind was busy with new plans. He now founded Monte Cassino. The site is halfway between Rome and Naples, and the white, classic lines of the buildings can be seen from the railroad. There on the crags, from out of a mass of green, has been played out for more than a thousand years the drama of religious life. Death by fire and sword has been the fate of many of the occupants. But the years went by, new men came, the ruins were repaired, and again the cloisters were trodden by pious feet of holy men. Goths, Lombards, Saracens, Normans, Spaniards, Teutons, and finally came Napoleon Bonaparte, who confiscated the property, making the place his home for a brief space. Later he relented and took it from the favorite upon whom he had bestowed it and gave it back to the Church. It then remained a Benedictine monastery until the edict of Eighteen Hundred Sixty-six, which, with the help of Massini and Garibaldi, made the monastery in Italy a thing of the past. The place is now a school--a school with a co-ed proviso. Thus passes away the glory of the world, in order that a greater glory shall appear. Six hundred years before Benedict's day, on the site of the cloister of Monte Cassino stood a temple to Apollo, and just below was a grove sacred to Venus. Two hundred years before Benedict's time the Goths had done their work so well that even the walls of the temple to Apollo were razed, and the sacred grove became the home of wild beasts. To this deserted place came Benedict and eleven men, filled with a holy zeal to erect on this very spot an edifice worthy of the living God. Here the practical builder and the religious dreamer combined. If you are going to build a building, why not build upon the walls already laid and with blocks ready hewn and fashioned! The Monte Cassino monastery of Benedict rivaled in artistic beauty the temple that it replaced. Man is a building animal, and the same Creative Energy that impelled the Greeks and later the Romans to plan, devise, toil and build, now played through the good monk Benedict. His desire to create was a form of the great Cosmic Urge, that lives eternally and is building in America a finer, better and nobler religion than the world has ever seen--a Religion of Humanity--a religion of which at times Benedict caught vivid passing glimpses, as one sees at night the landscape brilliantly illumined by the lightning's flash. * * * * * The motto of Benedict was "Ecce Labora." These words were carved on the entrance to every Benedictine Monastery. The monastic idea originated in the Orient, where Nature placed no special penalty on idleness. Indeed, labor may have been a curse in Asia. Morality is crystallized expediency, and both, as we are told, are matters of geography, as well as time. And truth it is, that north of the Mediterranean idleness is the curse, not labor. The rule of Benedict was not unlike that of the Shakers, for near every monastery was a nunnery. The association of men and women, although quite limited, was better for both than their absolute separation, as with the Trappists, who regard it as a sin even to look upon the face of a woman. The thrift and industry of the Benedictines was worthy of Ann Lee and our friends at Lebanon. A man who works eight hours, with fair intelligence, and does not set out to make consumption and waste the business of his life, grows rich. Thoreau was right--an hour a day will support you. But Thoreau was wrong in supposing men work only to get food, clothing and shelter. To work only an hour a day is to evolve into a loafer. We work not to acquire, but to become. The group idea, cemented by able leadership and a religious concept, is always successful. The Mormons, Quakers, Harmonyites, Economites, and the Oneida Community, all grew very rich, and surpassed their neighbors not only in point of money, but in health, happiness, intelligence and general mental grasp. Brook Farm failed for lack of a leader with business instinct; but as it was, it divided up among its members a rich legacy of spiritual and mental assets. In family life, or what is called "Society," there is a constant danger through rivalry, not in well-doing or in human service, but in conspicuous waste and conspicuous leisure. The religious rite of feet-washing is absolutely lost, both as a rite and as an idea. In truth, "good society" is essentially predatory in its instincts. In communal life, or the life of a group, service and not waste is the watchword. This must be so, since every group, at its beginning, is held together through the thought of service. To meet and unite on a basis of jealous rivalry and sharp practise is unthinkable, for these are the things that disintegrate the group. It is an economic law that a group founded upon and practising the idea of each member giving all, wins all. Benedict's idea of "Ecce labora" made every Benedictine monastery a center of wealth. Work stops bickering, strife and undue waste. It makes for health and strength. The reward of work is not immunity from toil, but more work--an increased capacity for effort. De Tocqueville gave this recipe for success: Subdue yourself--Devote yourself. That is to say, subdue the ego to a point where it gets its gratification in concentrating on unselfish service. He who does this always succeeds, for not only is he engaged upon a plan of life in which there is little competition, but he is working in line with a divine law, the law of mutuality, which provides that all the good you do to others, you do for yourself. Benedictine monasticism leads straight to wealth and great power. The Abbot of the group became a Baron. "I took the vow of poverty, and it led to an income of twenty thousand pounds a year. I took the vow of obedience and find myself ruler of fifty towns and villages." These are the words which Sir Walter Scott puts into the mouth of an Abbot, who became a Baron through the simple law of which I have hinted. And in his novel of "The Abbot," Sir Walter gives a tragic picture of how power and wealth can be lost as well as won. Feudalism began with the rule of the monastery. Benedict was one of the world's great Captains of Industry. And like all great entrepreneurs, he won through utilizing the efforts of others. In picking his Abbots, or the men to be "father" of each particular group, he showed rare skill. These men learned from him and he learned from them. One of his best men was Cassiodorus, the man who evolved the scheme of the scriptorium. "To study eight hours a day was not enough," said Cassiodorus. "We should copy the great works of literature so that every monastery shall have a library as good as that which we have at Monte Cassino." He himself was an expert penman, and he set himself the task of teaching the monks how to write as well as how to read. "To write beautifully is a great joy to our God," he said. Benedict liked the idea, and at once put it into execution. Cassiodorus is the patron saint of every maker of books who loves his craft. The systematic work of the scriptorium originated in the brain of Cassiodorus, and he was appointed by Benedict to go from one monastery to another and inform the Abbot that a voice had come from God to Benedict saying that these precious books must be copied, and presented to those who would prize them. Cassiodorus had been a secretary of state under the Emperor Theodoric, and he had also been a soldier. He was seventy years of age when he came under the influence of Benedict, through a chance visit to Monte Cassino. Benedict at first ordered him to take an ax and work with the servants at grubbing out underbrush and preparing a field for planting. Cassiodorus obeyed, and soon discovered that there was a joy in obedience he had before never guessed. His name was Brebantus Varus, but on his declaring he was going to remain and work with Benedict, he was complimented by being given the name of Cassiodorus, suggested by the word Cassinum or Cassino. Cassiodorus lived to be ninety-two, and was one of the chief factors, after Benedict himself, in introducing the love of art and beauty among the Benedictines. Near Monte Cassino was a nunnery presided over by Scholastica, the twin sister of Benedict. Renan says that the kinship of Scholastica and Benedict was a spiritual tie, not one of blood. If so, we respect it none the less. Saint Gregory tells of the death of Benedict thus: Benedict was at the end of his career. His interview with Totila took place in Five Hundred Forty-two, in the year which preceded his death; and from his earliest days of the following year, God prepared him for his last struggle, by requiring from him the sacrifice of the most tender affection he had retained on earth. The beautiful and touching incident of the last meeting of Benedict and his twin sister, Scholastica, is a picture long to remember. At the window of his cell, three days after her death, Benedict had a vision of his dear sister's soul entering heaven in the form of a snowy dove. He immediately sent for the body and placed it in a sepulcher which he had already prepared for himself, that death might not separate those whose souls had always been united in God. The death of his sister was the signal of departure for himself. He survived her forty days. He announced his death to several of his monks, then far from Monte Cassino. A violent fever having seized him, he caused himself on the sixth day of his sickness to be carried to the chapel of Saint John the Baptist; he had before ordered the tomb in which his sister already slept to be opened. There, supported in the arms of his disciples, he received the holy Viaticum, then placing himself at the side of the open grave, but at the foot of the altar, and with his arms extended towards heaven, he died, standing, muttering a last prayer. Such a victorious death became that great soldier of God. He was buried by the side of his beloved Scholastica, in a sepulcher made on the spot where stood the altar of Apollo, which had been replaced by another to our beloved Savior. In the very year, and at the same time, that Justinian and Theodora were preparing the Justinian Code, Benedict was busy devising "The Monastic Rules." Benedict did not put his rules forth as final, but explained that they were merely expedient for their time and place. In this he was singularly modest. If one can divest himself of the thought that there was anything "holy" or "sacred" about these communal groups called "monasteries," and then read these rules, he will see that they were founded on a good knowledge of economics and a very stern commonsense. Humanity was the same a thousand years ago that it is now. Benedict had to fight inertia, selfishness and incipient paranoia, just as does the man who tries to introduce practical socialism today. A few extracts from this very remarkable Book of Rules will show the shrewd Connecticut wisdom of Benedict. To hold the dowdy, indifferent, slipshod and underdone in their proper places, so they could not disturb or destroy the peace, policy and prosperity of the efficient, was the task of Benedict. Benedict says: "Written and formal rules are necessary only because we are all faulty men, with a tendency towards selfishness and disorder. When men become wise, and also unselfish, there will be no need of rules and laws." The Book of Rules by Benedict is a volume of more than twenty thousand words. Its scope reveals an insight that will appeal to all who have had to do with socialistic experiments, not to mention the management of labor-unions. Benedict was one of the industrial leaders of the world. His life was an epoch, and his influence still abides. [Illustration: MARY BAKER EDDY] MARY BAKER EDDY The chief stones in the temple of Christian Science are to be found in the following postulates: that Life is God, good and not evil; that Soul is sinless, not to be found in the body; that Spirit is not and can not be materialized; that Life is not subject to death; that the spiritual real man has no consciousness of material life or death. --_Mary Baker Eddy_ MARY BAKER EDDY Let the fact be here stated that Mary Baker Eddy was the founder of Christian Science. This woman lived long and well. She was alert, earnest, highly intelligent, receptive. She was ever discovering. We know this because she put out a new message every little while, or modified an old one, having come in the meantime into a position to get a nearer and clearer view of the fact. The last edition of "Science and Health" is a different book from the first one. Christian Science is not a fixed, formed, fossilized, ossified structure. Possibly it may become so. But the probabilities are it will grow, expand, advance. Life and growth consist in eliminating dead matter and evolving new tissue. The institution, commercial, artistic, social, political, religious, that has ceased to grow has begun to disintegrate. Christian Scientists do not flee the world, renouncing and denouncing it. As a people they are well, happy, hopeful, enthusiastic and successful. I am fairly well informed on the history of all great religions. In degree I know the character of intellect possessed by the folks who make or made up their membership. And my opinion is, that no religion that has ever existed contained so large a percentage of intelligent people, competent, safe and sane, as does Christian Science. There is an adage to the effect that a prophet is not without honor save in his own country. In the case of Mary Baker Eddy, the adage just quoted goes awry. Mrs. Eddy as long as she lived, retained the good-will of Concord, Boston and Brookline, where she chose to make her home. Very many of the leading men and women of each of these cities are Christian Scientists. The Christian Science Church at Concord cost upwards of two hundred thousand dollars, and was the gift of Mrs. Eddy. Over the entrance, cut deep in granite, are the words, "Presented by Mary Baker Eddy, Discoverer and Founder of Christian Science." As to the argument that the truths of Christian Science have always been known and practised by a few, Mrs. Eddy issued her direct challenge. In all of her literature she set out the unqualified statement that she was "The Discoverer and the Founder." She was never apologetic; she assumed no modesty she did not feel; she spoke as one having authority, as did Moses of old, "Thus saith the Lord!" She entered into no joint debates; she did not answer back. This intense conviction which admits of no parley was one of the secrets of her power. For many years the Billingsgate Calendar was directed at her upon every possible occasion. But Mrs. Eddy won out, and legislation and courts were compelled to whistle in their hounds. Your right to keep well in your own way is now fully recognized. Doctors are not liable when they give innocent sweetened water and call it medicine, nor do we place Christian Scientists on trial if their patients die, any more than we do the M. D.'s. In fact, Mrs. Eddy influenced both of the so-called sciences of medicine and theology. Even those who are perfectly willing to deny her, and noisily discard her tenets, are debtors to her. Homeopathy modified the dose of all the Allopaths; and Christian Science has attenuated the Hahnemannian theory of attenuations, it having been found that the blank tablet often cures quite as effectively as the one that is medicated. Christian Science does not shout, rant, defy nor preach. It is poised, silent, sure, and the flagellants, like the dervishes, are noticeable by their absence. The Reverend Billy Sunday is not a Christian Scientist. The Christian Scientist does not cut into the grape; specialize on the elevated spheroid; devote his energies to bridge whist; cultivate the scandal microbe; join the anvil chorus, nor shake the red rag of wordy warfare. He is diligent in business, fervent in spirit, and accepts what comes without protest, finding it good. Mary Baker Eddy lived a human life. Through her manifold experiences she gathered gear--she was a very great and wise woman. She was so great that she kept her own counsel, received no visitors, made no calls, had no Thursday, wrote no letters, and even never went to the church that she presented to her native town. Mrs. Eddy's step was ever light, her form erect--a slender, handsome, queenly woman. When she passed on, in December, Nineteen Hundred Ten, in her ninetieth year, she looked scarce more than sixty. Her face showed experience, but not extreme age. The day I saw her, a few years before her death, she was dressed all in white satin and looked like a girl going to a ball. Her eyes were not dimmed nor her face wrinkled. Her hat was a milliner's dream; her gloves came to the elbow and were becomingly wrinkled; her form was the form of Bernhardt. Her secretary stood by the carriage-door, his head bared. He did not offer his hand to the lady nor seek to assist her into the carriage. He knew his business--a sober, silent, muscular, bronzed, farmer-like man, who evidently saw everything and nothing. He closed the carriage-door and took his seat by the side of the driver, who wore no livery. The men looked like brothers. The big, brown horses started slowly away; they wore no blinders nor check-reins--they, too, had banished fear. The coachman drove with a loose rein. The next day I waited in Concord to see Mrs. Eddy again. At exactly two-fifteen the big, brown, slow-going horses turned into Main Street. Drays pulled in to the curb, automobiles stopped, people stood on the street corners, and some--the pilgrims--uncovered. Mrs. Eddy sat back in the carriage, holding in her white-gloved hands a big spray of apple-blossoms, the same half-smile of satisfaction on her face--the smile of Pope Leo the Thirteenth. The woman was a veritable queen, and some of her devotees, not without reason, called her the Queen of the World. Some doubtless prayed to her--and may yet, for that matter. Mrs. Eddy was married three times. First, to Colonel George W. Glover, an excellent and worthy man, who was the father of her only child, a son. On the death of Glover, the child was taken by Glover's mother and secreted so effectually that his mother did not see him until he was thirty-four years old, and the father of a family. Her second husband was Daniel Patterson, who was not only a rogue but also a fool--a flashy one, who turned the head of a lone, lorn young widow, who certainly was not infallible in judgment. In two years the wife got a divorce from him, on the grounds of cruelty and desertion, at Salem, Massachusetts. Her third marital venture was Doctor Asa G. Eddy, a practising physician--a man of much intelligence and worth. From him Mrs. Eddy learned that the Science of Medicine was not much of a science after all. Mrs. Eddy used to say that her husband was her first convert; certain it is that Dr. Eddy gave up his practise to assist his wife in putting before the world the unreality of disease. That he did not fully grasp the idea is shown by the fact that he died of pneumonia. This, however, did not shake the faith of Mrs. Eddy in the doctrine that sickness was an error of mortal mind. For a good many years Mrs. Eddy drove the memory of her two good husbands tandem, hitched by a hyphen, thus: Mary Baker Glover-Eddy. Many a woman has joined her own name to that of her husband, but what woman ever before so honored the two men she had loved by coupling their names! Getting married is a bad habit, Mrs. Eddy would probably have said, but you have to get married to find it out. In Eighteen Hundred Seventy-nine, Mrs. Eddy organized the First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston, and became its pastor. In Eighteen Hundred Eighty-one, being then sixty years of age, she founded the Massachusetts Metaphysical College, in Boston. For fifteen years she had been speaking in public, affirming that health was our normal condition and that as a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. From her forty-fifth to her sixtieth year she was glad to speak for what was offered, although I believe that even then she had discarded the good old priestly plan of taking up a collection. The Metaphysical College was started to prepare students for teaching Mrs. Eddy's doctrines. The business ability of the woman was shown in thus organizing and allowing no one to teach who was not duly prepared. These students were obliged to pay a good stiff tuition, which fact made them appreciative. In turn they went out and taught; all students paid the tidy sum of one hundred dollars for the lessons, which fee was later cut to fifty. Salvation may be free, but Christian Science costs money. The theological genus piker, with his long, wrinkled, black coat, his collar buttoned behind, and his high hat, has been eliminated. Mrs. Eddy was manager of the best-methodized institution in the world, save only the Roman Catholic Church and the Standard Oil Company. How many million copies of "Science and Health" have been sold, no man can say. What percentage of the money from the lessons went to Mrs. Eddy, only an Armstrong Committee could ascertain, and really it was nobody's business but hers. That Mrs. Eddy had some very skilful helpers goes without saying. But here is the point--she selected them, and reigned supreme. That the student who paid fifty dollars got his money's worth, I have no doubt. Not that he understood the lessons, but he received a feeling of courage and a oneness with the whole which caused health to flow through his veins and his heart to beat with joy. The lesson might have been to him a jumble of words, but he lived in hopes that he would soon grow to a point where the lines were luminous. In the meantime, all he knew was that whereas he was once lame he could now walk. Even the most bigoted and prejudiced now agree that the cures of Christian Science are genuine. People who think they have trouble have it, and it is the same with pain. Imagination is the only sure-enough thing in the world. Mrs. Eddy's doctrines abolish pain and therefore abolish poverty, for poverty, in America at least, is a disease. Mrs. Eddy's chief characteristics were: First, Love of Beauty as manifest in bodily form, dress and surroundings. Second, A zeal for system, order and concentrated effort on the particular business she undertakes. Third, A dignity, courage, self-sufficiency and self-respect that comes from a belief in her own divinity. Fourth, An economy of time, money, materials, energy and emotion that wastes nothing, but which continually conserves and accumulates. Fifth, A liberality, when advisable, which is only possible to those who also economize. Sixth, Yankee shrewdness, great commonsense, all flavored with a dash of mysticism and indifference to physical scientific accuracy. In other words, Christian Science is a woman's science--she knows! And it is good because it is good--this is a science sound enough for anybody--I guess so! Christian Science is scientific, but not for the reasons that its promoters maintain. Male Christian Scientists do not growl and kick the cat. Women Christian Scientists do not nag. Christian Scientists do not have either the grouch or the meddler's itch. Among them there are no dolorosos, grumperinos or beggars. They respect all other denominations, having a serene faith that all will yet see the light--that is to say, adopt their doctrines. The most radical among old-school doctors could not deny that Mrs. Eddy's own life was conducted on absolutely scientific lines. She never answered the telephone, never fussed nor fumed. She hired big, safe people and paid them a big wage. She gave her coachman fifty dollars a week, and her cook in proportion, and thus secured people who gave her peace. She went to bed with the birds and awoke with the dawn. At seven o'clock she was at her desk, dictating answers to the very few letters her secretary deemed it advisable she should see. She had breakfast at nine o'clock--ate anything she liked, taking her time and fletcherizing. After breakfast she worked upon her manuscripts until it was time for the daily ride. At four o'clock she dined--two meals a day being the rule. If, however, she cared to dissipate a little and eat three meals a day, she was not afraid to do so. She knew her horses and cows and sheep by name, and gave requests as to their care, holding that the laws of mind obtain as to dumb animals the same as man. Dogs she did not care for, and if she ever had an aversion it would have been cats. Her servants she called "My helpers." Christian Scientists very naturally believe in the equality of the sexes. When girl babies are born to them they bless God, just the same as when boy babies are born. In truth they bless God for everything, for to them all is beautiful and all is good. Paid preachers they do not have; they do not believe in priests or certain men who are nearer to God than others. All have access to Eternal Truth, and thus is the ecclesiastic excluded. To eliminate the theological middleman is well, and as for the Church itself, surely Mrs. Eddy eliminated it also; for she never entered a church, or at least not more than once a year, and then it was only in deference to the architect. A Church! Is it necessary? For herself Mrs. Eddy said, No. But as for others, she said, Yes, a church is good for those who need it. Mrs. Eddy was the most successful author in the world, or, indeed, that the world has ever seen. No other writer ever made so much money as she, none is more devoutly read. Shakespeare, with his fortune of a quarter of a million dollars, fades into comparative failure; and Arthur Brisbane, with his salary of seventy-five thousand a year, is an office-boy compared with this regal woman, who gave fifty thousand dollars a year for good roads. * * * * * The valuable truths and distinguishing features of Christian Science are not to be found in Mrs. Eddy's books, but in Mrs. Eddy's life. She was a much bigger woman than she was a writer. Emerson says that every great institution is the lengthened shadow of a single man. Every great business enterprise has a soul--one man's spirit animates, pervades and tints the whole. You can go into any hotel or store, and behold! the nature or character of the owner or manager is everywhere proclaimed. You do not have to see the man, and the bigger the institution the less need is there for the man to show himself. His work proclaims him, just as a farmer's livestock all moo, whinny and squeal his virtues--or lack of them. As a boy of ten I learned to know all of our neighbors by their horses. The horses of a drunkard, blanketless, hungry, shivering, outside of the village tavern, do they not proclaim the poor, despised owner within? You can walk through the passenger-coaches of a train made up at a terminal and read the character unmistakably of the general passenger-agent. The soul of John Wesley ran through Methodism and made it what it was. The Lutheranism of Luther yet lives; Calvinism the same; and the soul of John Knox still goes marching on, carrying the Presbyterian banner. Every religion partakes of the nature of its founder, until this religion is mixed with that of another and its character lost, as happened to the religion of Christ when it was launched by Paul and was finally fused with Paganism by the Roman Emperor, Constantine. Christian Science is as yet the lengthened shadow of Mary Baker Eddy. Her own immediate, personal pupils are still teaching, and her life and characteristics impressed upon them are given out to each and all. Every phase of life is solved by answering the question, "What would Mrs. Eddy do?" Mrs. Eddy's ideas about dress, housekeeping, business, food, health, the management of servants, the care of children--all are blended into a composite, and this composite is the Christian Scientist as we see and know him. The fact that Mrs. Eddy was methodical, industrious, economical, persevering, courageous, hopeful, helpful, neat in her attire and smiling, makes all Christian Scientists exactly so. She did not play cards and indulge in the manifold silliness of so-called good society, and neither do they. Indeed, that one thing which has been referred to as "the plaster-of-Paris smile," the one feature in Christian Science to which many good people object, is the direct legacy of Mrs. Eddy to her pupils. "Science and Health" says nothing about it; no edict has been put forth recommending it; but all good Christian Scientists take it on--the smile that refuses to vacate the premises. And to some it is certainly very becoming. Mrs. Eddy's self-reliant, silent, smiling personality has given the key to conduct for the hundreds of thousands of people who love her and revere her memory. Mrs. Eddy was a rare good listener. She did not argue. Once upon a time, indeed, she was guilty of waving the red flag of wordy warfare; but the passing of the years brought her wisdom, and then her only answer to impatience was the quiet smile. As for eating, her table always had enough, but it stopped short of surfeit; the service was dainty, and all these things are now seen in the homes of Christian Scientists. Always in the home of a good Christian Scientist the bathroom is as complete as the library, and both are models of good housekeeping, seemingly always in order for the inspection committee. Mrs. Eddy did not say much about hot water, soap and clean towels; but the idea, regardless of the non-existence of matter, is fixed in the consciousness of every Christian Scientist that absolute bodily cleanliness, fresh linen and fresh air are not only next to godliness, but elements of it. All of which you could never work out of "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" in a lifetime of study, any more than you could mine and smelt the Westminster Catechism out of the Bible. The vital truths of right living come to us as a precious heritage from the character of this great woman. She, herself, perhaps may not have known this; but before she wrote her book and formulated her religion, she lived her life. Her book was an endeavor to explain her life, and as her life grew better, stronger and more refined, she changed her book. Her book reacted on her life, and the person who got the most good out of "Science and Health" was Mary Baker Eddy herself. "Science and Health" is mystical and beautifully human. The author's oar often fails to catch the water. For instance, she tries to show that animal magnetism, spiritualism, mental science, theosophy, agnosticism, pantheism and infidelity are all bad things and opposed to the science of "true being." This statement presupposes that animal magnetism, infidelity, theosophy and agnosticism are specific entities or things, whereas they are only labels that are clapped quite indiscriminately on empty casks or full ones; and the contents of the casks may be sea-water or wine, and are really unknown to both mortal and divine mind, whatever these things are. Theosophists like Annie Besant, Spiritualists like Alfred Russel Wallace, Agnostics like Huxley and Ingersoll, are very noble and beautiful people. They are good neighbors and useful citizens. "Science and Health" is an attempt to catch and hold in words the secrets of an active, honest, healthful, seeking, restless, earnest life, and as such is more or less of a failure. Our actions are right, but our reasons seldom are. Christian Science as a plan of life, embodying the great yet simple virtues, is beautiful. "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" does not explain the Scriptures. The book, as an attempt to explain and crystallize truth, is a failure. It ranks with that great mass of literature, written and copied at such vast pains and expense, bearing the high-sounding title, "Writings of the Saints." * * * * * All publishers are familiar with inspired manuscripts. Such work always has one thing in common--unintelligibility. Good literature is lucid to the average mind. In fact, that is its distinguishing feature. We understand what the man means. No able writer uses the same word over and over with varying sense. Alfred Henry Lewis and William Marion Reedy use the mortal mind, and their work is understandable. You can sit in judgment on their conclusions and weigh, sift and decide for yourself. They make an appeal to your intellect. But you can not sit in judgment on "Science and Health," because its language is not the language we use in our common, every-day intercourse with one another. It speaks of Christ as a person, a principle, a spirit, a motive; as "Truth"; as one who was born of one parent or no parents; who lived, died, or never lived, never was born, and can not die. Metaphysics is an attempt to explain a thing and thereby evade the trouble of understanding it. You throw the burden of proof on the other fellow--and make him believe he does not comprehend because he is too stupid. This is not fair! Language is simply an agreement between people that certain vocal sounds, or written symbols, shall stand for certain ideas, thoughts or things. Inspired writers string intelligent words together in an unintelligent manner, and thereby give the reader an opportunity to read anything into them that his preconceived thoughts may dictate. Metaphysical gibberish is a rudimentary survival of the practise of reading to the people in a dead language. The doctors continue the plan by writing prescriptions in Latin. I once worked in a studio where the boys scraped their palette-knives on a convenient board. One day we took the board out and had it framed under glass, with a double, deep-shadow box. We gave it the best place in the studio and labeled it, "A Sunset at Sea--an Impression in Monochrome." The picture attracted much attention and great admiration from certain symbolists. It also created so much controversy that we were obliged to take it down in the interests of amity. To assume that God inspired the Scriptures, and did the work so ill that, after more than two thousand years, it was necessary to inspire another person to make a "Key" to them, is hardly worthy of our serious attention. If God, being all-wise, all-powerful and all-loving, turns author, why does He produce work so muddy that it requires a "Key"? Individuals may use a code that requires a "Key," because they wish to keep their matter secret from others. There may be for them a penalty on truth, but why Deity should write in a secret language, and then wait two thousand years before making the matter plain, and then to one single woman in Boston, is incomprehensible. What the world wants now is a Key to "Science and Health." In reading a book, the question that interests us is not, "Is it inspired?" but, "Is it true?" Mrs. Eddy's ranks are recruited almost entirely from Orthodox Christianity. On page six hundred eight of "Science and Health," pocket edition of Nineteen Hundred Six, a lawyer gives testimony to the good he has gotten from Christian Science, and explains that he has long been a member of the Episcopal Church. He is delighted to know that he has not had to relinquish any of his old faith, but has simply kept the old and added to it the new. This explains, in great degree, the popularity of Christian Science. People cling to the religious superstitions into which they were born. Mrs. Eddy's recruits were not from theosophy, spiritualism, agnosticism, unitarianism, universalism or infidelity. You can't give a freethinker a book with a statement of what he must find in it. He has acquired the habit of thinking for himself. Mrs. Eddy had no faith in Darwin, Spencer or Haeckel. She quoted Moses, Jesus and Paul to disprove the evolutionists, sat back and smiled content, innocently unaware that citations from Scriptures are in no sense proof to free minds. All of the Bible she wished to waive, she did. The cruelty and bestiality of Jehovah were nothing to her. Her "Key" does not unlock the secrets of Deuteronomy and Leviticus, nor does it shed light on the doctrines of eternal punishment, the vicarious atonement, or the efficacy of baptism as a saving ordinance. Explanations about mortal mind, divine mind and human mind, citing specific errors of the human mind, with a calm codicil to the effect that the human mind has no existence, are not what you might call illuminating literature. The stuff is simply "inspired." Mrs. Eddy was very wise in not allowing her "readers" or followers to sermonize or explain her writings. These writings are simply to be read. And so the hearers sit steeped in mist and wrapped in placidity, returning to their work rested and refreshed, without being influenced in any way, save by the soothing calm of forceful fog and mental vacuity. The rest and relief from all thought is good. The related experiences of Christian Scientists are the things that convince and carry weight, not "Science and Health." "Science and Health" was made to sell. It was not given to you to be understood: it was to be bought and believed. If you doubt any portion of it, at once you are told that this is the work of your mortal mind, which is filled with error. Good Christian Scientists do not try to understand "Science and Health"--they just accept and believe it. "It is inspired," they say, "so it must be true--you will know when you are worthy to know." And so we see our old friend Intellectual Tyranny come back in another form, not with cowl and cape, but tricked out with feminine finery and jewelry and gems that lure and dazzle. There is one thing quite as valuable as health, and that is intellectual integrity. To say, "Oh, 'Science and Health' is certainly inspired--just see how old Mrs. Johnson was cured of the rheumatism!" is not reasoning. And it has given the scoffers excuse for calling it woman's logic. Such reasoning is on the plane of, "Why, Jesus must have been the only begotten son of God, born of a virgin, for if you don't believe it, just see the hospitals, orphan asylums and homes for the aged that Christianity has built!" Mrs. Johnson was surely cured of the rheumatism all right, but that does not prove that Mrs. Eddy is correct in her claim that Eve was made from Adam's rib; that agamogenesis is a fact in Nature; that to till the soil will not always be necessary; that human life in these bodies will have no end; and that an absent person can poison your health and happiness through malicious animal magnetism; or that a good person can give you absent treatment and cure your indigestion. I agree with Mrs. Eddy as to the necessity of eliminating a medical fetish, but I disagree with her about religiously preserving a theological one. I have read "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" for twenty years, and I have also read the Scriptures for a much longer period. Also, I have lived in the same house for many months with very intelligent Christian Scientists. And after mature consideration I regard both the Scriptures and "Science and Health" as largely made up of the errors of mortal mind. My intuitions are just as valuable to me as Mrs. Eddy's were to her. My conscience is quite as sacred to me as hers was to her. And in being an agnostic I object to being classed as blind, stubborn, wilful, malicious and degenerate. We should honor our Creator by cleaving to the things that seem to us to be true, and not abandon the rudder of our minds to any man or any woman, be they living or dead. Let us not be dishonest with ourselves, even to rid us of our physical diseases. As for health, I have all of it that Christian Science ever gave or can give. I have no "testimony" of healing to relate, for I have never been sick an hour. And I think I know how I have kept well. I make no secret of it. It is all very simple--nothing miraculous. My knowledge of how to keep well is not inspired knowledge, save as all men are inspired who study and know the Laws of Nature. Health, after all, is largely a matter of habit. * * * * * Back of the reading-desks, in the "Mother Church," at Boston, are quotations from Paul and Mrs. Eddy, side by side. But the quotation from Paul, which is behind the desk of the woman reader, is not this: "Let women keep silence in the churches." Mrs. Eddy believed the Scriptures are all true, word for word. Yet when she quoted Paul she picked the thing she wanted and avoided all that did not apply to her case. Personally, I like the plan. I do it myself. But I do not believe the Scriptures are inspired by an all-wise Deity. So far as I know, all books were written by men, and very often by faulty, human men at that. Mrs. Eddy's "Key" does not unlock anything; and she did not try to unlock any passages except the passages that seemingly had a bearing on her belief. That is, Mrs. Eddy believed things first, and then skirmished for proof. This is a very old plan. Says Shakespeare: "In religion what damned error but some somber brow will bless it and approve it with a text, hiding the grossness thereof with fair ornament." Let no one read "Science and Health" in the hope of finding in it simple and sensible statements concerning life and its duties. They are not there. I append a few quotations, and in mentioning the page I refer to the pocket or "Oxford" edition of Nineteen Hundred Six. On page one hundred eighty-three of "Science and Health" I find, "The Scriptures inform us that sin, or error, first caused the condemnation of man to till the ground, and indicate that obedience to God will remove this necessity." Mrs. Eddy evidently believed that work is a punishment, and that the day will come when God will remove the necessity of farming and making garden. Can a sane person reply to such lack of logic? On page five hundred forty-seven is this: "If one of the statements in this book is true, every one must be true, for not one departs from its system and rule. You can prove for yourself, dear reader, the Science of healing, and so ascertain if the author has given you the correct interpretation of Scripture." This is evidently inspired by Paul's quibble, "If the dead rise not from the grave, then is our religion vain." Lincoln once referred to this kind of reasoning by saying, "I object to the assumption that my ambition is to have my son marry a negress, simply because I am struggling for emancipation." Mrs. Eddy may heal you, but that does not prove that her interpretation of Scripture is true. Because this happens, that does not necessarily follow. Neither, because a thing precedes a thing or goes with a thing, is the thing the cause of the thing. On page five hundred fifty-three is this: "Adam was created before Eve. Herein it is seen that the maternal egg never brought forth Adam. Eve was formed from Adam's rib, not from a fetal ovum." In reading things like this in "Science and Health," let us not be too severe on Mrs. Eddy, but just bear in mind that such silly superstitions and barbaric folklore are yet officially believed by all orthodox clergymen and members of orthodox churches. You can accept a belief in Adam's fall and the vicarious atonement and still make money and have good health. Page one hundred two: "The mild forms of animal magnetism are disappearing, and its aggressive features are coming to the front. The looms of crime, hidden in the dark recesses of mortal thought, are every hour weaving webs more complicated and subtle. So secret are its present methods that they ensnare the age into indolence, and produce the very apathy on this subject which the criminal desires." This passage reveals the one actually dangerous thing in Christian Science--the fallacy that one mind can weave a web that will work the undoing of another. This is the basis of a belief in witchcraft, and justifies the hangings at Salem. On page one hundred three I find this: "As used in Christian Science, animal magnetism or hypnotism is the specific term for error, or mortal mind." "It is the false belief that mind is in matter, and both evil and good; that evil is as real as goodness, and more powerful. This belief has not one quality of truth or good. It is either ignorant or malicious. The malicious form of animal magnetism ultimates in moral idiocy. The truths of immortal mind sustain man; and they annihilate the fables and mortal mind, whose flimsy and gaudy pretensions, like silly moths, singe their own wings and fall into dust. In reality there is no mortal mind, and consequently no transference of mortal thought and will-power." Page five hundred two: "Spiritually followed, the book of Genesis is the history of the untrue image of God, named a sinful mortal. This deflection of being, rightly viewed, serves the spiritual actuality of man, as given in the first chapter of Genesis. When the crude forms of human thought take on higher symbols and significations, the scientifically Christian views of the universe will appear, illuminating time with the glory of eternity." I append these two passages simply as samples of "inspired literature." Any one who tries to understand such printed matter is headed for Bloomingdale. You must leave it alone absolutely or else accept it and read it with your mental eyes closed, mumbling it with your lips, and let your mind roam like a priest reading his breviary in the smoking-apartment of a Pullman car. The question then arises, "Was Mrs. Eddy sincere in putting forth such writings?" And the answer is, she was most certainly sincere, and she was certainly sane. She was an honest woman. But she was not a clear or logical thinker, except on matters of finance and business, and consequently she did not give forth a clear expression when she essayed philosophy. In order to write lucidly you must think lucidly. Mrs. Eddy had no sense of literary values. She was absolutely devoid of humor, and humor is only the ability to detect a little thing from a big one--to perceive a wrong adjustment from a right one. Style in literature is taste. But the lack of style, taste and humor is general in mankind. The world has produced only a few great thinkers, and one of them was Darwin, a name which Mrs. Eddy mentioned in "Science and Health" with reproach. Great writers are even more rare than great thinkers, because to write one must have the ability not only to think clearly, but the knack or technical skill to use the right word, the luminous word, and so arrange, paragraph and punctuate them that your meaning will be clear to average minds. To say that Mrs. Eddy was not a thinker nor a writer, is not an indictment of the woman, although it may be a reflection on the mental processes of the people who think she was. To say that there are two million people reading Mrs. Eddy, also proves nothing, since numbers are no vindication. Over a hundred million people have kissed the big toe of Saint Peter in Rome. And surely the Roman Catholic Church contains a vast number of highly educated people. The things you do not know, you do not know. And Mrs. Eddy, knowing nothing of literary style, knew nothing of literary art. Her prose and her poetry are worse than ordinary. All inspirational poetry I ever read is rot, and all inspired paintings I ever saw are daubs. Mrs. Eddy should not be blamed for her limitations. Many people who are great in certain lines labor under the hallucination that they are also great in others. Matthew Arnold was a great writer, and he also thought he was a great orator. But when he spoke, his words simply fell over the footlights into the orchestra and died there. He could not reach the front row. Most comedians want to play Hamlet, and all of us have heard girls attempt to sing who thought they could sing, and who were encouraged in the hallucination by their immediate kinsfolk. Mrs. Eddy thought she could write, and unfortunately she was corroborated in her error by the applause of people who, not being able to read her book, kindly attributed the inability to their own limitations and not to hers, being prompted in this by the suggestion oft repeated by Mrs. Eddy, herself. The resemblance of Mrs. Eddy's thought to that of Jesus was never noticed until Mrs. Eddy first explained the matter. Mrs. Eddy was by no means insane. Swedenborg was a civil engineer and a mathematician. He wrote forty books that are nearly as opaque as "Science and Health." If you write stupidly enough, some one will surely throw up his cap and cry "Great!" And others will follow the example and take up the shout, because it is much easier, as Doctor Johnson affirmed, to praise a book than to read and understand it. The custom of reading to a congregation in a dead or foreign language, which the listeners do not understand, has never caused any general protest from the listeners. The scoffers are the only ones who have ever noticed the incongruity, and they do not count, since they probably would not attend, anyway. Next to reading from a book written in the dead language, is to read from a book that is unintelligible. To listen to such makes no tax upon the intellect, and with the right accessories is soporific, restful, pleasing and to be commended. If it does not supply an idea, it at least imparts a feeling. Mrs. Eddy's success in literature arose from the extreme muddiness of her thinking and her opacity in expression. If she had written fairly well, her mediocrity would have been apparent to every one; but writing absolutely without rhyme or reason, we bow before her supreme assurance. The strongest element in men is inertia--we agree rather than fight about it. We want health--and health is what Mrs. Eddy gives to us--therefore, "Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures" is the greatest book in the whole world. Sancta simplicitas! Why not, indeed! * * * * * People turn to Mrs. Eddy's book for relief just exactly as they formerly went to the doctor for the same reason. In addition to bodily health, Mrs. Eddy gives joy, hope, worldly success; and even superior minds, seeing these practical results of Christian Science, move in the line of least resistance and are quite willing to accept the book, not troubled at all about its medieval reasoning. In Ungania is a very great merchant who, not content with having the biggest store in the Kingdom, aspires to the biggest University. The fact that the higher criticism is to him only a trivial matter, and really unworthy of the serious attention of a busy man, simply reveals human limitation. The specialist is created at a terrific cost, and that a person will be practical, shrewd, diplomatic and wise in managing the buying public and an army of employees, and yet know and love Walt Whitman, is too much to expect. This keen and successful merchant, an absolute tyrant in certain ways, has his soft side and many pleasant qualities. Why any one should ever question the literal truth of the Bible is beyond his comprehension. He is convinced that "Leaves of Grass" is an obscene book, never having read it; yet he knows nothing about the third, eleventh and thirteenth chapters of Second Samuel, having read the Book all his life. He has a pitying, patronizing smile for any one who suggests that David was a very faulty man, and that possibly Solomon was not the wisest person that ever lived. "What difference does it make, anyway?" he testily asks. If you work for him you have to agree with him, or else be very silent as to what you actually believe. We often find an avowed and reiterated love for Jesus, the non-resistant, going hand in hand with a passion for war, a miser's greed, a lust for power and a thirst for revenge. There may be a prating about righteousness while the hand of the man is feeling for his sword-hilt, and his eye is locating your jugular. The Ten Commandments are all rescinded in war time. The New York "Evening Post" noted the peculiar fact that nine out of ten of the delegates at The Hague International Peace Conference were theological heretics. As a rule, Orthodox Christians stand for war, and also for capital punishment. How do we explain these inconsistencies? We do not try to: they are simply facts in the partial development of the race. Why millionaires should patronize the memory of Jesus is something no one can understand, save that things work by antithesis. Mrs. Eddy was of the same shrewd, practical type as the merchant prince just mentioned. She was the greatest woman-general of her day and generation. She possessed all the qualities that go to make successful leadership. She was self-reliant, proud, arrogant, implacable in temper, rapid in decision, unbending, shrewd, diplomatic--and a good hater. At times she dismissed her critics with simply a look. No man could dictate to her, and few dared make suggestions in her presence. To move her, the matter had to be brought to her attention in a way that led her to believe that she had discovered it herself. And of course all the credit went to her. In all Christian Science churches are various selections from her writings, and beneath every one is her name. "Thou shalt have no other gods before me!" is the one controlling edict breathed forth by her life and words. One of her orders was that whenever one of her hymns was announced, always and forever it must be stated that it was written by Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy. Always and forever, the "student" giving testimony refers, in terms of lavish praise and fulsome adulation, to "Our Blessed Teacher, Guide and Exemplar, Mary Baker Eddy." God Almighty and Jesus occupy secondary positions in all Christian Science meetings. Mrs. Eddy is mentioned five times to where they are once. And I would not criticize this if Mrs. Eddy had but regarded Jesus as simply a great man in history and "God" as an abstract term referring to the Supreme Intelligence in Nature. But to her, God and Jesus were persons who dictated books, and very frequently she was careful to explain that her method of healing was exactly the same as that practised by Jesus. Side by side with His words are hers. Passages from the Bible are read alternately with passages from "Science and Health." If both were regarded as mere literature, this would be pardonable, but when we are told that both are "sacred" writ, and "damned be he who dares deny or doubt," we are simply lost in admiration for the supreme egotism of the lady. To get mad about it were vain--let us all smile. Surely the imagination that can trace points of resemblance between Mrs. Mary Baker Eddy and Jesus, the lowly peasant of Nazareth, is admirable. Jesus was a communist in principle, having nothing, giving everything. He carried neither scrip nor purse. He wrote nothing. His indifference to place, pelf and power is His distinguishing characteristic. Mrs. Eddy's love of power was the leading motive of her life; her ability to bargain was beautiful; her resorts to law and the subtleties of legal aid were all strictly modern; and the way she tied up the title to her writings by lead-pipe-cinched copyrights reveals the true instincts of Connecticut. This jealousy of her rights and the safeguarding of her interests were among the emphatic features of her life, and set her apart as the antithesis of Jesus. There is one character in history, however, to whom Mrs. Eddy bore a close resemblance--and that is Julius Cæsar, who was educated for the priesthood, became a priest, and was Pope of Rome before he ventured into fighting and politics as a business. Mrs. Eddy's faith in herself, her ability to decide, her quick intuitions, the method and simplicity of her life, her passion for power, her pleasure in authorship--all these were the traits which exalted the name and fame of Cæsar. The inventor of the calendar ordered that it should be known as the "Julian Calendar," and it is so called, even unto this day. Once Carlyle sat smoking with Milburn, the blind preacher. They had been discussing the historicity of Jesus. Then they sat smoking in silence. Finally, Tammas the Techy knocked the ashes out of his long clay t. d. and muttered, half to himself and half to Milburn, "Ah, a great mon, a great mon--but he had his limitations!" The same remark can truthfully be applied to Mrs. Eddy. And about the only point that Jesus and Mrs. Eddy have in common is this matter mentioned by Carlyle. The superior shrewdness and the keen business instinct of Mrs. Eddy are seen in the use of the words "Christian" and "Science." The sub-title, "With Key to the Scriptures," is particularly alluring. And the use of the Oxford binding was the crowning stroke of commercial insight. Surely Mrs. Eddy must command our profound respect. She was undoubtedly a very great business genius, to say the very least. * * * * * When John Henry Newman became a Catholic, he gave as a reason for his decision that he had found no place in literature or art to rest his head. His reward for not finding a place in literature or art for his head was the red hat. Let the followers of Mrs. Eddy take comfort in that their great teacher had plenty of high precedent for believing that Adam was created by fiat, and Eve was made from his rib, all the fiat being used; that Joshua commanded the sun to stand still and it obeyed, even when the order should have been given to the earth; that Lazarus was raised from the dead after his body had become putrid; that witchcraft is a fact in Nature; and that children can be born with the aid of one parent a little better than in the old-fashioned way--parthenogenesis, I think they call it. These inconsistencies of absolute absurdity, existing side by side with great competence and sanity, are to be found everywhere in history. Mrs. Eddy excited the envy of the medical world in her demonstration that good health and happiness are the sure results of getting rid of the doctor habit; but they got even with her when she said that virgin motherhood would yet become the rule, and tilling of the soil would cease to be a necessity. Saint Augustine thought, as did most of the early Churchmen, that to do evil that good might follow was not only justifiable, but highly meritorious. So they preached hagiology to scare people into the narrow path of rectitude. Chapman, Alexander, Torrey, Billy Sunday and most other professional evangelists believe in and practise the same doctrine. The literary conscience was a thing known in Greece, but only recently, say within two hundred years, has it been again manifest, and as yet it is rare. It consists in the scorn and absolute refusal to write a line except that which stands for truth. The artistic conscience that refuses to paint for hire or model on order is the same. Wagner, Millet, Rembrandt, William Morris and Ruskin are examples of men who were incapable of anything but their highest and best creative work, and refused to truckle to the mercenary horde. Such men may be without conscience in a business way. And a person may be absolutely moral in all his acts of life, except in writing and talking, and here he may be slipshod and uncertain. Mrs. Eddy was beautifully lacking in the literary conscience, just as much so as was Gladstone when he attempted to reply to Ingersoll in "The North American Review," and resorted to sophistry and evasion in lieu of logic. Absolute truth to Gladstone was a matter of indifference--expediency was his shibboleth. Truth to Mrs. Eddy was also a secondary matter; the only things that really mattered were Health and Success. Health and Success are undoubtedly great things and well worthy of possession, but I wish to secure them only through the expression of truth. If you gag my tongue, chain my pen and cry, "Believe and you will have Health," I would say, "Give me liberty or give me death!" Christian Scientists ask you to buy Mrs. Eddy's book, "Science and Health." When the volume is handed you, you are promised health and success if you believe its every word; and if you don't, you are threatened with "moral idiocy." It is the old promise of Paradise and the threat of Hell in a new guise. As for me, I decline the book. * * * * * Stephen Girard was a great merchant who had a great love of truth; but if he had been in a retail business, his zeal for truth might have been slightly modified. As a rule, the world of humanity can be divided into two parts: the practical men and the searchers for truth. Usually the latter have nothing to lose but their head. Spinoza, Galileo, Bruno, Thomas Paine, Walt Whitman, Henry Thoreau, Bronson Alcott, are the pure type. Then come Theodore Parker and Ralph Waldo Emerson, crowded out of their pulpits, scorned by their Alma Mater, pitied by the public--yet holding true to their course. And lo! they grew rich; whereas, if they had stuck close to the shore and safety, they would have been drowned in the shallows of oblivion. On the other hand, we find in, say, the directorate of the Standard Oil Company, many men who are zealous members of the orthodox churches, giving large sums in support of the "gospel," and taking an active interest in its promulgation. All of them say, with the late Mr. Morgan, "My mother's religion is good enough for me." So here we get practical shrewdness combined with minds that, so far as abstract truth is concerned, are simply prairie-dog towns. These men belong to a type that will cling to error as long as it is soft, easy and popular. Most certainly these men are not fools--they are highly competent and useful in their way. But as for superstition, they find it soothing; it saves the trouble of thinking, and all their energies are needed in business. Religion, to them, is a social diversion, with a chance of salvation on the side. Inertia does not grip them when it comes to commerce--but in religion it does. Lincoln once said that there was just one thing, and only one thing, that God Almighty could not understand: and that was the workings of the mind of an intelligent American juror. Herbert Spencer says that Sir Isaac Newton was one of the six best educated men the world has seen. He was the first man to resolve light into its constituent elements. Voltaire says that when Newton discovered the Law of Gravitation he excited the envy of the scientific world. "But," adds Voltaire, "when he wrote a book on the Bible prophecies, the men of science got even with him." Sir Isaac Newton defended the literal inspiration of the Scriptures and was a consistent member of the Church of England. Doctor Johnson was unhappy all day if he didn't touch every tenth picket of the fence with his cane as he walked downtown. Blackstone, the great legal commentator, believed in witchcraft, and bolstered his belief by citing the Scriptural text, "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live"--thus proving Moses a party to the superstition. Sir Matthew Hale, Chief Justice of England, did the same. Gladstone was a great statesman, and yet he believed in the Mosaic account of Creation, just as did Mary Baker Eddy. John Adams was a rebel from political slavery, but lived and died a worthy Churchman, subsisting on canned theology--and canned in England, at that. Franklin and Jefferson were rebels from both political and theological despotism, but looked leniently on leeches and apothecaries. Herbert Spencer had a free mind as regards religion, politics, economics and sociology; yet he was a bachelor, lived in the city, belonged to a club, played billiards and smoked cigars. Physical health was out of his reach, and with all his vast knowledge, he never knew why. All through history we find violence and gentleness, ignorance and wisdom, folly and shrewdness side by side in the same person. The one common thing in humanity is inconsistency. To account for it were vain. We know only that it is. * * * * * The very boldness of Mrs. Eddy's claims created an impetus that carried conviction. The woman certainly believed in herself, and she also believed in the Power, of which she was a necessary part, that works for righteousness. She repudiated the supernatural, not by denying "miracles," but by holding that the so-called miracles of the Bible really occurred and were perfectly natural--all according to Natural Law, which is the Divine Law. And the explanation of this Divine Law was her particular business. Thus did she win to her side those who were too timid in constitution to forsake forms and ceremonies and stand alone on the broad ground of Rationalism. Christian Science is not a religion of fight, stress and struggle. Isn't it better to relax and rest and allow Divinity to flow through us, than to sit on a sharp rail and call the passer-by names in falsetto? May Irwin's motto, "Don't Argufy," isn't so bad as a working maxim, after all. All Christian denominations are very much alike. Their differences are microscopic, and recognized only by those who are immersed in them. Martin Luther only softened the expression of the Roman Catholic Church--he did not change its essence. Benjamin Franklin declared that he could not tell the difference between a Catholic and an Episcopalian. But Christian Science is a complete departure from all other denominations, and while professing to be Christian, is really something else, or if it is Christian, then orthodoxy is not. Christian Science strikes right at the root of orthodoxy, since it divides the power of Jesus with Mary Baker Eddy and affirms that Jesus was not "The Savior," but A Savior. This is the position of Thomas Paine, and all other good radicals. Christian Science places Mrs. Eddy's work right alongside of the Bible. No denomination has ever put out a volume stating that the book was required in order to make the Bible intelligible. No denomination has ever put forth a person as the equal of Jesus. This has only been done by unbelievers, atheists and free-thinkers. Christianity is at last attacked in its own house and by its own household. It is thoroughly understood and admitted everywhere that there are two kinds of Christianity. One is the kind taught by the Nazarene; and the other is the institutional variety, made up of denominations which hold millions upon millions of dollars' worth of property without taxation, and parade their ritual with rich and costly millinery. The one was lived by a Man who had not where to lay His head; and the other is an acquirement taken over from pagan Rome, and continued largely in its pagan form even unto this day. Christian Science is neither one nor the other, and the obvious pleasantry that it is neither Christian nor scientific is a jest in earnest. Christian Science is a modern adaptation of all that is best in the simplicity and asceticism of Jesus, the commonsense philosophy of Benjamin Franklin, the mysticism of Swedenborg, and the bold pronunciamento of Robert Ingersoll. It is a religion of affirmation with a denial-of-matter attachment. It is a religion of this world. Jesus was a Man of Sorrows but Mary Baker Eddy was a Daughter of Joy. And as the universal good sense of mankind holds that the best preparation for a life to come, if there is one, is to make the best of this, Christian Science is meeting with a fast-growing popular acceptance. The decline of the old orthodoxy is owing to its clinging to the fallacy that the world's work is base, and Nature is a trickster luring us to our doom. Mrs. Eddy reconciled the old idea with the new and made it mentally palatable. And this is the reason why Christian Science is going to sweep the earth and in twenty years will have but one competitor, the Roman Catholic faith. Orthodoxy, blind, blundering, stubborn, senile, is tottering--the undertaker is at the door. Indeed, the old idea of our orthodox friends that they were preparing to die, was literally true. The undertaker's name and business address attached to the front of many a city church is a sign too subtle to overlook. Not only was the undertaker a partner of the priest, but he is now foreclosing his claim. Christian Science is not final. After it has lived its day, another religion will follow, and that is the Religion of Commonsense, the esoteric religion which Mrs. Eddy herself lived and practised. As for her believers, she gave them the religion of a Book--two Books, the Bible and "Science and Health." They want form and ritual and temples. She gave them these things, just as doctors give sweetened water to people who still demand medicine; and as if to supply the zealous converts, just out of orthodoxy, their fill of ecclesiastic husks, she built fine churches--churches rivaling the far-famed San Salute of Venice. Let them have their wish! Paganism is in their blood--they are even trying to worship her! Let them go on and eventually they will pray not in temples nor on this or that mountain, but in spirit and in truth, just as did Mrs. Eddy, one of the world's most successful women. * * * * * Christian Science is orthodox Christianity, minus medical fetish and the fear that a belief in sin, sickness, death and eternal punishment naturally lends, plus the joy of a natural, healthy, human life. The so-called rational Christian sects preserve their Devil in the form of a Doctor, and Hell in the shape of a Hospital. My hope and expectation is that Christian Science will become a Rational Religion instead of a one-man institution, or a religion of authority, such as it now is. Its superstitious features have doubtless been strong factors in its rapid growth--serving as stays or stocks to aid in the launching. But now, the sooner the ship floats free the better. Christian Scientists, being men and women, can not continue to grow if fettered with an Index Expurgatorius and mandatory edicts and encyclicals. That which binds and manacles must go--the good will remain. Christian Science brings good news, and good news is always curative. Mrs. Eddy animated her patients with a new thought--the thought of harmony, the denial of disease, and the affirmation that God is good and life is beautiful. The animation thus produced is in itself the most powerful healing principle known to science. Life is born of love. Joy is a prophylactic. Christian Science comes to the "student" as a great flood of light. His circulation becomes normal, his muscles relax, the nerves rest, digestion acts, elimination takes place--and the person is well. Fear has congested the organs--love, hope and faith place them in an attitude so Nature plays through them. The patient is healed. In it there is neither mystery nor miracle. It is all very simple. Let us rid ourselves of a belief in the strange and occult! The Christian Science organization is an expediency. It is an intellectual crutch. The book is a necessity. It is a scaffolding. Yet he who mistakes the scaffolding for the edifice is a specialist in scaffolding. Truth can never be caught and crystallized in a formula. Also this: truth can never be monopolized by an "ite" or an "ist." Eventually the label will be eliminated with the scaffolding, and the lumber of ritual and rite will have to go. We will live truth instead of talking about it. Among Christian Scientists there are no drunkards, paupers or gamblers. Also, there are no sick people. To them sickness is a disgrace. Orthodox Christians get sick and gratify their sense of approbation by receiving pastoral calls and visits from the doctor and neighbors. The biblical injunction to visit the sick was never followed by Mrs. Eddy--she always decided for herself just what injunctions should be waived and what followed. Those which she did not like she interpreted spiritually or else glided over. The biblical statement that man's days are few and full of trouble, and also the assertion that man is prone to wickedness as the sparks fly upwards, are both very conveniently glossed. Christian Scientists know the rules of health, just as most people do; but what is more, they follow them, thus avoiding the disgrace of being pointed out. They have made sickness not only tabu, but invalidism ridiculous. When things become absurd and preposterous, we abandon them. Unpopularity can do what logic is helpless to bring about. The reasoning of Christian Scientists is bad, but their intuitions are right. While denying the existence of matter, no people on earth are as canny, save possibly the Quakers. A bank-balance to a Christian Scientist is no barren ideality. It is like falsehood to a Jesuit--a very present help in time of trouble. Sin, to them, consists in making too much fuss about life and talking about death. Do what you want and forget it. Quit talking about the weather, night air, miasma. Knowingly or unknowingly Christian Scientists cultivate resiliency. They are proof against drafts and microbes. Eat what you like, but not too much of it. Be moderate. Christian Scientists get their joy out of their work. This is essentially hygienic. They breathe deeply, eat moderately, bathe plentifully, work industriously--and smile. This is all sternly scientific. It can never be argued down. No school of medicine has ever offered a prophylactic equal to work and good-cheer, and no system of religion has ever offered a working formula for health, happiness and success equal to that launched by Mrs. Eddy. The science of medicine is a science of palliation. Christian Scientists avoid the cause of sickness, and thus keep well. There is no vitality in drugs. Nature cures--obey her. In this matter of bodily health just a few plain rules suffice. And these rules, fairly followed, soon grow into a pleasurable habit. Fortunately, we do not have to oversee our digestion, our circulation, the work of the millions of pores that form the skin, or the action of the nerves. Folks who get fussy about their digestion and assume personal charge of their nerves have "nerves" and are apt to have no digestion. "I have a pain in my side," said the woman who had no money to the busy doctor. "Forget it," was the curt advice. Get the Health Habit, and forget it. This is the quintessence of Christian Science. Your mental attitude controls your body. Happiness is your health. There is no devil but fear. As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he. * * * * * SO HERE ENDETH "LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF GREAT TEACHERS," BEING VOLUME TEN OF THE SERIES, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD; EDITED AND ARRANGED BY FRED BANN; BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS, AND PRODUCED BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, MCMXXII