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The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Child's History of England
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.
Title: A Child's History of England
Author: Charles Dickens
Illustrator: F. H. Townsend
Release date: October 1, 1996 [eBook #699]
Most recently updated: January 30, 2022
Language: English
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND ***
A CHILD’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND
By CHARLES DICKENS
With Illustrations by F. H. Townsend and others
LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, ld.
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1905
Contents
CHAPTER I ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS
CHAPTER II ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS
CHAPTER III ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED
CHAPTER IV ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS
CHAPTER V ENGLAND UNDER CANUTE THE DANE
CHAPTER VI ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD HAREFOOT, HARDICANUTE, AND EDWARD THE CONFESSOR
CHAPTER VII ENGLAND UNDER HAROLD THE SECOND, AND CONQUERED BY THE NORMANS
CHAPTER VIII ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE FIRST, THE NORMAN CONQUEROR
CHAPTER IX ENGLAND UNDER WILLIAM THE SECOND, CALLED RUFUS
CHAPTER X ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIRST, CALLED FINE-SCHOLAR
CHAPTER XI ENGLAND UNDER MATILDA AND STEPHEN
CHAPTER XII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SECOND
CHAPTER XIII ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE FIRST, CALLED THE LION-HEART
CHAPTER XIV ENGLAND UNDER KING JOHN, CALLED LACKLAND
CHAPTER XV ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE THIRD, CALLED, OF WINCHESTER
CHAPTER XVI ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIRST, CALLED LONGSHANKS
CHAPTER XVII ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SECOND
CHAPTER XVIII ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE THIRD
CHAPTER XIX ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE SECOND
CHAPTER XX ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FOURTH, CALLED BOLINGBROKE
CHAPTER XXI ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE FIFTH
CHAPTER XXII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SIXTH
CHAPTER XXIII ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FOURTH
CHAPTER XXIV ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE FIFTH
CHAPTER XXV ENGLAND UNDER RICHARD THE THIRD
CHAPTER XXVI ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE SEVENTH
CHAPTER XXVII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH, CALLED BLUFF KING HAL AND BURLY KING HARRY
CHAPTER XXVIII ENGLAND UNDER HENRY THE EIGHTH
CHAPTER XXIX ENGLAND UNDER EDWARD THE SIXTH
CHAPTER XXX ENGLAND UNDER MARY
CHAPTER XXXI ENGLAND UNDER ELIZABETH
CHAPTER XXXII ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXXIII ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE FIRST
CHAPTER XXXIV ENGLAND UNDER OLIVER CROMWELL
CHAPTER XXXV ENGLAND UNDER CHARLES THE SECOND, CALLED THE MERRY MONARCH
CHAPTER XXXVI ENGLAND UNDER JAMES THE SECOND
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER I
ANCIENT ENGLAND AND THE ROMANS
If you look at a Map of the World, you will see, in the left-hand upper
corner of the Eastern Hemisphere, two Islands lying in the sea. They
are England and Scotland, and Ireland. England and Scotland form the
greater part of these Islands. Ireland is the next in size. The little
neighbouring islands, which are so small upon the Map as to be mere
dots, are chiefly little bits of Scotland,—broken off, I dare say, in
the course of a great length of time, by the power of the restless
water.
In the old days, a long, long while ago, before Our Saviour was born on
earth and lay asleep in a manger, these Islands were in the same place,
and the stormy sea roared round them, just as it roars now. But the sea
was not alive, then, with great ships and brave sailors, sailing to and
from all parts of the world. It was very lonely. The Islands lay
solitary, in the great expanse of water. The foaming waves dashed
against their cliffs, and the bleak winds blew over their forests; but
the winds and waves brought no adventurers to land upon the Islands,
and the savage Islanders knew nothing of the rest of the world, and the
rest of the world knew nothing of them.
It is supposed that the Phœnicians, who were an ancient people, famous
for carrying on trade, came in ships to these Islands, and found that
they produced tin and lead; both very useful things, as you know, and
both produced to this very hour upon the sea-coast. The most celebrated
tin mines in Cornwall are, still, close to the sea. One of them, which
I have seen, is so close to it that it is hollowed out underneath the
ocean; and the miners say, that in stormy weather, when they are at
work down in that deep place, they can hear the noise of the waves
thundering above their heads. So, the Phœnicians, coasting about the
Islands, would come, without much difficulty, to where the tin and lead
were.
The Phœnicians traded with the Islanders for these metals, and gave the
Islanders some other useful things in exchange. The Islanders were, at
first, poor savages, going almost naked, or only dressed in the rough
skins of beasts, and staining their bodies, as other savages do, with
coloured earths and the juices of plants. But the Phœnicians, sailing
over to the opposite coasts of France and Belgium, and saying to the
people there, ‘We have been to those white cliffs across the water,
which you can see in fine weather, and from that country, which is
called Britain, we bring this tin and lead,’ tempted some of the French
and Belgians to come over also. These people settled themselves on the
south coast of England, which is now called Kent; and, although they
were a rough people too, they taught the savage Britons some useful
arts, and improved that part of the Islands. It is probable that other
people came over from Spain to Ireland, and settled there.
Thus, by little and little, strangers became mixed with the Islanders,
and the savage Britons grew into a wild, bold people; almost savage,
still, especially in the interior of the country away from the sea
where the foreign settlers seldom went; but hardy, brave, and strong.
The whole country was covered with forests, and swamps. The greater
part of it was very misty and cold. There were no roads, no bridges, no
streets, no houses that you would think deserving of the name. A town
was nothing but a collection of straw-covered huts, hidden in a thick
wood, with a ditch all round, and a low wall, made of mud, or the
trunks of trees placed one upon another. The people planted little or
no corn, but lived upon the flesh of their flocks and cattle. They made
no coins, but used metal rings for money. They were clever in
basket-work, as savage people often are; and they could make a coarse
kind of cloth, and some very bad earthenware. But in building
fortresses they were much more clever.
They made boats of basket-work, covered with the skins of animals, but
seldom, if ever, ventured far from the shore. They made swords, of
copper mixed with tin; but, these swords were of an awkward shape, and
so soft that a heavy blow would bend one. They made light shields,
short pointed daggers, and spears—which they jerked back after they had
thrown them at an enemy, by a long strip of leather fastened to the
stem. The butt-end was a rattle, to frighten an enemy’s horse. The
ancient Britons, being divided into as many as thirty or forty tribes,
each commanded by its own little king, were constantly fighting with
one another, as savage people usually do; and they always fought with
these weapons.
They were very fond of horses. The standard of Kent was the picture of
a white horse. They could break them in and manage them wonderfully
well. Indeed, the horses (of which they had an abundance, though they
were rather small) were so well taught in those days, that they can
scarcely be said to have improved since; though the men are so much
wiser. They understood, and obeyed, every word of command; and would
stand still by themselves, in all the din and noise of battle, while
their masters went to fight on foot. The Britons could not have
succeeded in their most remarkable art, without the aid of these
sensible and trusty animals. The art I mean, is the construction and
management of war-chariots or cars, for which they have ever been
celebrated in history. Each of the best sort of these chariots, not
quite breast high in front, and open at the back, contained one man to
drive, and two or three others to fight—all standing up. The horses who
drew them were so well trained, that they would tear, at full gallop,
over the most stony ways, and even through the woods; dashing down
their masters’ enemies beneath their hoofs, and cutting them to pieces
with the blades of swords, or scythes, which were fastened to the
wheels, and stretched out beyond the car on each side, for that cruel
purpose. In a moment, while at full speed, the horses would stop, at
the driver’s command. The men within would leap out, deal blows about
them with their swords like hail, leap on the horses, on the pole,
spring back into the chariots anyhow; and, as soon as they were safe,
the horses tore away again.
The Britons had a strange and terrible religion, called the Religion of
the Druids. It seems to have been brought over, in very early times
indeed, from the opposite country of France, anciently called Gaul, and
to have mixed up the worship of the Serpent, and of the Sun and Moon,
with the worship of some of the Heathen Gods and Goddesses. Most of its
ceremonies were kept secret by the priests, the Druids, who pretended
to be enchanters, and who carried magicians’ wands, and wore, each of
them, about his neck, what he told the ignorant people was a Serpent’s
egg in a golden case. But it is certain that the Druidical ceremonies
included the sacrifice of human victims, the torture of some suspected
criminals, and, on particular occasions, even the burning alive, in
immense wicker cages, of a number of men and animals together. The
Druid Priests had some kind of veneration for the Oak, and for the
mistletoe—the same plant that we hang up in houses at Christmas Time
now—when its white berries grew upon the Oak. They met together in dark
woods, which they called Sacred Groves; and there they instructed, in
their mysterious arts, young men who came to them as pupils, and who
sometimes stayed with them as long as twenty years.
These Druids built great Temples and altars, open to the sky, fragments
of some of which are yet remaining. Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, in
Wiltshire, is the most extraordinary of these. Three curious stones,
called Kits Coty House, on Bluebell Hill, near Maidstone, in Kent, form
another. We know, from examination of the great blocks of which such
buildings are made, that they could not have been raised without the
aid of some ingenious machines, which are common now, but which the
ancient Britons certainly did not use in making their own uncomfortable
houses. I should not wonder if the Druids, and their pupils who stayed
with them twenty years, knowing more than the rest of the Britons, kept
the people out of sight while they made these buildings, and then
pretended that they built them by magic. Perhaps they had a hand in the
fortresses too; at all events, as they were very powerful, and very
much believed in, and as they made and executed the laws, and paid no
taxes, I don’t wonder that they liked their trade. And, as they
persuaded the people the more Druids there were, the better off the
people would be, I don’t wonder that there were a good many of them.
But it is pleasant to think that there are no Druids, _now_, who go on
in that way, and pretend to carry Enchanters’ Wands and Serpents’
Eggs—and of course there is nothing of the kind, anywhere.
Such was the improved condition of the ancient Britons, fifty-five
years before the birth of Our Saviour, when the Romans, under their
great General, Julius Cæsar, were masters of all the rest of the known
world. Julius Cæsar had then just conquered Gaul; and hearing, in Gaul,
a good deal about the opposite Island with the white cliffs, and about
the bravery of the Britons who inhabited it—some of whom had been
fetched over to help the Gauls in the war against him—he resolved, as
he was so near, to come and conquer Britain next.
So, Julius Cæsar came sailing over to this Island of ours, with eighty
vessels and twelve thousand men. And he came from the French coast
between Calais and Boulogne, ‘because thence was the shortest passage
into Britain;’ just for the same reason as our steam-boats now take the
same track, every day. He expected to conquer Britain easily: but it
was not such easy work as he supposed—for the bold Britons fought most
bravely; and, what with not having his horse-soldiers with him (for
they had been driven back by a storm), and what with having some of his
vessels dashed to pieces by a high tide after they were drawn ashore,
he ran great risk of being totally defeated. However, for once that the
bold Britons beat him, he beat them twice; though not so soundly but
that he was very glad to accept their proposals of peace, and go away.
But, in the spring of the next year, he came back; this time, with
eight hundred vessels and thirty thousand men. The British tribes
chose, as their general-in-chief, a Briton, whom the Romans in their
Latin language called Cassivellaunus, but whose British name is
supposed to have been Caswallon. A brave general he was, and well he
and his soldiers fought the Roman army! So well, that whenever in that
war the Roman soldiers saw a great cloud of dust, and heard the rattle
of the rapid British chariots, they trembled in their hearts. Besides a
number of smaller battles, there was a battle fought near Canterbury,
in Kent; there was a battle fought near Chertsey, in Surrey; there was
a battle fought near a marshy little town in a wood, the capital of
that part of Britain which belonged to Cassivellaunus, and which was
probably near what is now Saint Albans, in Hertfordshire. However,
brave Cassivellaunus had the worst of it, on the whole; though he and
his men always fought like lions. As the other British chiefs were
jealous of him, and were always quarrelling with him, and with one
another, he gave up, and proposed peace. Julius Cæsar was very glad to
grant peace easily, and to go away again with all his remaining ships
and men. He had expected to find pearls in Britain, and he may have
found a few for anything I know; but, at all events, he found delicious
oysters, and I am sure he found tough Britons—of whom, I dare say, he
made the same complaint as Napoleon Bonaparte the great French General
did, eighteen hundred years afterwards, when he said they were such
unreasonable fellows that they never knew when they were beaten. They
never _did_ know, I believe, and never will.
Nearly a hundred years passed on, and all that time, there was peace in
Britain. The Britons improved their towns and mode of life: became more
civilised, travelled, and learnt a great deal from the Gauls and
Romans. At last, the Roman Emperor, Claudius, sent Aulus Plautius, a
skilful general, with a mighty force, to subdue the Island, and shortly
afterwards arrived himself. They did little; and Ostorius Scapula,
another general, came. Some of the British Chiefs of Tribes submitted.
Others resolved to fight to the death. Of these brave men, the bravest
was Caractacus, or Caradoc, who gave battle to the Romans, with his
army, among the mountains of North Wales. ‘This day,’ said he to his
soldiers, ‘decides the fate of Britain! Your liberty, or your eternal
slavery, dates from this hour. Remember your brave ancestors, who drove
the great Cæsar himself across the sea!’ On hearing these words, his
men, with a great shout, rushed upon the Romans. But the strong Roman
swords and armour were too much for the weaker British weapons in close
conflict. The Britons lost the day. The wife and daughter of the brave
Caractacus were taken prisoners; his brothers delivered themselves up;
he himself was betrayed into the hands of the Romans by his false and
base stepmother: and they carried him, and all his family, in triumph
to Rome.
But a great man will be great in misfortune, great in prison, great in
chains. His noble air, and dignified endurance of distress, so touched
the Roman people who thronged the streets to see him, that he and his
family were restored to freedom. No one knows whether his great heart
broke, and he died in Rome, or whether he ever returned to his own dear
country. English oaks have grown up from acorns, and withered away,
when they were hundreds of years old—and other oaks have sprung up in
their places, and died too, very aged—since the rest of the history of
the brave Caractacus was forgotten.
Still, the Britons _would not_ yield. They rose again and again, and
died by thousands, sword in hand. They rose, on every possible
occasion. Suetonius, another Roman general, came, and stormed the
Island of Anglesey (then called Mona), which was supposed to be sacred,
and he burnt the Druids in their own wicker cages, by their own fires.
But, even while he was in Britain, with his victorious troops, the
Britons rose. Because Boadicea, a British queen, the widow of the King
of the Norfolk and Suffolk people, resisted the plundering of her
property by the Romans who were settled in England, she was scourged,
by order of Catus a Roman officer; and her two daughters were
shamefully insulted in her presence, and her husband’s relations were
made slaves. To avenge this injury, the Britons rose, with all their
might and rage. They drove Catus into Gaul; they laid the Roman
possessions waste; they forced the Romans out of London, then a poor
little town, but a trading place; they hanged, burnt, crucified, and
slew by the sword, seventy thousand Romans in a few days. Suetonius
strengthened his army, and advanced to give them battle. They
strengthened their army, and desperately attacked his, on the field
where it was strongly posted. Before the first charge of the Britons
was made, Boadicea, in a war-chariot, with her fair hair streaming in
the wind, and her injured daughters lying at her feet, drove among the
troops, and cried to them for vengeance on their oppressors, the
licentious Romans. The Britons fought to the last; but they were
vanquished with great slaughter, and the unhappy queen took poison.
Still, the spirit of the Britons was not broken. When Suetonius left
the country, they fell upon his troops, and retook the Island of
Anglesey. Agricola came, fifteen or twenty years afterwards, and retook
it once more, and devoted seven years to subduing the country,
especially that part of it which is now called Scotland; but, its
people, the Caledonians, resisted him at every inch of ground. They
fought the bloodiest battles with him; they killed their very wives and
children, to prevent his making prisoners of them; they fell, fighting,
in such great numbers that certain hills in Scotland are yet supposed
to be vast heaps of stones piled up above their graves. Hadrian came,
thirty years afterwards, and still they resisted him. Severus came,
nearly a hundred years afterwards, and they worried his great army like
dogs, and rejoiced to see them die, by thousands, in the bogs and
swamps. Caracalla, the son and successor of Severus, did the most to
conquer them, for a time; but not by force of arms. He knew how little
that would do. He yielded up a quantity of land to the Caledonians, and
gave the Britons the same privileges as the Romans possessed. There was
peace, after this, for seventy years.
Then new enemies arose. They were the Saxons, a fierce, sea-faring
people from the countries to the North of the Rhine, the great river of
Germany on the banks of which the best grapes grow to make the German
wine. They began to come, in pirate ships, to the sea-coast of Gaul and
Britain, and to plunder them. They were repulsed by Carausius, a native
either of Belgium or of Britain, who was appointed by the Romans to the
command, and under whom the Britons first began to fight upon the sea.
But, after this time, they renewed their ravages. A few years more, and
the Scots (which was then the name for the people of Ireland), and the
Picts, a northern people, began to make frequent plundering incursions
into the South of Britain. All these attacks were repeated, at
intervals, during two hundred years, and through a long succession of
Roman Emperors and chiefs; during all which length of time, the Britons
rose against the Romans, over and over again. At last, in the days of
the Roman Honorius, when the Roman power all over the world was fast
declining, and when Rome wanted all her soldiers at home, the Romans
abandoned all hope of conquering Britain, and went away. And still, at
last, as at first, the Britons rose against them, in their old brave
manner; for, a very little while before, they had turned away the Roman
magistrates, and declared themselves an independent people.
Five hundred years had passed, since Julius Cæsar’s first invasion of
the Island, when the Romans departed from it for ever. In the course of
that time, although they had been the cause of terrible fighting and
bloodshed, they had done much to improve the condition of the Britons.
They had made great military roads; they had built forts; they had
taught them how to dress, and arm themselves, much better than they had
ever known how to do before; they had refined the whole British way of
living. Agricola had built a great wall of earth, more than seventy
miles long, extending from Newcastle to beyond Carlisle, for the
purpose of keeping out the Picts and Scots; Hadrian had strengthened
it; Severus, finding it much in want of repair, had built it afresh of
stone.
Above all, it was in the Roman time, and by means of Roman ships, that
the Christian Religion was first brought into Britain, and its people
first taught the great lesson that, to be good in the sight of God,
they must love their neighbours as themselves, and do unto others as
they would be done by. The Druids declared that it was very wicked to
believe in any such thing, and cursed all the people who did believe
it, very heartily. But, when the people found that they were none the
better for the blessings of the Druids, and none the worse for the
curses of the Druids, but, that the sun shone and the rain fell without
consulting the Druids at all, they just began to think that the Druids
were mere men, and that it signified very little whether they cursed or
blessed. After which, the pupils of the Druids fell off greatly in
numbers, and the Druids took to other trades.
Thus I have come to the end of the Roman time in England. It is but
little that is known of those five hundred years; but some remains of
them are still found. Often, when labourers are digging up the ground,
to make foundations for houses or churches, they light on rusty money
that once belonged to the Romans. Fragments of plates from which they
ate, of goblets from which they drank, and of pavement on which they
trod, are discovered among the earth that is broken by the plough, or
the dust that is crumbled by the gardener’s spade. Wells that the
Romans sunk, still yield water; roads that the Romans made, form part
of our highways. In some old battle-fields, British spear-heads and
Roman armour have been found, mingled together in decay, as they fell
in the thick pressure of the fight. Traces of Roman camps overgrown
with grass, and of mounds that are the burial-places of heaps of
Britons, are to be seen in almost all parts of the country. Across the
bleak moors of Northumberland, the wall of Severus, overrun with moss
and weeds, still stretches, a strong ruin; and the shepherds and their
dogs lie sleeping on it in the summer weather. On Salisbury Plain,
Stonehenge yet stands: a monument of the earlier time when the Roman
name was unknown in Britain, and when the Druids, with their best magic
wands, could not have written it in the sands of the wild sea-shore.
CHAPTER II
ANCIENT ENGLAND UNDER THE EARLY SAXONS
The Romans had scarcely gone away from Britain, when the Britons began
to wish they had never left it. For, the Romans being gone, and the
Britons being much reduced in numbers by their long wars, the Picts and
Scots came pouring in, over the broken and unguarded wall of Severus,
in swarms. They plundered the richest towns, and killed the people; and
came back so often for more booty and more slaughter, that the
unfortunate Britons lived a life of terror. As if the Picts and Scots
were not bad enough on land, the Saxons attacked the islanders by sea;
and, as if something more were still wanting to make them miserable,
they quarrelled bitterly among themselves as to what prayers they ought
to say, and how they ought to say them. The priests, being very angry
with one another on these questions, cursed one another in the
heartiest manner; and (uncommonly like the old Druids) cursed all the
people whom they could not persuade. So, altogether, the Britons were
very badly off, you may believe.
They were in such distress, in short, that they sent a letter to Rome
entreating help—which they called the Groans of the Britons; and in
which they said, ‘The barbarians chase us into the sea, the sea throws
us back upon the barbarians, and we have only the hard choice left us
of perishing by the sword, or perishing by the waves.’ But, the Romans
could not help them, even if they were so inclined; for they had enough
to do to defend themselves against their own enemies, who were then
very fierce and strong. At last, the Britons, unable to bear their hard
condition any longer, resolved to make peace with the Saxons, and to
invite the Saxons to come into their country, and help them to keep out
the Picts and Scots.
It was a British Prince named Vortigern who took this resolution, and
who made a treaty of friendship with Hengist and Horsa, two Saxon
chiefs. Both of these names, in the old Saxon language, signify Horse;
for the Saxons, like many other nations in a rough state, were fond of
giving men the names of animals, as Horse, Wolf, Bear, Hound. The
Indians of North America,—a very inferior people to the Saxons,
though—do the same to this day.
Hengist and Horsa drove out the Picts and Scots; and Vortigern, being
grateful to them for that service, made no opposition to their settling
themselves in that part of England which is called the Isle of Thanet,
or to their inviting over more of their countrymen to join them. But
Hengist had a beautiful daughter named Rowena; and when, at a feast,
she filled a golden goblet to the brim with wine, and gave it to
Vortigern, saying in a sweet voice, ‘Dear King, thy health!’ the King
fell in love with her. My opinion is, that the cunning Hengist meant
him to do so, in order that the Saxons might have greater influence
with him; and that the fair Rowena came to that feast, golden goblet
and all, on purpose.
At any rate, they were married; and, long afterwards, whenever the King
was angry with the Saxons, or jealous of their encroachments, Rowena
would put her beautiful arms round his neck, and softly say, ‘Dear
King, they are my people! Be favourable to them, as you loved that
Saxon girl who gave you the golden goblet of wine at the feast!’ And,
really, I don’t see how the King could help himself.
Ah! We must all die! In the course of years, Vortigern died—he was
dethroned, and put in prison, first, I am afraid; and Rowena died; and
generations of Saxons and Britons died; and events that happened during
a long, long time, would have been quite forgotten but for the tales
and songs of the old Bards, who used to go about from feast to feast,
with their white beards, recounting the deeds of their forefathers.
Among the histories of which they sang and talked, there was a famous
one, concerning the bravery and virtues of King Arthur, supposed to
have been a British Prince in those old times. But, whether such a
person really lived, or whether there were several persons whose
histories came to be confused together under that one name, or whether
all about him was invention, no one knows.
I will tell you, shortly, what is most interesting in the early Saxon
times, as they are described in these songs and stories of the Bards.
In, and long after, the days of Vortigern, fresh bodies of Saxons,
under various chiefs, came pouring into Britain. One body, conquering
the Britons in the East, and settling there, called their kingdom
Essex; another body settled in the West, and called their kingdom
Wessex; the Northfolk, or Norfolk people, established themselves in one
place; the Southfolk, or Suffolk people, established themselves in
another; and gradually seven kingdoms or states arose in England, which
were called the Saxon Heptarchy. The poor Britons, falling back before
these crowds of fighting men whom they had innocently invited over as
friends, retired into Wales and the adjacent country; into Devonshire,
and into Cornwall. Those parts of England long remained unconquered.
And in Cornwall now—where the sea-coast is very gloomy, steep, and
rugged—where, in the dark winter-time, ships have often been wrecked
close to the land, and every soul on board has perished—where the winds
and waves howl drearily and split the solid rocks into arches and
caverns—there are very ancient ruins, which the people call the ruins
of King Arthur’s Castle.
Kent is the most famous of the seven Saxon kingdoms, because the
Christian religion was preached to the Saxons there (who domineered
over the Britons too much, to care for what _they_ said about their
religion, or anything else) by Augustine, a monk from Rome. King
Ethelbert, of Kent, was soon converted; and the moment he said he was a
Christian, his courtiers all said _they_ were Christians; after which,
ten thousand of his subjects said they were Christians too. Augustine
built a little church, close to this King’s palace, on the ground now
occupied by the beautiful cathedral of Canterbury. Sebert, the King’s
nephew, built on a muddy marshy place near London, where there had been
a temple to Apollo, a church dedicated to Saint Peter, which is now
Westminster Abbey. And, in London itself, on the foundation of a temple
to Diana, he built another little church which has risen up, since that
old time, to be Saint Paul’s.
After the death of Ethelbert, Edwin, King of Northumbria, who was such
a good king that it was said a woman or child might openly carry a
purse of gold, in his reign, without fear, allowed his child to be
baptised, and held a great council to consider whether he and his
people should all be Christians or not. It was decided that they should
be. Coifi, the chief priest of the old religion, made a great speech on
the occasion. In this discourse, he told the people that he had found
out the old gods to be impostors. ‘I am quite satisfied of it,’ he
said. ‘Look at me! I have been serving them all my life, and they have
done nothing for me; whereas, if they had been really powerful, they
could not have decently done less, in return for all I have done for
them, than make my fortune. As they have never made my fortune, I am
quite convinced they are impostors!’ When this singular priest had
finished speaking, he hastily armed himself with sword and lance,
mounted a war-horse, rode at a furious gallop in sight of all the
people to the temple, and flung his lance against it as an insult. From
that time, the Christian religion spread itself among the Saxons, and
became their faith.
The next very famous prince was Egbert. He lived about a hundred and
fifty years afterwards, and claimed to have a better right to the
throne of Wessex than Beortric, another Saxon prince who was at the
head of that kingdom, and who married Edburga, the daughter of Offa,
king of another of the seven kingdoms. This Queen Edburga was a
handsome murderess, who poisoned people when they offended her. One
day, she mixed a cup of poison for a certain noble belonging to the
court; but her husband drank of it too, by mistake, and died. Upon
this, the people revolted, in great crowds; and running to the palace,
and thundering at the gates, cried, ‘Down with the wicked queen, who
poisons men!’ They drove her out of the country, and abolished the
title she had disgraced. When years had passed away, some travellers
came home from Italy, and said that in the town of Pavia they had seen
a ragged beggar-woman, who had once been handsome, but was then
shrivelled, bent, and yellow, wandering about the streets, crying for
bread; and that this beggar-woman was the poisoning English queen. It
was, indeed, Edburga; and so she died, without a shelter for her
wretched head.
Egbert, not considering himself safe in England, in consequence of his
having claimed the crown of Wessex (for he thought his rival might take
him prisoner and put him to death), sought refuge at the court of
Charlemagne, King of France. On the death of Beortric, so unhappily
poisoned by mistake, Egbert came back to Britain; succeeded to the
throne of Wessex; conquered some of the other monarchs of the seven
kingdoms; added their territories to his own; and, for the first time,
called the country over which he ruled, England.
And now, new enemies arose, who, for a long time, troubled England
sorely. These were the Northmen, the people of Denmark and Norway, whom
the English called the Danes. They were a warlike people, quite at home
upon the sea; not Christians; very daring and cruel. They came over in
ships, and plundered and burned wheresoever they landed. Once, they
beat Egbert in battle. Once, Egbert beat them. But, they cared no more
for being beaten than the English themselves. In the four following
short reigns, of Ethelwulf, and his sons, Ethelbald, Ethelbert, and
Ethelred, they came back, over and over again, burning and plundering,
and laying England waste. In the last-mentioned reign, they seized
Edmund, King of East England, and bound him to a tree. Then, they
proposed to him that he should change his religion; but he, being a
good Christian, steadily refused. Upon that, they beat him, made
cowardly jests upon him, all defenceless as he was, shot arrows at him,
and, finally, struck off his head. It is impossible to say whose head
they might have struck off next, but for the death of King Ethelred
from a wound he had received in fighting against them, and the
succession to his throne of the best and wisest king that ever lived in
England.
CHAPTER III
ENGLAND UNDER THE GOOD SAXON, ALFRED
Alfred the Great was a young man, three-and-twenty years of age, when
he became king. Twice in his childhood, he had been taken to Rome,
where the Saxon nobles were in the habit of going on journeys which
they supposed to be religious; and, once, he had stayed for some time
in Paris. Learning, however, was so little cared for, then, that at
twelve years old he had not been taught to read; although, of the sons
of King Ethelwulf, he, the youngest, was the favourite. But he had—as
most men who grow up to be great and good are generally found to have
had—an excellent mother; and, one day, this lady, whose name was
Osburga, happened, as she was sitting among her sons, to read a book of
Saxon poetry. The art of printing was not known until long and long
after that period, and the book, which was written, was what is called
‘illuminated,’ with beautiful bright letters, richly painted. The
brothers admiring it very much, their mother said, ‘I will give it to
that one of you four princes who first learns to read.’ Alfred sought
out a tutor that very day, applied himself to learn with great
diligence, and soon won the book. He was proud of it, all his life.
This great king, in the first year of his reign, fought nine battles
with the Danes. He made some treaties with them too, by which the false
Danes swore they would quit the country. They pretended to consider
that they had taken a very solemn oath, in swearing this upon the holy
bracelets that they wore, and which were always buried with them when
they died; but they cared little for it, for they thought nothing of
breaking oaths and treaties too, as soon as it suited their purpose,
and coming back again to fight, plunder, and burn, as usual. One fatal
winter, in the fourth year of King Alfred’s reign, they spread
themselves in great numbers over the whole of England; and so dispersed
and routed the King’s soldiers that the King was left alone, and was
obliged to disguise himself as a common peasant, and to take refuge in
the cottage of one of his cowherds who did not know his face.
Here, King Alfred, while the Danes sought him far and near, was left
alone one day, by the cowherd’s wife, to watch some cakes which she put
to bake upon the hearth. But, being at work upon his bow and arrows,
with which he hoped to punish the false Danes when a brighter time
should come, and thinking deeply of his poor unhappy subjects whom the
Danes chased through the land, his noble mind forgot the cakes, and
they were burnt. ‘What!’ said the cowherd’s wife, who scolded him well
when she came back, and little thought she was scolding the King, ‘you
will be ready enough to eat them by-and-by, and yet you cannot watch
them, idle dog?’
At length, the Devonshire men made head against a new host of Danes who
landed on their coast; killed their chief, and captured their flag; on
which was represented the likeness of a Raven—a very fit bird for a
thievish army like that, I think. The loss of their standard troubled
the Danes greatly, for they believed it to be enchanted—woven by the
three daughters of one father in a single afternoon—and they had a
story among themselves that when they were victorious in battle, the
Raven stretched his wings and seemed to fly; and that when they were
defeated, he would droop. He had good reason to droop, now, if he could
have done anything half so sensible; for, King Alfred joined the
Devonshire men; made a camp with them on a piece of firm ground in the
midst of a bog in Somersetshire; and prepared for a great attempt for
vengeance on the Danes, and the deliverance of his oppressed people.
But, first, as it was important to know how numerous those pestilent
Danes were, and how they were fortified, King Alfred, being a good
musician, disguised himself as a glee-man or minstrel, and went, with
his harp, to the Danish camp. He played and sang in the very tent of
Guthrum the Danish leader, and entertained the Danes as they caroused.
While he seemed to think of nothing but his music, he was watchful of
their tents, their arms, their discipline, everything that he desired
to know. And right soon did this great king entertain them to a
different tune; for, summoning all his true followers to meet him at an
appointed place, where they received him with joyful shouts and tears,
as the monarch whom many of them had given up for lost or dead, he put
himself at their head, marched on the Danish camp, defeated the Danes
with great slaughter, and besieged them for fourteen days to prevent
their escape. But, being as merciful as he was good and brave, he then,
instead of killing them, proposed peace: on condition that they should
altogether depart from that Western part of England, and settle in the
East; and that Guthrum should become a Christian, in remembrance of the
Divine religion which now taught his conqueror, the noble Alfred, to
forgive the enemy who had so often injured him. This, Guthrum did. At
his baptism, King Alfred was his godfather. And Guthrum was an
honourable chief who well deserved that clemency; for, ever afterwards
he was loyal and faithful to the king. The Danes under him were
faithful too. They plundered and burned no more, but worked like honest
men. They ploughed, and sowed, and reaped, and led good honest English
lives. And I hope the children of those Danes played, many a time, with
Saxon children in the sunny fields; and that Danish young men fell in
love with Saxon girls, and married them; and that English travellers,
benighted at the doors of Danish cottages, often went in for shelter
until morning; and that Danes and Saxons sat by the red fire, friends,
talking of King Alfred the Great.
All the Danes were not like these under Guthrum; for, after some years,
more of them came over, in the old plundering and burning way—among
them a fierce pirate of the name of Hastings, who had the boldness to
sail up the Thames to Gravesend, with eighty ships. For three years,
there was a war with these Danes; and there was a famine in the
country, too, and a plague, both upon human creatures and beasts. But
King Alfred, whose mighty heart never failed him, built large ships
nevertheless, with which to pursue the pirates on the sea; and he
encouraged his soldiers, by his brave example, to fight valiantly
against them on the shore. At last, he drove them all away; and then
there was repose in England.
As great and good in peace, as he was great and good in war, King
Alfred never rested from his labours to improve his people. He loved to
talk with clever men, and with travellers from foreign countries, and
to write down what they told him, for his people to read. He had
studied Latin after learning to read English, and now another of his
labours was, to translate Latin books into the English-Saxon tongue,
that his people might be interested, and improved by their contents. He
made just laws, that they might live more happily and freely; he turned
away all partial judges, that no wrong might be done them; he was so
careful of their property, and punished robbers so severely, that it
was a common thing to say that under the great King Alfred, garlands of
golden chains and jewels might have hung across the streets, and no man
would have touched one. He founded schools; he patiently heard causes
himself in his Court of Justice; the great desires of his heart were,
to do right to all his subjects, and to leave England better, wiser,
happier in all ways, than he found it. His industry in these efforts
was quite astonishing. Every day he divided into certain portions, and
in each portion devoted himself to a certain pursuit. That he might
divide his time exactly, he had wax torches or candles made, which were
all of the same size, were notched across at regular distances, and
were always kept burning. Thus, as the candles burnt down, he divided
the day into notches, almost as accurately as we now divide it into
hours upon the clock. But when the candles were first invented, it was
found that the wind and draughts of air, blowing into the palace
through the doors and windows, and through the chinks in the walls,
caused them to gutter and burn unequally. To prevent this, the King had
them put into cases formed of wood and white horn. And these were the
first lanthorns ever made in England.
All this time, he was afflicted with a terrible unknown disease, which
caused him violent and frequent pain that nothing could relieve. He
bore it, as he had borne all the troubles of his life, like a brave
good man, until he was fifty-three years old; and then, having reigned
thirty years, he died. He died in the year nine hundred and one; but,
long ago as that is, his fame, and the love and gratitude with which
his subjects regarded him, are freshly remembered to the present hour.
In the next reign, which was the reign of Edward, surnamed The Elder,
who was chosen in council to succeed, a nephew of King Alfred troubled
the country by trying to obtain the throne. The Danes in the East of
England took part with this usurper (perhaps because they had honoured
his uncle so much, and honoured him for his uncle’s sake), and there
was hard fighting; but, the King, with the assistance of his sister,
gained the day, and reigned in peace for four and twenty years. He
gradually extended his power over the whole of England, and so the
Seven Kingdoms were united into one.
When England thus became one kingdom, ruled over by one Saxon king, the
Saxons had been settled in the country more than four hundred and fifty
years. Great changes had taken place in its customs during that time.
The Saxons were still greedy eaters and great drinkers, and their
feasts were often of a noisy and drunken kind; but many new comforts
and even elegances had become known, and were fast increasing. Hangings
for the walls of rooms, where, in these modern days, we paste up paper,
are known to have been sometimes made of silk, ornamented with birds
and flowers in needlework. Tables and chairs were curiously carved in
different woods; were sometimes decorated with gold or silver;
sometimes even made of those precious metals. Knives and spoons were
used at table; golden ornaments were worn—with silk and cloth, and
golden tissues and embroideries; dishes were made of gold and silver,
brass and bone. There were varieties of drinking-horns, bedsteads,
musical instruments. A harp was passed round, at a feast, like the
drinking-bowl, from guest to guest; and each one usually sang or played
when his turn came. The weapons of the Saxons were stoutly made, and
among them was a terrible iron hammer that gave deadly blows, and was
long remembered. The Saxons themselves were a handsome people. The men
were proud of their long fair hair, parted on the forehead; their ample
beards, their fresh complexions, and clear eyes. The beauty of the
Saxon women filled all England with a new delight and grace.
I have more to tell of the Saxons yet, but I stop to say this now,
because under the Great Alfred, all the best points of the
English-Saxon character were first encouraged, and in him first shown.
It has been the greatest character among the nations of the earth.
Wherever the descendants of the Saxon race have gone, have sailed, or
otherwise made their way, even to the remotest regions of the world,
they have been patient, persevering, never to be broken in spirit,
never to be turned aside from enterprises on which they have resolved.
In Europe, Asia, Africa, America, the whole world over; in the desert,
in the forest, on the sea; scorched by a burning sun, or frozen by ice
that never melts; the Saxon blood remains unchanged. Wheresoever that
race goes, there, law, and industry, and safety for life and property,
and all the great results of steady perseverance, are certain to arise.
I pause to think with admiration, of the noble king who, in his single
person, possessed all the Saxon virtues. Whom misfortune could not
subdue, whom prosperity could not spoil, whose perseverance nothing
could shake. Who was hopeful in defeat, and generous in success. Who
loved justice, freedom, truth, and knowledge. Who, in his care to
instruct his people, probably did more to preserve the beautiful old
Saxon language, than I can imagine. Without whom, the English tongue in
which I tell this story might have wanted half its meaning. As it is
said that his spirit still inspires some of our best English laws, so,
let you and I pray that it may animate our English hearts, at least to
this—to resolve, when we see any of our fellow-creatures left in
ignorance, that we will do our best, while life is in us, to have them
taught; and to tell those rulers whose duty it is to teach them, and
who neglect their duty, that they have profited very little by all the
years that have rolled away since the year nine hundred and one, and
that they are far behind the bright example of King Alfred the Great.
CHAPTER IV
ENGLAND UNDER ATHELSTAN AND THE SIX BOY-KINGS
Athelstan, the son of Edward the Elder, succeeded that king. He reigned
only fifteen years; but he remembered the glory of his grandfather, the
great Alfred, and governed England well. He reduced the turbulent
people of Wales, and obliged them to pay him a tribute in money, and in
cattle, and to send him their best hawks and hounds. He was victorious
over the Cornish men, who were not yet quite under the Saxon
government. He restored such of the old laws as were good, and had
fallen into disuse; made some wise new laws, and took care of the poor
and weak. A strong alliance, made against him by Anlaf a Danish prince,
Constantine King of the Scots, and the people of North Wales, he broke
and defeated in one great battle, long famous for the vast numbers
slain in it. After that, he had a quiet reign; the lords and ladies
about him had leisure to become polite and agreeable; and foreign
princes were glad (as they have sometimes been since) to come to
England on visits to the English court.
When Athelstan died, at forty-seven years old, his brother Edmund, who
was only eighteen, became king. He was the first of six boy-kings, as
you will presently know.
They called him the Magnificent, because he showed a taste for
improvement and refinement. But he was beset by the Danes, and had a
short and troubled reign, which came to a troubled end. One night, when
he was feasting in his hall, and had eaten much and drunk deep, he saw,
among the company, a noted robber named Leof, who had been banished
from England. Made very angry by the boldness of this man, the King
turned to his cup-bearer, and said, ‘There is a robber sitting at the
table yonder, who, for his crimes, is an outlaw in the land—a hunted
wolf, whose life any man may take, at any time. Command that robber to
depart!’ ‘I will not depart!’ said Leof. ‘No?’ cried the King. ‘No, by
the Lord!’ said Leof. Upon that the King rose from his seat, and,
making passionately at the robber, and seizing him by his long hair,
tried to throw him down. But the robber had a dagger underneath his
cloak, and, in the scuffle, stabbed the King to death. That done, he
set his back against the wall, and fought so desperately, that although
he was soon cut to pieces by the King’s armed men, and the wall and
pavement were splashed with his blood, yet it was not before he had
killed and wounded many of them. You may imagine what rough lives the
kings of those times led, when one of them could struggle, half drunk,
with a public robber in his own dining-hall, and be stabbed in presence
of the company who ate and drank with him.
Then succeeded the boy-king Edred, who was weak and sickly in body, but
of a strong mind. And his armies fought the Northmen, the Danes, and
Norwegians, or the Sea-Kings, as they were called, and beat them for
the time. And, in nine years, Edred died, and passed away.
Then came the boy-king Edwy, fifteen years of age; but the real king,
who had the real power, was a monk named Dunstan—a clever priest, a
little mad, and not a little proud and cruel.
Dunstan was then Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, whither the body of King
Edmund the Magnificent was carried, to be buried. While yet a boy, he
had got out of his bed one night (being then in a fever), and walked
about Glastonbury Church when it was under repair; and, because he did
not tumble off some scaffolds that were there, and break his neck, it
was reported that he had been shown over the building by an angel. He
had also made a harp that was said to play of itself—which it very
likely did, as Æolian Harps, which are played by the wind, and are
understood now, always do. For these wonders he had been once denounced
by his enemies, who were jealous of his favour with the late King
Athelstan, as a magician; and he had been waylaid, bound hand and foot,
and thrown into a marsh. But he got out again, somehow, to cause a
great deal of trouble yet.
The priests of those days were, generally, the only scholars. They were
learned in many things. Having to make their own convents and
monasteries on uncultivated grounds that were granted to them by the
Crown, it was necessary that they should be good farmers and good
gardeners, or their lands would have been too poor to support them. For
the decoration of the chapels where they prayed, and for the comfort of
the refectories where they ate and drank, it was necessary that there
should be good carpenters, good smiths, good painters, among them. For
their greater safety in sickness and accident, living alone by
themselves in solitary places, it was necessary that they should study
the virtues of plants and herbs, and should know how to dress cuts,
burns, scalds, and bruises, and how to set broken limbs. Accordingly,
they taught themselves, and one another, a great variety of useful
arts; and became skilful in agriculture, medicine, surgery, and
handicraft. And when they wanted the aid of any little piece of
machinery, which would be simple enough now, but was marvellous then,
to impose a trick upon the poor peasants, they knew very well how to
make it; and _did_ make it many a time and often, I have no doubt.
Dunstan, Abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, was one of the most sagacious of
these monks. He was an ingenious smith, and worked at a forge in a
little cell. This cell was made too short to admit of his lying at full
length when he went to sleep—as if _that_ did any good to anybody!—and
he used to tell the most extraordinary lies about demons and spirits,
who, he said, came there to persecute him. For instance, he related
that one day when he was at work, the devil looked in at the little
window, and tried to tempt him to lead a life of idle pleasure;
whereupon, having his pincers in the fire, red hot, he seized the devil
by the nose, and put him to such pain, that his bellowings were heard
for miles and miles. Some people are inclined to think this nonsense a
part of Dunstan’s madness (for his head never quite recovered the
fever), but I think not. I observe that it induced the ignorant people
to consider him a holy man, and that it made him very powerful. Which
was exactly what he always wanted.
On the day of the coronation of the handsome boy-king Edwy, it was
remarked by Odo, Archbishop of Canterbury (who was a Dane by birth),
that the King quietly left the coronation feast, while all the company
were there. Odo, much displeased, sent his friend Dunstan to seek him.
Dunstan finding him in the company of his beautiful young wife Elgiva,
and her mother Ethelgiva, a good and virtuous lady, not only grossly
abused them, but dragged the young King back into the feasting-hall by
force. Some, again, think Dunstan did this because the young King’s
fair wife was his own cousin, and the monks objected to people marrying
their own cousins; but I believe he did it, because he was an
imperious, audacious, ill-conditioned priest, who, having loved a young
lady himself before he became a sour monk, hated all love now, and
everything belonging to it.
The young King was quite old enough to feel this insult. Dunstan had
been Treasurer in the last reign, and he soon charged Dunstan with
having taken some of the last king’s money. The Glastonbury Abbot fled
to Belgium (very narrowly escaping some pursuers who were sent to put
out his eyes, as you will wish they had, when you read what follows),
and his abbey was given to priests who were married; whom he always,
both before and afterwards, opposed. But he quickly conspired with his
friend, Odo the Dane, to set up the King’s young brother, Edgar, as his
rival for the throne; and, not content with this revenge, he caused the
beautiful queen Elgiva, though a lovely girl of only seventeen or
eighteen, to be stolen from one of the Royal Palaces, branded in the
cheek with a red-hot iron, and sold into slavery in Ireland. But the
Irish people pitied and befriended her; and they said, ‘Let us restore
the girl-queen to the boy-king, and make the young lovers happy!’ and
they cured her of her cruel wound, and sent her home as beautiful as
before. But the villain Dunstan, and that other villain, Odo, caused
her to be waylaid at Gloucester as she was joyfully hurrying to join
her husband, and to be hacked and hewn with swords, and to be
barbarously maimed and lamed, and left to die. When Edwy the Fair (his
people called him so, because he was so young and handsome) heard of
her dreadful fate, he died of a broken heart; and so the pitiful story
of the poor young wife and husband ends! Ah! Better to be two cottagers
in these better times, than king and queen of England in those bad
days, though never so fair!
Then came the boy-king, Edgar, called the Peaceful, fifteen years old.
Dunstan, being still the real king, drove all married priests out of
the monasteries and abbeys, and replaced them by solitary monks like
himself, of the rigid order called the Benedictines. He made himself
Archbishop of Canterbury, for his greater glory; and exercised such
power over the neighbouring British princes, and so collected them
about the King, that once, when the King held his court at Chester, and
went on the river Dee to visit the monastery of St. John, the eight
oars of his boat were pulled (as the people used to delight in relating
in stories and songs) by eight crowned kings, and steered by the King
of England. As Edgar was very obedient to Dunstan and the monks, they
took great pains to represent him as the best of kings. But he was
really profligate, debauched, and vicious. He once forcibly carried off
a young lady from the convent at Wilton; and Dunstan, pretending to be
very much shocked, condemned him not to wear his crown upon his head
for seven years—no great punishment, I dare say, as it can hardly have
been a more comfortable ornament to wear, than a stewpan without a
handle. His marriage with his second wife, Elfrida, is one of the worst
events of his reign. Hearing of the beauty of this lady, he despatched
his favourite courtier, Athelwold, to her father’s castle in
Devonshire, to see if she were really as charming as fame reported.
Now, she was so exceedingly beautiful that Athelwold fell in love with
her himself, and married her; but he told the King that she was only
rich—not handsome. The King, suspecting the truth when they came home,
resolved to pay the newly-married couple a visit; and, suddenly, told
Athelwold to prepare for his immediate coming. Athelwold, terrified,
confessed to his young wife what he had said and done, and implored her
to disguise her beauty by some ugly dress or silly manner, that he
might be safe from the King’s anger. She promised that she would; but
she was a proud woman, who would far rather have been a queen than the
wife of a courtier. She dressed herself in her best dress, and adorned
herself with her richest jewels; and when the King came, presently, he
discovered the cheat. So, he caused his false friend, Athelwold, to be
murdered in a wood, and married his widow, this bad Elfrida. Six or
seven years afterwards, he died; and was buried, as if he had been all
that the monks said he was, in the abbey of Glastonbury, which he—or
Dunstan for him—had much enriched.
England, in one part of this reign, was so troubled by wolves, which,
driven out of the open country, hid themselves in the mountains of
Wales when they were not attacking travellers and animals, that the
tribute payable by the Welsh people was forgiven them, on condition of
their producing, every year, three hundred wolves’ heads. And the
Welshmen were so sharp upon the wolves, to save their money, that in
four years there was not a wolf left.
Then came the boy-king, Edward, called the Martyr, from the manner of
his death. Elfrida had a son, named Ethelred, for whom she claimed the