Historical Tales, Vol. 4 (of 15)
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Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
By
CHARLES MORRIS
_Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales from the
Dramatists," etc._
IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
Volume IV
English
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1893, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
[Illustration: WARWICK CASTLE.]
_CONTENTS_
PAGE
HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN 9
KING ALFRED AND THE DANES 19
THE WOOING OF ELFRIDA 35
THE END OF SAXON ENGLAND 49
HEREWARD THE WAKE 62
THE DEATH OF THE RED KING 77
HOW THE WHITE SHIP SAILED 86
A CONTEST FOR A CROWN 93
THE CAPTIVITY OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION 107
ROBIN HOOD AND THE KNIGHT OF THE RUEFUL COUNTENANCE 121
WALLACE, THE HERO OF SCOTLAND 136
BRUCE AT BANNOCKBURN 149
THE SIEGE OF CALAIS 162
THE BLACK PRINCE AT POITIERS 174
WAT TYLER AND THE MEN OF KENT 185
THE WHITE ROSE OF ENGLAND 196
THE FIELD OF THE CLOTH OF GOLD 213
THE STORY OF ARABELLA STUART 228
LOVE'S KNIGHT-ERRANT 241
THE TAKING OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE 262
THE ADVENTURES OF A ROYAL FUGITIVE 276
CROMWELL AND THE PARLIAMENT 297
THE RELIEF OF LONDONDERRY 305
THE HUNTING OF BRAEMAR 315
THE FLIGHT OF PRINCE CHARLES 324
TRAFALGAR AND THE DEATH OF NELSON 339
THE MASSACRE OF AN ARMY 349
THE JUBILEES OF QUEEN VICTORIA 358
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
ENGLISH.
PAGE
WARWICK CASTLE _Frontispiece_.
CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL 12
AN ANGLO-SAXON KING 19
ELY CATHEDRAL 66
STATUE OF RICHARD COEUR DE LION 116
ROBIN HOOD'S WOODS 123
THE WALLACE MONUMENT, STIRLING 141
STIRLING CASTLE 153
THE PORT OF CALAIS 162
CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME, POITIERS 177
WAT TYLER'S COTTAGE 188
BATTLE IN THE WAR OF THE ROSES 196
HENRY THE EIGHTH 218
ROTTEN ROW, LONDON 235
THE ROYAL PALACE, MADRID 251
SCENE ON THE RIVER AVON 286
OLIVER CROMWELL 298
EDINBURGH CASTLE 319
THE OLD TEMERAIRE 340
NORTH FRONT OF WINDSOR CASTLE 362
_HOW ENGLAND BECAME CHRISTIAN._
One day, in the far-off sixth century, a youthful deacon of the Roman
Church walked into the slave-market of Rome, situated at one extremity
of the ancient Forum. Gregory, his name; his origin from an ancient
noble family, whose genealogy could be traced back to the days of the
early Caesars. A youth was this of imperial powers of mind, one who, had
he lived when Rome was mistress of the physical world, might have become
emperor; but who, living when Rome had risen to lordship over the
spiritual world, became pope,--the famous Gregory the Great.
In the Forum the young deacon saw that which touched his sympathetic
soul. Here cattle were being sold; there, men. His eyes were specially
attracted by a group of youthful slaves, of aspect such as he had never
seen before. They were bright of complexion, their hair long and golden,
their expression of touching innocence. Their fair faces were strangely
unlike the embrowned complexions to which he had been accustomed, and he
stood looking at them in admiration, while the slave-dealers extolled
their beauty of face and figure.
"From what country do these young men come?" asked Gregory.
"They are English, Angles," answered the dealers.
"Not Angles, but angels," said the deacon, with a feeling of poetic
sentiment, "for they have angel-like faces. From what country come
they?" he repeated.
"They come from Deira," said the merchants.
"_De ira_" he rejoined, fervently; "ay, plucked from God's ire and
called to Christ's mercy. And what is the name of their king?"
"Ella," was the answer.
"Alleluia shall be sung there!" cried the enthusiastic young monk, his
imagination touched by the significance of these answers. He passed on,
musing on the incident which had deeply stirred his sympathies, and
considering how the light of Christianity could be shed upon the pagan
lands whence these fair strangers came.
It was a striking picture which surrounded that slave-market. From where
the young deacon stood could be seen the capitol of ancient Rome and the
grand proportions of its mighty Coliseum; not far away the temple of
Jupiter Stator displayed its magnificent columns, and other stately
edifices of the imperial city came within the circle of vision. Rome had
ceased to be the mistress of the world, but it was not yet in ruins, and
many of its noble edifices still stood almost in perfection. But
paganism had vanished. The cross of Christ was the dominant symbol. The
march of the warriors of the legions was replaced by long processions
of cowled and solemn monks. The temporal imperialism of Rome had
ceased, the spiritual had begun; instead of armies to bring the world
under the dominion of the sword, that ancient city now sent out its
legions of priests to bring it under the dominion of the cross.
Gregory resolved to be one of the latter. A fair new field for
missionary labor lay in that distant island, peopled by pagans whose
aspect promised to make them noble subjects of Christ's kingdom upon
earth. The enthusiastic youth left Rome to seek Saxon England, moved
thereto not by desire of earthly glory, but of heavenly reward. But this
was not to be. His friends deemed that he was going to death, and begged
the pope to order his return. Gregory was brought back and England
remained pagan.
Years went by. The humble deacon rose to be bishop of Rome and head of
the Christian world. Gregory the Great, men named him, though he styled
himself "Servant of the servants of God," and lived in like humility and
simplicity of style as when he was a poor monk.
The time at length came to which Gregory had looked forward. Ethelbert,
king of Kentish England, married Bertha, daughter of the French king
Charibert, a fervent Christian woman. A few priests came with her to
England, and the king gave them a ruined Christian edifice, the Church
of St. Martin, outside the walls of Canterbury, for their worship. But
it was overshadowed by a pagan temple, and the worship of Odin and Thor
still dominated Saxon England.
Gregory took quick advantage of this opportunity. The fair faces of the
English slaves still appealed to his pitying soul, and he now sent
Augustine, prior of St. Andrew's at Rome, with a band of forty monks as
missionaries to England. It was the year of our Lord 597. The
missionaries landed at the very spot where Hengist the Saxon conqueror
had landed more than a century before. The one had brought the sword to
England, the others brought the cross. King Ethelbert knew of their
coming and had agreed to receive them; but, by the advice of his
priests, who feared conjuration and spells of magic, he gave them
audience in the open air, where such spells have less power. The place
was on the chalk-down above Minster, whence, miles away across the
intervening marshes, one may to-day behold the distant tower of
Canterbury cathedral.
The scene, as pictured to us in the chronicles of the monks, was a
picturesque and inspiring one. The hill selected for the meeting
overlooked the ocean. King Ethelbert, with Queen Bertha by his side,
awaited in state his visitors. Around were grouped the warriors of Kent
and the priests of Odin. Silence reigned, and in the distance the monks
could be seen advancing in solemn procession, singing as they came. He
who came first bore a large silver crucifix. Another carried a banner
with the painted image of Christ. The deep and solemn music, the
venerable and peaceful aspect of the strangers, the solemnity of the
occasion, touched the heart of Ethelbert, already favorably inclined, as
we may believe, to the faith of his loved wife.
Augustine had brought interpreters from Gaul. By their aid he conveyed
to the king the message he had been sent to bring. Ethelbert listened in
silence, the queen in rapt attention, the warriors and priests doubtless
with varied sentiments. The appeal of Augustine at an end, Ethelbert
spoke.
"Your words are fair," he said, "but they are new, and of doubtful
meaning. For myself, I propose to worship still the gods of my fathers.
But you bring peace and good words; you are welcome to my kingdom; while
you stay here you shall have shelter and protection."
His land was a land of plenty, he told them; food, drink, and lodging
should be theirs, and none should do them wrong; England should be their
home while they chose to stay.
With these words the audience ended. Augustine and his monks fell again
into procession, and, with singing of psalms and display of holy
emblems, moved solemnly towards the city of Canterbury, where Bertha's
church awaited them. As they entered the city they sang:
"Turn from this city, O Lord, thine anger and wrath, and turn it from
Thy holy house, for we have sinned." Then Gregory's joyful cry of
"Alleluia! Alleluia!" burst from their devout lips, as they moved into
the first English church.
[Illustration: CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.]
The work of the "strangers from Rome" proceeded but slowly. Some
converts were made, but Ethelbert held aloof. Fortunately for Augustine,
he had an advocate in the palace, one with near and dear speech in the
king's ear. We cannot doubt that the gentle influence of Queen Bertha
was a leading power in Ethelbert's conversion. A year passed. At its end
the king gave way. On the day of Pentecost he was baptized. Christ had
succeeded Odin and Thor on the throne of the English heart, for the
story of the king's conversion carried his kingdom with it. The men of
Kent, hearing that their king had adopted the new faith, crowded the
banks of the Swale, eager for baptism. The under-kings of Essex and
East-Anglia became Christians. On the succeeding Christmas-day ten
thousand of the people followed the example of their king. The new faith
spread with wonderful rapidity throughout the kingdom of Kent.
When word of this great event reached Pope Gregory at Rome his heart was
filled with joy. He exultingly wrote to a friend that his missionaries
had spread the religion of Christ "in the most remote parts of the
world," and at once appointed Augustine archbishop of Canterbury and
primate of all England, that he might complete the work he had so
promisingly begun. Such is the story of the Christianizing of England as
told in the ancient chronicle of the venerable Bede, the earliest of
English writers.
As yet only Kent had been converted. North of it lay the kingdom of
Northumbria, still a pagan realm. The story of its conversion, as told
by Bede, is of no less interest than that just related. Edwin was its
king, a man of great ability for that early day. His prowess is shown in
a proverb: "A woman with her babe might walk scathless from sea to sea
in Edwin's day." The highways, long made dangerous by outlaw and
ruthless warrior, were now safe avenues of travel; the springs by the
road-side were marked by stakes, while brass cups beside them awaited
the traveller's hand. Edwin ruled over all northern England, as
Ethelbert did over the south. Edinburgh was within his dominions, and
from him it had its name,--Edwin's burgh, the city of Edwin.
Christianity came to this monarch's heart in some such manner as it had
reached that of Ethelbert, through the appealing influence of his wife.
A daughter of King Ethelbert had come to share his throne. She, like
Bertha her mother, was a Christian. With her came the monk Paulinus,
from the church at Canterbury. He was a man of striking aspect,--of tall
and stooping form, slender, aquiline nose, and thin, worn face, round
which fell long black hair. The ardent missionary, aided doubtless by
the secret appeals of the queen, soon produced an influence upon the
intelligent mind of Edwin. The monarch called a council of his wise men,
to talk with them about the new doctrine which had been taught in his
realm. Of what passed at that council we have but one short speech, but
it is one that illuminates it as no other words could have done, a
lesson in prose which is full of the finest spirit of poetry, perhaps
the most picturesque image of human life that has ever been put into
words.
"So seems to me the life of man, O king," said an aged noble, "as a
sparrow's flight through the hall when you are sitting at meat in
winter-tide, with the warm fire lighted on the hearth, while outside all
is storm of rain and snow. The sparrow flies in at one door, and tarries
for a moment in the light and heat of the fire within, and then, flying
forth from the other, vanishes into the wintry darkness whence it came.
So the life of man tarries for a moment in our sight; but of what went
before it, or what is to follow it, we know nothing. If this new
teaching tells us something more certain of these things, let us follow
it."
Such an appeal could not but have a powerful effect upon his hearers.
Those were days when men were more easily moved by sentiment than by
argument. Edwin and his councillors heard with favoring ears. Not last
among them was Coifi, chief priest of the idol-worship, whose ardent
soul was stirred by the words of the old thane.
"None of your people, King Edwin, have worshipped the gods more busily
than I," he said, "yet there are many who have been more favored and are
more fortunate. Were these gods good for anything they would help their
worshippers."
Grasping his spear, the irate priest leaped on his horse, and riding at
full speed towards the temple sacred to the heathen gods, he hurled the
warlike weapon furiously into its precincts.
The lookers-on, nobles and commons alike, beheld his act with awe, in
doubt if the deities of their old worship would not avenge with death
this insult to their fane. Yet all remained silent; no thunders rent the
skies; the desecrating priest sat his horse unharmed. When, then, he
bade them follow him to the neighboring stream, to be baptized in its
waters into the new faith, an eager multitude crowded upon his steps.
The spot where Edwin and his followers were baptized is thus described
by Camden, in his "Description of Great Britain," etc.: "In the Roman
times, not far from its bank upon the little river Foulness (where
Wighton, a small town, but well-stocked with husbandmen, now stands),
there seems to have formerly stood Delgovitia; as it is probable both
from the likeness and the signification of the name. For the British
word _Delgwe_ (or rather _Ddelw_) signifies the statues or images of the
heathen gods; and in a little village not far off there stood an
idol-temple, which was in very great honor in the Saxon times, and, from
the heathen gods in it, was then called Godmundingham, and now, in the
same sense, Godmanham." It was into this temple that Coifi flung his
desecrating spear, and in this stream that Edwin the king received
Christian baptism.
But Christianity did not win England without a struggle. After the
death of Ethelbert and Edwin, paganism revived and fought hard for the
mastery. The Roman monks lost their energy, and were confined to the
vicinity of Canterbury. Conversion came again, but from the west instead
of the east, from Ireland instead of Rome.
Christianity had been received with enthusiasm in Erin's isle. Less than
half a century after the death of St. Patrick, the first missionary,
flourishing Christian schools existed at Darrow and Armagh, letters and
the arts were cultivated, and missionaries were leaving the shores of
Ireland to carry the faith elsewhere. From the famous monastery which
they founded at Iona, on the west coast of Scotland, came the new
impulse which gave Christianity its fixed footing in England, and
finally drove paganism from Britain's shores. Oswald, of Northumbria,
became the bulwark of the new faith; Penda, of Mercia, the sword of
heathendom; and a long struggle for religion and dominion ensued between
these warlike chiefs. Oswald was slain in battle; Penda led his
conquering host far into the Christian realm; but a new king, Oswi by
name, overthrew Penda and his army in a great defeat, and the worship of
the older gods in England was at an end. But a half-century of struggle
and bloodshed passed before the victory of Christ over Odin was fully
won.
_KING ALFRED AND THE DANES._
In his royal villa at Chippenham, on the left bank of the gently-flowing
Avon, sat King Alfred, buried in his books. It was the evening of the
6th of January, in the year 878, a thousand years and more backward in
time. The first of English kings to whom a book had a meaning,--and the
last for centuries afterwards,--Alfred, the young monarch, had an
insatiable thirst for knowledge, a thirst then difficult to quell, for
books were almost as rare as gold-mines in that day. When a mere child,
his mother had brought to him and his brothers a handsomely illuminated
book, saying,--
"I will give this to that one of you four princes who first learns to
read."
Alfred won the book; so far as we know, he alone sought to win it, for
the art of reading in those early times was confined to monks, and
disdained by princes. Ignorance lay like a dismal cloud over England,
ignorance as dense as the heart of the Dark Ages knew. In the whole land
the young prince was almost alone in his thirst for knowledge; and when
he made an effort to study Latin, in which language all worthy
literature was then written, we are told that there could not be found
throughout the length and breadth of the land a man competent to teach
him that sealed tongue. This, however, loses probability in view of the
fact that the monks were familiar with Latin and that Alfred succeeded
in acquiring a knowledge of that language.
When little more than a boy Alfred became king. There was left him then
little time for study, for the Danes, whose ships had long been
descending in annual raids on England's shores, gave the youthful
monarch an abundance of more active service. For years he fought them,
yet in his despite Guthrum, one of their ablest chiefs, sailed up the
Severn, seized upon a wide region of the realm of Wessex, made
Gloucester his capital, and defied the feebly-supported English king.
It was midwinter now, a season which the Danes usually spent in rest and
revelry, and in which England gained some relief from their devastating
raids. Alfred, dreaming of aught but war, was at home with his slender
store of much-beloved books in his villa at Chippenham. With him were a
few of his thanes and a small body of armed attendants, their enjoyment
the pleasures of the chase and the rude sports of that early period.
Doubtless, what they deemed the womanish or monkish tastes of their
young monarch were objects of scorn and ridicule to those hardy thanes,
upon whom ignorance lay like a thick garment. Yet Alfred could fight as
well as read. They might disdain his pursuits; they must respect his
prowess.
While the king lay thus in ease at Chippenham, his enemies at
Gloucester seemed lost in enjoyment of their spoils. Guthrum had divided
the surrounding lands among his victorious followers, the Saxons had
been driven out, slain, or enslaved, and the brutal and barbarous
victors dwelt in peace and revelry on their new lands, spending the
winter in riot and wassail, and waiting for the spring-time budding of
the trees to renew the war with their Saxon foes.
[Illustration: AN ANGLO-SAXON KING.]
Not so with Guthrum. He had sworn revenge on the Saxons. Years before,
his father, a mighty chieftain, Ragnar by name, had fallen in a raid on
England. His sons had vowed to Odin to wash out the memory of his death
in English blood, and Guthrum now determined to take advantage of the
midwinter season for a sudden and victorious march upon his unsuspecting
enemy. If he could seize Alfred in his palace, the war might be brought
to an end, and England won, at a single blow.
If we can take ourselves back in fancy to New-Year's day of 878, and to
an open plain in the vicinity of Gloucester, we shall see there the
planted standard of Guthrum floating in the wind, while from every side
armed horsemen are riding into the surrounding space. They know not why
they come. A hasty summons has been sent them to meet their chieftain
here on this day, armed and mounted, and, loyal to their leader, and
ever ready for war, they ride hastily in, until the Danish champion
finds himself surrounded by a strong force of hardy warriors, eager to
learn the cause of this midwinter summons.
"It is war," said Guthrum to his chiefs. "I have sworn to have England,
and England shall be mine. The Saxons are scattered and at rest, not
dreaming of battle and blood. Now is our time. A hard and sudden blow
will end the war, and the fair isle of England will be the Raven's
spoil."
We may still hear in fancy the wild shouts of approval with which this
stirring declaration was heard. Visions of slaughter, plunder, and rich
domains filled the souls of chiefs and men alike, and their eagerness to
take to the field was such that they could barely wait to hear their
leader's plans.
"Alfred, the Saxon king, must be ours," said Guthrum. "He is the one man
I dread in all the Saxon hosts. They have many hands, but only one head.
Let us seize the head, and the hands are useless. Alfred is at
Chippenham. Thither let us ride at speed."
Their bands were mustered, their arms examined, and food for the
expedition prepared, and then to horse and away! Headlong over the
narrow and forest-bordered roads of that day rode the host of Danes, in
triumphant expectation of victory and spoil.
In his study sat Alfred, on the night of January 6, poring over an
illuminated page; or mayhap he was deep in learned consultation with
some monkish scholar, mayhap presiding at a feast of his thanes: we may
fancy what we will, for history or legend fails to tell us how he was
engaged on that critical evening of his life.
But we may imagine a wide-eyed Saxon sentinel, seared and hasty,
breaking upon the monarch's leisure with the wild alarm-cry,--
"Up and away, my king! The Danes are coming! hosts of them, armed and
horsed! Up and away!"
Hardly had he spoken before the hoof-beats of the advancing foe were
heard. On they came, extending their lines as they rode at headlong
speed, hoping to surround the villa and seize the king before the alarm
could be given.
They were too late. Alfred was quick to hear, to heed, and to act.
Forest bordered the villa; into the forest he dashed, his followers
following in tumultuous haste. The Danes made what haste the
obstructions in their way permitted. In a few minutes they had swept
round the villa, with ringing shouts of triumph. In a few minutes more
they were treading its deserted halls, Guthrum at their head, furious to
find that his hoped-for prey had vanished and left him but the empty
shell of his late home.
"After him!" cried the furious Dane. "He cannot be far. This place is
full of signs of life. He has fled into the forest. After him! A king's
prize for the man who seizes him."