EDWIN, KING OF THE DEIRI AND BERNICIA.
"How oft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succour us that succour want;
How oft do they with golden pinions cleave
The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant,
Against foul fiends to aid us militant;
They for us fight, they watch, and duly ward,
And their bright squadrons round about us plant,
And all for love, and nothing for reward;
Oh! Why should heavenly God to men have such regard."
SPENSER'S FAERY QUEEN.
Bernicia and the Deiri formed, at this period, two Saxon kingdoms,
which lay bordering on each other. Ethelfrith governed the portion
that stretched from Northumberland to between the Tweed and the Frith
of Forth; and Ella, dying, left his son Edwin, then an infant, to
succeed him as king of the Deiri--a part of England now divided into
the counties of Lancaster, York, Westmoreland, Cumberland, and Durham.
The Northumbrian king, Ethelfrith, appears at this time to have been
the most powerful of all the Saxon monarchs; and no sooner was Ella
dead, than he took possession of the Deiri; nor was a sovereign to be
found throughout the whole of the Saxon kingdoms bold enough to draw
his sword in the defence of Edwin. The child was, however, carried into
Wales, and entrusted to the care of Cadvan, who was himself a British
king, though now driven into the very corner of those territories over
which his forefathers had for ages reigned. There is something romantic
in this incident of the child of a Saxon king having to fly to his
father's enemies for shelter, and in being indebted to those whom his
own countrymen had rendered all but homeless, for his life. Ethelfrith,
however, had at one period desolated more British districts than any
of his predecessors, and in proportion as he was hated by the Cymry,
so would they endeavour to cherish an object armed with such claims as
Edwin's, in the hope of one day seeing him a leader, and at their head,
when again they measured swords with their old enemies. But this they
were not destined to witness, nor were they able to protect the young
king when he grew up, for Ethelfrith was ever in pursuit of him--the
figure of the stripling Edwin seemed to stand up between him and the
kingdom of Deiri, as if he felt that, whilst the son of Ella was alive,
he but sat insecurely in the midst of his new territory. For several
years Edwin was compelled to wander about from province to province,
keeping both his name and rank a secret, and trusting to strangers
to protect him, as if he feared that the emissaries of Ethelfrith
were ever at his heels--until even his existence seems to have been a
burthen to him, and he doubtless many a time cursed the hour that ever
he was born the son of a king. From infancy had his life been sought,
by one who ought to have defended him when he was left a helpless
child, and heir to the possessions his father had won by conquest--by
murder; for sorry we are, as true historians, to state, that not a
Saxon king throughout the whole British dominions could trace his
origin to any other source: nor had William the Norman, on a later day,
any better claim to the British crown. The title of royalty was ever in
ancient times written with a red hand. Thank Heaven! it is no longer
so, nor has the brow which a golden crown encircles, any need now to be
first bathed in human blood.
Edwin is somehow endeared to us, through having descended from that
king whose name attracted the attention of monk Gregory in the
slave-market of Rome, when he was first struck by the beauty of those
British children; for they came from the Deiri, the kingdom which he
governed, whose name called forth the Allelujah to which the good
monk, in the joyousness of his heart, as he saw the figure of Hope
glimmering brightly in the far distance, gave utterance. From very
childhood Edwin's life was a romance, and many a painful feeling must
he have endured whilst sheltering amongst the Britons in Wales, who
were then writhing beneath the oppression of their Saxon conquerors:
allusions to his own father, or his kindred, or curses heaped upon his
countrymen, must ever have been issuing from the lips of the humbled
Cymry; and who can tell but that to avoid these painful feelings, he
set out alone--a stranger amid strangers. Weary of this wandering
life, he at last threw himself upon the generosity of Redwald, king of
East Anglia, and who was at that time honoured with the proud title of
the Bretwalda of Britain, as Ethelbert of Kent had been before. Edwin
acquainted him with his secret, and Redwald promised to protect him.
But his hiding-place was soon known to Ethelfrith, who lost no time in
sending messengers to Redwald, first with the offer of rich presents,
then with threats: and when he found that neither persuasion nor
bribes were effective, he determined to wage war against the king of
East Anglia, unless he at once gave up Edwin. Redwald at last wavered,
for in almost every battle the Northumbrian king had been victorious;
nor would he probably have seized upon the Deiri, in the face of six
powerful Saxon sovereigns, but for the consciousness of the strength
he possessed, and the terror attached to his name. The East Anglian
king at last reluctantly promised to surrender his guest. Edwin had a
friend in Redwald's court who made him acquainted with the danger that
awaited him, and urged him at once to escape. But the poor exile, weary
of the miserable existence he had so long led, and the many privations
he had endured, refused to fly for his life. "If I am to perish,"
said the young king, "he that destroys me will be disgraced, and not
myself. I have made a compact with Redwald that I will not break. And
whither should I fly, after having wandered through so many provinces
in Britain without finding a shelter? How can I escape my persecutor?"
His friend was silent, and left Edwin to sit alone and brood over his
own thoughts. Night came and found the sorrowful king still sitting
upon the same cold stone beside the palace, where he appears to have
fallen asleep, and to have dreamt that a strange figure approached him,
placed his hand upon his head, and bade him to remember that sign;
after having caused him to make several promises as to what he would do
in future, if restored to his kingdom, the stranger seemed to depart,
having first held out hopes that he should conquer his enemies, and
recover the territory of Deiri. There was nothing very wonderful in
such a dream, beyond the fact that it should afterwards become true;
and, although we cannot go so far as the venerable chronicler Bede,
in the belief that some spirit had appeared to the young king--still
dreams and visions are so interwoven with the sleep that resembles
death, and seem, somehow, more allied with the shadows which we believe
to people another state of existence, that we can easily imagine,
at that dark period, how firm must have been the reliance of our
forefathers upon the phantoms which were thus conjured up, by the
continuation of such a train of waking thoughts.
Such miracles as the early monkish historians devoutly believed in, the
boldest writer would scarcely venture to work out in a book professedly
treating of only the wildest subjects of fiction. Yet there are amongst
the writers of history those, who think it an act of dishonesty to pass
over the dreams, visions, and miracles of the early ages, and a want
of faith not to believe in them now, as our forefathers did in the
olden time. They might as well insist upon our copying out the recipes
from such old works as were to be found in the closets of our grave
grandmothers many generations ago; and adopting all the spells and
charms therein recorded, as invaluable cures for almost every disease
under the sun. What we look upon as firm faith in one age, and believe
to be such, we treat as the weakest folly in another, without in either
case outraging reason, or bringing to the investigation an uncharitable
spirit. For past credulity, a sigh or a smile are enough to mark our
pity or censure, but to be partakers of the same belief are thoughts
against which the common understanding rebels, even much as we may love
the marvellous. A dream is not a miracle, nor the fulfilment of it a
proof of the interference of the Almighty.
The young king had found favour in the eyes of the queen of East
Anglia, and she reasoned with Redwald, and boldly showed him how base
an act it would be, to give up their guest to the man who, having
robbed him of his kingdom, now sought to take away his life. "A king
should not violate his faith," said she, "for gold, for good faith
is his noblest ornament." Redwald's heart seems ever to have guided
him aright when he admitted not fear into the counsel, so he nobly
resolved, instead of giving up his guest, to fight for him, and in
place of basely selling his life, to win him back the province he had
been driven from. And, after such a resolve, he doubtless felt himself
more worthy of the title of the Bretwalda of Britain. We regret that
Time has not even spared us the name of this noble Saxon queen, that we
might add one more woman to the list of these angelic immortalities,
who stand like stars upon the brow of the deep midnight, that then
hung so darkly above the clouded cliffs of Albion. When Redwald had
once decided, he began to act; he waited not to be attacked, but, with
such forces as he could muster, rushed at once to the boundary of the
Deiri. He met Ethelfrith, ere he was wholly provided for his coming,
on the banks of the river Idel, near Retford, in Nottinghamshire, at
that time probably a portion of the kingdom he had wrested from Edwin.
Redwald had his guest, his honour, and his kingdom to fight for: Edwin
his life, and the possessions he inherited from his father--Ethelfrith,
a long-cherished vengeance to appease--a kingdom he had seized upon
without any one having before dared to dispute his claim--and East
Anglia, now a fair prize, if he could but win it: he had a bad cause,
yet not a doubt about obtaining the victory, for he had many a time
driven the Picts and Scots, with whole hosts of the Cymry, banded
together, before him, further to the north than any, excepting the
Romans, had ever before done. His dreams had never been broken by the
thought of a defeat, even when the monks of Bangor were praying against
him; he conquered, and drove the British kings before him like withered
leaves before a storm when the yellow Autumn is waning into Winter.
No Christian fire had ever burnt upon his pagan altars--to Woden, the
god of battles, had his sacrifices ever been offered up. Redwald, more
vacillating, kept two altars in the temple in which he worshipped,--one
dedicated to the grim idol which his warriors still believed in--the
other where he at times knelt beside his fair queen, and sent up his
wavering prayers, between the shrine of Woden, and the True God. No
truer picture was probably ever drawn of the state of these truly pagan
and half-Christian Saxons in the early times, than is here presented;
that mingled fear of offending Woden, while the heart yearned for the
love of Him whom they believed to be the Giver of all good, for God and
good were in their language the same.
Before commencing the battle, Redwald divided his forces into three
divisions; one of these he placed under the command of his son, Rainer,
and the wing which the young prince headed, commenced the attack.
Ethelfrith commanded his veteran forces to dash at once into the
centre of the enemy's line; and so suddenly and unexpectedly was this
manoeuvre accomplished, that it was like the instantaneous bursting
of a thunder-storm down some steep hill side, covered over with the
tall and yellow-waving corn of summer, through which the torrent and
the tempest cut a path, for so was the division under prince Rainer
dispersed, driven aside and cut asunder, that before the two bodies led
on by Redwald and Edwin had time to wheel round, and check the force of
that mighty avalanche, the prince was slain, and scarcely a warrior,
who but a few moments before had charged so cheerfully under his
war-cry, remained alive.
For a few moments the terrible tide of battle rolled backward, seeming
to recoil from beneath the very force with which it had broken, as
if the vanward waves but rushed again upon those that followed, to
be driven on with greater might upon the desolated and wreck-strewn
beach. Back again was the overwhelming tide borne with mightier force,
and thrown off in a spray of blood from the points of ten thousand
unflinching weapons, while Redwald himself, with lowering brow, and lip
compressed, strode sullenly onward, and hewed his way into the very
heart of the contest. Ethelfrith, outstripping his followers, rushed
headlong into the very centre of the battle; the gap he had hewn with
his own powerful arm closed behind him, and there stood between him
and the remains of his army, an impenetrable wall of the enemy--where
he fell, the last billow of the battle broke, for the companion waves
had rolled out far to seaward, and only the shore over which they had
broken was left, strewn over with the wrecks of the slain. Death had at
last done his mighty work; and under his dark and awful banner Edwin
had distinguished himself; those gloomy gates had opened the way to the
kingdom from which he had so long been driven. Through the assistance
of Redwald, he not only became the king of the Deira, but conquered the
broad provinces of Bernicia, driving before him the sons of Ethelfrith,
and sitting down sole king of Northumbria, for he united under his
sway the kingdoms which Ida had governed, and Ella, his father, had
won. Thus, the youth who had so long been a wanderer and an exile,
who scarcely knew where to fly for shelter, who was ever in fear of
his life, became at last the undisputed monarch of two mighty Saxon
kingdoms, the Deira and Bernicia.
Edwin no sooner found himself firmly seated on the throne of
Northumbria, than he sent into Kent, and solicited the hand of
Edilburga in marriage. She was the daughter of the late Ethelbert, so
distinguished for his kindness to the Christian missionaries. Probably
Edwin had become acquainted with her while he wandered "homeless,
amid a thousand homes." Her brother Eadbald had, by this time, become
a Christian, had hurled down his heathen idols and pagan altars, and
established himself beside the church at Canterbury, which had long
been the metropolis of Kent. Eadbald justly argued, that it was wrong
for a Christian maiden to become the wife of a pagan husband, of one
who could neither share with her the holy sacrament, nor kneel down
to worship before the altar of the same Holy God. Edwin bound himself
by a solemn promise that he would offer no obstacle to the royal lady
following her own faith, but that all who accompanied her, whether
women, priests, or laymen, should have full liberty to follow their own
form of religion; and that if, upon close examination by the wise and
good men of his own faith, he found the Christian creed better than
that of Odin, he might at last adopt it. The Saxon princess had the
fullest confidence in the promise of the pagan king, and with a long
train of noble and lowly attendants, headed by Paulinus, who was by
this time created a bishop, she left the home of her fathers in Kent,
and as Rowena had beforetime done, went to sojourn among strangers.
Many a prayer was offered up by the way, and the holy rites of the
church to which she belonged were daily celebrated. Timidly must the
maiden's heart have beaten when she first set foot within that pagan
land; but she probably remembered the time when many of her father's
subjects were idolaters.
Nothing for the first year seems to have ruffled the smooth course of
love between the pagan king and his Christian queen. Paulinus continued
to preach, but made no converts; and the love of Edilburga, and the
worship of Odin, went on together hand in hand; for though Edwin
himself listened to the music of lips as sweet as those of Bertha,
which had murmured conversion into the ears of Ethelbert, yet his creed
remained unchanged. He loved, listened, and sighed, with his heathen
faith still unshaken. It was at the holy time of Easter, while Edwin
was seated in his palace beside the Derwent, that a messenger suddenly
arrived from Cwichhelm, the pagan king of Wessex, and sought an
audience, to make known his mission. He was, of course, admitted. While
kneeling lowly to deliver his message, the stranger suddenly started
up, drew forth a dagger which was concealed under his dress, and was
in the act of rushing upon the king, when Lilla, a thane in attendance,
threw himself, in a moment, between the body of the monarch and the
assassin--just in that brief interval of time which elapsed between the
uplifting and the descending of the weapon; yet with such force was
the deadly blow driven home, that the dagger passed clean through the
body of Lilla, and slightly wounded the king. Although the swords of
the attendants were instantly drawn, yet the assassin was not cut down
until he had stabbed another knight with the dagger, which he had drawn
from the body of the faithful thane who so nobly sacrificed his life
to save that of the king. On the same evening, (it was Easter Sunday,)
Edilburga was delivered of a daughter--the event probably hastened by
the shock the murderer had occasioned. Edwin returned thanks to Odin
for the birth of his child; and when Paulinus again drew his attention
to the God who had so miraculously preserved his life, he promised he
would follow the new faith which the bishop was so anxious to convert
him to, if he was victorious over the king of Wessex, who had sent out
his emissary to destroy him. Edwin further consented that his daughter
should be baptized, as an earnest of his good faith. Several of his
household were at the same time united to the Christian church.
The account of Edwin's campaign against the king of Wessex is so
very vague and uncertain, that we are compelled to pass it over
altogether. It appears, however, that he slew his enemy and returned
home victorious--still he delayed his baptism, although he abandoned
his idol-worship, and might often be seen sitting alone, as if holding
serious communion with himself; still he was undecided whether or
not to change his ancient faith. He also held long and frequent
conversations with Paulinus, and had many serious discussions with his
own nobles. He was even honoured with a letter from the pope, urging
him to abandon his idols. Edilburga also received a letter from the
same high authority, pointing out her duty, to do all that she could,
by her intercession, to hasten his conversion; but Edwin still remained
unchanged. The stormy halls of Odin and the boisterous revels in which
the spirits of the departed warriors were ever supposed to partake,
were more congenial to the martial hearts of the Saxons, than the
peace, humility, and gentleness which clothed the Christian religion.
A vision or a miracle is again called in by the venerable Bede to
complete the conversion of Edwin. This we shall pass over without
openly expressing a feeling of doubt or disbelief. The means which
the Almighty might take to bring about the conversion of a heathen
nation are beyond the comprehension of man. We doubt not the light
which fell upon and surrounded Saul, when breathing slaughter against
the Christians whilst he was on his way to Damascus, for there we at
once acknowledge the wonder-working hand of God. It required no such
powerful agency for Paulinus to become acquainted with Edwin's previous
dream. Nor does there appear to have been anything miraculous in the
token which the king was reminded of; neither was the incident at all
so startling as it first appears to be, for he had beyond doubt made
Edilburga acquainted with the subject of his dream, and what would not
a woman do, to accomplish the conversion of a husband she loved? Even
after all, Edwin assembled his nobles and counsellors together openly,
to discuss the new religion before he was baptized, for the vision or
miracle had not yet dispelled his doubts.
When Edwin assembled his pagan priests and nobles together, and threw
open before them the whole subject, Coifi, who had long administered
the rites at the altar of Odin, and, as it appears, reaped but little
benefit, thus spoke out, plainly and feelingly, at once. (We trust
Edilburga was not present.) "You see, O King, what is now preached
to us; I declare to you most truly, what I have most certainly
experienced, that the religion which we have hitherto professed,
contains no virtue at all, nor no utility. Not one of your whole court
has been more attentive to the worship of your gods than myself,
although many have received richer benefits, greater honours, and have
prospered more than I have done. Now, if these gods had been of any
real use, would they not have assisted me, instead of them? If, then,
after due inquiry, you see that these 'new things' which they tell us
of will be better, let us have them without any delay." Coifi was weary
of waiting for the good things which stood ready prepared for him in
the halls of Valhalla; he wanted to have a foretaste whilst living.
But we will leave plain-spoken Coifi to introduce the next orator, who
was one of Nature's poets, though a pagan; and the passage is doubly
endeared to us, by the knowledge that on a later day, Alfred the Great
translated it, word for word, and letter for letter. We regret that we
cannot give the original, for there are many words in it which seem
out of place, such as we believe the eloquent orator never uttered,
although Bede lived about this time, and probably heard it from the
lips of some one who was present when it was spoken. It ran nearly
as follows: "The life of man while here, O King, seems to me, when I
think of that life which is to come, and which we know not of, like
a scene at one of your own winter feasts. When you sit in your hall,
with the blaze of the fire in the midst of it, and round you your
thanes and ealdermen, and the whole hall is bright with the warmth, and
while storms of rain and snow are heard out in the cold air, in comes
a small sparrow at one door, and flies round our feast; then it goes
out another way into the cold. While it is in, it feels not the winter
storm, but is warm, and feels a comfort while it stays; but when out
in the winter cold, from whence it came, it goes far from our eyes.
Such is here the life of man. It acts and thinks while here, but what
it did when we saw it not, we do not know, nor do we know what it will
do when it is gone." He then finished by adding something about the
new religion, and prayed of them to adopt it, if it was more worthy of
their belief, and opened clearer views respecting a future state than
the old.
Paulinus was present, and when he had satisfactorily answered all
questions, a fearful feeling still seemed to linger amongst the pagans,
as to who should first desecrate their old temple, and overthrow the
idols and altars before which they had so long worshipped. "Give me a
horse and a spear," said Coifi, "and I will." They were brought to him.
We cannot help picturing Coifi in his eagerness to get rid of the old
religion, nor how Paulinus, with his dark hair, hooked nose, swarthy
countenance, and darker eyes, just looked for a moment at Edwin, as
the pagan priest hurled his spear at the idol temple, and profaned
it. "The people without thought him mad." What Coifi thought of the
people is not on record. He knew what the idols were better than they
did. Witness the results of his own experience; for day after day,
and year after year, had he administered to the shrine, yet received
no reward; and doubtless Coifi thought that, let the new religion be
what it might, it could not be worse than the old one. When he had
hurled his spear against the temple, it was profaned, and could never
more be dedicated to the worship of Odin; for such an act was held
impious by the ancient Saxon pagans. The building was then destroyed,
and the surrounding enclosures levelled to the ground. This scene
took place near the Derwent, not far from the spot where Edwin had so
narrow an escape from the assassin Eumer. In Bede's time it was called
Godmundham, or the home of the gods. After this, Edwin and his nobility
were baptized, and through his persuasion, the son of his protector,
Redwald, embraced Christianity, and diffused it amongst his subjects
in East Anglia. Edwin himself, as we have shown, had in his younger
days been a wanderer and an exile; and although we have no account of
the privations he endured, they were doubtless great, and perhaps we
should not much err in surmising that many a time he had endured the
pangs of hunger and thirst: for on a later day he caused stakes to be
fastened beside the highways wherever a clear spring was to be found,
and to these posts, brazen dishes were chained, to enable the weary
and thirsty traveller to refresh himself. For houses were then few and
far apart, and the wayfarer had often to journey many a dreary league
before he could obtain refreshment, as the monasteries were the only
places in which he could halt and bait. In Edwin's reign, and through
his kingdom, it is said that a woman with an infant at her breast might
walk from the Tweed to the Trent without fearing injury from any one.
He seems to have been beloved by all, and Edilburga ever moved beside
him like a ministering angel.
But Edwin was not destined to go down peaceably to his grave; some
quarrel arose between him and the son of his old Welsh host, Cadvan:
what the cause was, we know not; it, however, led to a severe battle,
and as it was fought near Morpeth, it is evident that the Welsh
king was the invader. Edwin was, as usual, victorious, and chased
Cadwallon into Wales. Some time after this event, there sprang up a
renowned pagan warrior amongst the Saxons, named Penda, who governed
the kingdom of Mercia, a portion of Britain that up to this period
scarcely attracts the historian's attention. This Mercian king,
Cadwallon prevailed upon to unite his forces with his own, and attack
the Northumbrian monarch. The battle is believed to have taken place
at Hatfield Chase, in Yorkshire, at the close of autumn in the year
633; in it king Edwin was slain, together with one of his sons, named
Osfrid. Most of his army perished--a clear proof of the stern struggle
they made to conquer. Cadwallon, and his ally, Penda, the pagan king,
overran the united kingdoms of Northumbria, desolating the Deiri and
Bernicia in their march, and spreading terror wherever they appeared.
Edilburga escaped with her children into Kent; Paulinus accompanied
her, for the Christian churches appear to have been the chief objects
which the Mercian monarch sought to destroy.
The world seemed to have no charms for Edilburga after the death of
her royal husband. Her brother, Eadbald, the king of Kent, received
her kindly and sorrowfully: the widowed queen, by his consent, built a
monastery at Liming, and afterwards took the veil.
Such was the end of the beautiful daughter of Ethelbert, she who when a
girl had many a time seen Augustin at her father's court, and doubtless
looked with childish wonder on the holy banner which the missionaries
bore before them, whereon the image of the Blessed Redeemer was
portrayed, when they first appeared in Kent. Upon the death of Edwin,
the kingdom of Northumbria was again divided. Osric, a descendant
of Ella, ascended the throne of the Deiri, and Eanfrid, the son of
Ethelfrith, whom Edwin had driven into exile, reigned over Bernicia.
Osric soon perished, for Cadwallon still continued his ravages, and
while the king of Deiri was besieging a strong fortress which the Welsh
monarch occupied, an unexpected sally was made, and in the skirmish
Osric was slain. Eanfrid met with a less glorious death, for while
within the camp of Cadwallon, suing for peace, he was, even against all
the acknowledged laws of that barbarous age, put to death. This Welsh
king appears to have been as great a scourge to the Saxons as ever king
Arthur was in his day, nor does his old ally, Penda, seem to have been
a jot less sparing of his own countrymen;--but his doings will form the
subject of our next chapter.
In fourteen battles and sixty skirmishes is Cadwallon said to have
fought, and so odious was the last year in which he distinguished
himself--so blotted by his ravages and the apostasy of many of the
Saxon kings, that Bede says, the annalists, by one consent, refused to
record the reigns of these renegades, so added it to the sovereignty
of Oswald. The most important event that we have to record in his
reign was the victory he obtained over Cadwallon, which occurred soon
after he was seated upon the throne of Bernicia. Oswald was already
celebrated for his piety, and previous to his battle with the Welsh
king, he planted the image of the cross upon the field, holding it
with his own hands, while his soldiers filled up the hollow which
they had made in the earth to receive it. When the cross was firmly
secured, he exclaimed, "Let us all bend our knees, and with one heart
and voice pray to the True and the Living God, that He in His mercy
will defend us from a proud and cruel enemy: for to Him it is known
that we have commenced this war, for the salvation and safety of our
people." All knelt, as he had commanded, around the cross, and when the
last murmur of the solemn prayer had died away, they marched onward
with stouter hearts to meet the terrible enemy. Of the battle we have
scarcely any other record than that which briefly relates the death of
Cadwallon and the destruction of his army. The spot in which the cross
was planted was called "Heaven-field," and was for ages after held in
great reverence. But neither the piety of Oswald, nor his victory over
the Welsh king, could protect him from the wrath of Penda: and the
scene of our history now shifts to the kingdom of Mercia, which, up to
this time, had seemed to sleep in the centre of the Saxon dominions:
for those who had settled down in the midland districts had, with the
exception of Crida, scarcely left so much as a name behind, and he is
only known as the grandfather of Penda. To the deeds of the latter we
have now arrived, and he who assisted to slay five kings, is the next
stormy spirit that throws its shadow upon our pages.