Now I do pity all the lords and great gentle-folk with nothing in the
world to do except to find out how to make things pleasant, and new
places to go to, and new ways of spending their money; at least, I
always pity them at the beginning of my holiday, though perhaps when
one first comes back to eleven months’ hard grind in town the feeling
isn’t quite so strong.
At any rate, I wouldn’t have changed places with the greatest lord in
the land on Tuesday morning, September 15th. I was up as soon as it was
light, and saw the sun rise over the Gray’s Inn Lane chimney-pots; and
I declare they looked quite beautiful. I didn’t know at all before what
a fine outline they make when the rays come flat along the roofs; and
mean often to get up in time to see them by sunrise next summer; but
just now it’s very cold of mornings, and I dare say they don’t look so
well. When I put my head out of window it was quite clear and fresh,
and I thought I could smell the country.
I hadn’t much to do, for I had packed my bag over night; but I went
over all my things again, and changed the places of some of them in my
old bureau, (which belonged to my father, who was clerk for forty years
in one of the oldest houses in Clement’s Inn,) and locked up all the
drawers; and then I set to work to lay breakfast for three, for I had
asked my two friends to come and see me off, and they had made it all
up with my landlady. So about six o’clock they came in, and we had a
capital breakfast; and then we started off to walk up to the Paddington
station, carrying my bag between us. I had settled to go by the 7.30
train, because if I hadn’t they couldn’t have come with me; besides, it
is the first train which stops at Farringdon-road; and I was very glad
when we got into the bustle of the station, for they were rather low,
and I felt almost ashamed of being so jolly, though certainly they had
had their holiday earlier in the year. But when I saw their faces out
of the window of the second-class carriage, just as the starting-bell
rang, I should like to have paid their fares out of my own pocket, if
they could have gone with me.
However, by the time we got past Wormwood Scrubbs, (which looked so
fresh and breezy with the gossamer lying all over it,) I could think of
nothing else but the country and my holiday. How I did enjoy the pretty
hill with the church at top and the stream at the bottom by Hanwell,
and the great old trees about half a mile off on the right before you
get to Slough, and the view of Windsor Castle, and crossing the Thames
at Maidenhead, with its splendid weeping willows, and the old Bath-road
bridge, and the reach beyond with the woods coming down to the bank,
and the great lords’ houses up above. And then all the corn-fields,
though by this time most of them were only stubble, and Reading town,
and the great lasher at Pangbourn, where the water was rushing and
dancing through in the sunlight to welcome me into Berkshire; and
the great stretches of open land about Wallingford-road and Didcot.
And after that came great green pasture-fields, and orchards, and
gray-stone farm-houses, and before I could turn round we were at
Farringdon-road station, and it was a quarter past eleven. As I got
out and gave up my ticket, I couldn’t help thinking of the two lines
Jem Fisher would go on saying when we went out walking in Combe Wood
and Richmond Park one Sunday this last May--
How beautiful the country do appear
At this time of the year.
I know he was laughing, and made them out of his own head, though he
declared they were in Chaucer; but they are just as true for all that,
whether Jem Fisher or Chaucer made them, though the English isn’t as
good as the sense.
There I found Joe waiting for me, with his trap, as he called it, at
the door, and the inn ostler standing by the head of the horse, which
was a bright chestnut, and looked very fine. I own I very much enjoyed
going off in that dark-green high-wheeled carriage.
“In with you, Dick,” cried out Joe, as he took hold of the reins, and
patted the horse on the neck. “There, shoot your bag in behind; look
alive, she don’t stand well. That’ll do,” he shouted to the ostler, who
jumped back and touched his hat just as if Joe owned half the parish.
If the horse couldn’t stand well, at any rate she could step out, and
away we whirled down the white road; Joe red in the face with holding
on, his feet well out to the splash-board, his chest thrown forward,
and his elbows down at his side, hauling the chestnut’s head right
back, till her nose nearly touched the collar. But for all that, away
went her legs right straight out in front, shooting along so fast that
I began to feel queer, not being used to horses, and took tight hold
of the seat with my left hand, so that Joe shouldn’t see; for the cart
jumped sometimes enough to pitch you out.
“Gently there, gently, my beauty,” said Joe, as the chestnut dropped
into a little quieter pace. “There, now, ain’t she a pictur’?” said he
to me;--“ever see a mare lay down to her work like that? Gently, my
beauty! if it wasn’t for the blaze in her face, and the white feet,
the Squir’d give me one hundred pounds for her to-morrow. And I won’t
sell her under. It’s a mortal shame to drive her. Her mouth’s like a
kitten’s.” How Joe could talk so, when he was pulling fit to burst
himself at the reins, I don’t know; I thought once or twice where we
should go to if one broke, but I didn’t say any thing. I found out
afterwards that Joe meant a great white mark, when he talked of the
blaze in her face. I suppose men can’t see any faults in their own
horses, any more than they can in their children.
After a bit, the pace got quite steady, and then I began to enjoy
myself, and could look at the famous rich fields, and the high hedges
full of great heavy masses of clematis, and sniff up all the country
smells, as we whirled along, and listen to Joe, who was going grinding
on about, ‘how badly the parish roads were kept up; and that he had set
his mind to have them well mended with flints instead of chalk, and
to have all the thistles at the side kept down, which were sowing the
whole country round, because their vestry was so stingy they wouldn’t
put any men on the road to set it right,’ and I could see that Joe was
in the middle of a good quarrel with all the other farmers about it.
When he had done his story, I asked him about the White Horse, and he
pointed me out the highest of the hills which ran along on our left
hand a mile or two away. There, sure enough, I saw the figure quite
plain; but he didn’t know much about it. Only, he said, he had always
heard tell that it was cut out by King Alfred the Great, who lived
in those parts; and ‘there was a main sight of strange old things up
there on the hill, besides the White Horse; and though he didn’t know
much about how they got there, he was sort of proud of them, and was
glad to pay his pound or two, or double that if it was wanted, to keep
them as they should be;’ “for, you see,” said Joe, “we’ve lived about
here, father and son, pretty nigh ever since King Alfred’s time, which
I reckon is a smartish time ago, though I forget how long.” And though
I think Joe, and parties in the counties generally, set too much store
by such things, and hold their noses much higher than they’ve any need
to do, because their families have never cared to move about, and push
on in the world, and so they know where their great-grandfathers were
born, I couldn’t help feeling there was something in it after all.
And the more I thought of this strange old White Horse, the more it
took hold of me, and I resolved, if I could, while I was down in the
country to learn all about it. I knew, you see, that if I could only
get people to tell me about it, I should be able to carry it all away;
because, besides having a very good memory, I can take down every thing
that is said as fast as most people can speak it, and that’s what gives
me such an advantage over Jem Fisher and Neddy, who spent all the time
it took me to learn shorthand in reading poetry and other rubbish,
which will never help to get them on in the world, or do them a bit of
good that I can see.
Presently we came in sight of a house with farm buildings behind, which
stood some way back from the road; and Joe pulled up opposite a gate
which led into the field before the house.
“Here we are, then,” said he; “just jump out, and open the gate, Dick;
I’d do it, only I can’t trust you with the ribbons.”
It was a beautiful great green pasture-field which we drove into, with
a score of fat sleek cows feeding in it, or lying about chewing the
cud; and Joe was very proud of them, and walked the chestnut along
slowly while he pointed out his favourites to me, especially one
short-horn, whose back he said was like a kitchen-table, though why
she should be any the handsomer for that I can’t say. The house was an
old brick building, with tall chimneys and latticed windows; in front
of it was a nice little flower-garden, with a tall, clipped holly hedge
running round it, so thick that you couldn’t see through; and beyond
that, a kitchen garden and an orchard. Outside the enclosure stood four
such elms as I never saw before, and a walnut-tree nearly as big as
they, with queer great branches drooping close to the ground, on which
some turkeys were sitting. There was only a little wicket-gate in the
holly hedge, and a gravel footpath up to the front door, so we drove
into the farm-yard at the back; and while Joe and his man took care of
the chestnut, I had time to look about, and think what a snug berth Joe
seemed to have fallen upon.
The yard must be sixty yards across, and was full of straw where the
pigs were lying with nothing but their snouts out; lots of poultry
were scratching and pecking about before the barn-doors, and pigeons
were fluttering down amongst them, and then up again to the tops of
the barns and stables, which ran all round the yard. The rick-yard,
full of long stacks of hay, and round stacks of corn, was beyond. A
terrier and spaniel were sleeping in sunny corners, and a grayhound was
stalking about and looking at the pigs; and every thing looked sleepy
and happy, and as if life went easily along at Elm Close Farm.
Presently Joe came out of the stable, carrying his whip, and took me
into the house, calling into the kitchen as we passed to send in dinner
directly. There was nobody in the parlour at first, but I saw that the
table was laid for three; and, before I could look round at the prints
and samples on the wall, Joe’s mother and the dinner came in. She was
a good-looking old lady, dressed in black, with a very white lawn cap
and collar, and was very kind and civil, but a little deaf. Joe bustled
about, and got out I don’t know how many bottles of home-made wine,
clary, and raisin, and ginger; all of which he made me drink, besides
beer, for he said that no one in the vale had such receipts for wine
as his mother. And what with the dairy-fed pork, and black puddings,
and a chicken almost as big as a turkey, and the cheese-cakes and tarts
afterwards, and the hearty welcome and good example which Joe gave me,
I don’t remember when I have made so good a dinner.
The old lady went off directly after dinner, and I could see that Joe
wanted to go and see after his men; so I told him not to mind me,
for I should enjoy loitering about the place better than any thing.
And so I did; first I went into the flower-garden, and watched and
listened to the bees working away so busy in the mignonette, and the
swallows darting up into their nests under the eaves, and then diving
out again, and skimming away over the great pasture; and then round
the kitchen-garden, and into the orchard, where the trees were all
loaded with apples and pears, and so out into a stubble-field at the
back, where there were a lot of young pigs feeding and playing queer
tricks, and back through the farm-yard into the great pasture, where I
lay down on the grass, under one of the elms, and lighted my pipe; and
thought of our hot clerks’ room, and how Jem Fisher and little Neddy
were working away there; and watched a flock of little shiny starlings
hopping up on to the backs of some old south-down wethers who were
feeding near me, and flying backwards and forwards into the old elms
and walnut-trees, talking to one another all the while.
And so the time wore on, till a stout lass in a blue cotton print came
out, and called the cows in to milking; and they all went trooping
slowly by into the farm-yard, some of them just stopping to stare at me
with their mild eyes, and smelling so sweet, that I hadn’t the heart to
go on smoking, and let my pipe out. And after a bit, I followed into
the line of sheds where they were being milked by the lass and a man,
who balanced himself on two legs of the milking-stool, and drove his
head into the cow’s side; and I thought I had never heard a sweeter
sound than the tinkling sound which the milk made in the bright, tin
pails.
I soon got into a talk with the lass, who was very pleasant and free
spoken; and presently, when her pail was full, I lifted it out for her,
all frothing up, and looking not a bit like our London sky-blue; and I
told her I didn’t think I had ever tasted real new milk; so she got me
a long straw, and while she went on milking, I went down on my knees,
and began to suck away through the straw. But I had hardly begun, when
I heard a noise behind, and looking round, there stood Joe, laughing
all over; and by his side a young woman in a broad, straw hat and a
gray jacket; and though, for good manners, she didn’t laugh out like
Joe, I could see it was all she could do to keep from going off too.
Why was I ashamed of being caught? I don’t know, but I was ashamed; and
as I stuck there on my knees in the deep straw with the pail before me
looking at them, the blood rushed up to my head and made my ears sing,
so that I couldn’t hear a word that Joe said. But I could see he did
say something, and then went off into another great roar of laughter;
and the lass and the man left off milking and began laughing too, till
I thought they would have dropped off the stools. Then the young woman
who was with Joe said something to him, and I thought I heard the words
“What a shame!” and “your oldest friend;” and then she caught up a
straw, and came and knelt on the opposite side of the milk-pail, and
began to suck away herself without looking at me. In another moment Joe
plumped down too, clapping me on the back.
“I say,” said he, “start fair! Here, make room for me; you and Lucy
ain’t going to have it all to yourselves,” and he began sucking away
too; and then I recovered myself, and we all went on for a minute, when
Joe took his straw out of his mouth, and said, “This is my sister Lucy,
Dick; there, shake hands over the pail, and then let’s go in to tea.”
So she looked up, and blushed, and gave me her hand, her merry blue
eyes twinkling with mirth, though she tried to keep grave. But I was
all right now, and went off myself, and Joe followed, and then she,
with the clearest, brightest laugh you ever heard; and then the man and
the lass, and by the time we had done, I felt as if I had known them
all for years. But as for Miss Lucy, as we walked away to the house to
tea, I felt as if I could have given her my skin, if she would only
have had a pair of shoes made out of it for her dear little feet.
The old lady was sitting at the tea-table in great force, with plates
of buttered toast and cake, and pots of blackberry and red-currant jam,
and the great loaf all set out ready; and after tea, we three walked
out again till the sun set, and then came in to supper, at which I was
surprised to find myself eating away just as if I had had nothing all
day; country air does give one such an appetite. After supper, the old
lady sat in her chair knitting and telling stories, till she nodded
off and the spectacles fell on to the end of her nose, and her hands
into her lap, but still holding the needles; and every now and then
giving a catch with her head, and making belief to go on for a stitch
or two. And Miss Lucy sat stitching at a patch-work coverlet, fitting
in all sorts of scraps of silk in the prettiest patterns in the world,
and we on the other side of the table watching her, and talking quite
low not to disturb the old lady. But what made it so pleasant was,
that I had pretty near all the talking, for they seemed never tired
of hearing about London, and how people lived there, and what they
thought; especially Miss Lucy, who had never been out of Berkshire in
her life. I thought Joe a great fidget, when soon after nine he began
to walk about and waked his mother, and got the servants in to prayers,
and bustled them off to bed; but I believe it was all because he wanted
to have his pipe, which he wouldn’t smoke in the parlour. So we went
into the kitchen and finished the day there, under half a score of
great brown sides of bacon, and tufts of sweet herbs which hung drying
from the corners of the rack, and opposite to the dresser with its rows
of pewter plates as bright as silver, till I went to bed in sheets
smelling of lavender, and dreamt of Miss Lucy.
I dare say that, though I should never be tired of telling about every
thing that happened to me at Elm Close, some people may get tired of
reading about it. So I shall only begin my story of the next day after
breakfast, when Joe had the trap out again, and carried me off to see
what was doing up on White Horse Hill.
We had a very pleasant drive through the Vale to Uffington, which lies
at the foot of the hill, and here Joe put up the trap, at the Swan,
and we set off on foot to walk up. It was very hot, and the white road
glared as we tramped along it, but very soon we came to broad strips of
turf on each side, and then it was pleasant enough; so we plodded up a
gentle rise called Sour Hill, and crossed the Iceldon or Iggleton way,
which I’ve found out since was an old Roman road; and then the ascent
became quite steep, and every thing was clear hill and down before us,
not a fence to be seen, and a fresh breeze came sweeping over the hill.
The road now became very bad, with ruts in the chalk like
water-courses. On our left hand there was a deep, narrow valley like
a little bay running up into the hill, on the opposite side of which
valley a large wood hung along the steepest part of the hill-side,
which Joe informed me was Uffington wood, a well-known meet for the
hounds; it made me giddy to look at the places which he declared the
huntsman, and any one who wanted to be sure of a good place when the
hounds broke cover, had to ride along.
And now the great, green hill seemed to be hanging right over us,
as we came to a curious round mound on our right hand, up which Joe
scrambled, and I after him, till we both pulled up out of breath on the
flat top, some fifty yards across.
“This is Dragon’s Hill,” said Joe, pulling off his hat and mopping his
face with his handkerchief, “where St. George killed the Dragon in the
old times. Leastways so they says about here, only they calls him King
George instead of Saint George. And this bare place is where his blood
ran out, and nothing’ll grow on it since, not so much as a thistle.”
Of course I knew better than to believe that, but it is a beautiful
place; for just below it another little deep valley, like the one
on the left, only narrower and steeper at the sides, runs right up
into the hill-side. The road we had left winds round the head of this
gorge, for any one to drive along who isn’t particular about breaking
his neck, for the hill is like a wall up above, and down below, with
nothing but a little bank between you and the descent.
“Those are the giants’ seats opposite,” said Joe, pointing across the
valley to a set of beautiful great green slopes, like huge ridges and
furrows, which went sweeping down into the valley one after another
as far as I could see; “and this is the Manger, this great hole in
the hill-side, because it lies right under the old Horse’s nose. Come
along, let’s get up to him; there he is, you see, right above us.”
So we scrambled down the side of Dragon’s Hill, crossed the road,
and then started up a row of steps cut in the turf. I’m sure it must
be twice as steep as the hill in Greenwich Park, and I don’t mind
confessing that I shouldn’t have liked to look round just at first, and
wouldn’t have minded giving myself a help with my hands if I hadn’t
been afraid of Joe’s seeing me and laughing. I should think we must
have gone up two hundred steps, when all of a sudden Joe stopped just
above me, and called out, “Here we are;” and in about four steps I came
to a trench cut into the chalk about two feet deep, which ran up the
hill-side right ahead of us. The chalk in the trench was all hard and
flat, and seemed to have been scraped and brushed up quite lately.
“This is his tail,” said Joe. “Come on; look, they’re scouring him
up above; we’re in luck--I thought they’d have done before this; and
there’s the Squire too with ’em.”
[Illustration]
So I looked up; and there, some way above, I saw a lot of men with
shovels, and besoms, and barrows, cleaning away at the trench, which,
now that I began to look at it, certainly came out more and more like
a horse galloping; and there amongst them, working away as hard as
any one, was a person in yellow leather gaiters, who I saw at once
must be the Squire, though I had never seen a squire before. I own I
had a great prejudice against a country squire when I went down into
Berkshire; which was natural enough, you see, because I had never been
farther from town than Twickenham (except by boat to Margate),
and had belonged to a debating society near Farringdon-market ever
since I left school, where we take in three liberal papers, and once
a week have as good speaking as they get in the House of Commons. I
haven’t been to the debates much lately, myself; but when I was an
active member, we used to have a regular go in about once a quarter
at the unpaid magistracy. How we did give it them! They were bloated
aristocrats, who by the time they were thirty had drunk out all the
little brains they ever had, and spent their time in preserving and
killing game and foxes at the expense of the farmers, and sending every
good man in their villages either to the Bastile (as we called the
workhouse), as a pauper, or to the county jail as a poacher.
Joe and I very nearly quarrelled over one of those debates to which
I took him, like a great gaby as I was, when he came up to see me at
the time of a cattle-show. He would get up to speak, all I could do to
stop him; and began, all red in the face, pitching into one of our best
speakers who had just finished, calling him a cockney, and asking him
what right he had to jaw about squires when he talked about a fox’s
ears and tail, and didn’t know mangold-wurzel from swedes. And then all
our fellows began to shout and hiss, and Joe began to swear, and wanted
to take his coat off, and fight all who had spoken; “one down, and
t’other come on,” as he said. I got him out and took him home; but his
blood was up, and he would go on at our Society, and call us a set of
quill-driving jackanapes. And I couldn’t stand that, so I began at the
landed interest, and said all the bad of them I could think of, about
the Poor-Laws, game preserving, and the Corn-laws. Joe was very near
going off in a huff, but we shook hands over it at last, and agreed
that we neither of us knew much about the sort of life the other led,
and so had better not talk about it as if we did.
Well, this was the first squire I had ever seen, so I looked at him
with all my eyes; and if all squires were like him, I don’t wonder
at Joe’s getting in a passion at our talk in Farringdon-market. I
should think he must be about forty-five years old, and stands not far
short of six feet high; for when he came to stand by Joe, I could see
he was the taller of the two; but he didn’t look so tall quite when
he stood by himself--I suppose because his figure was so good. For
you never saw such a clean made man; he was for all the world like a
well-rounded wedge from his shoulders down, and his neck and head put
on like a statue. He looked just as if he could have jumped the highest
five-barred gate in the Vale, and then have carried it off on his
shoulders, and run up the hill with it. And his face, which was well
browned, was so manly and frank, and his voice so cheery, and he looked
you so straight in the face, that you felt he wasn’t ashamed of any
thing, or afraid of anybody; and so you looked him back and spoke out,
and were twice as good a man at once yourself while you were talking to
him.
Well, when the Squire saw Joe, he stopped working away with his shovel,
and called out to him; and so Joe went up and shook hands with him, and
began talking to him, and in another minute the Squire called for his
coat--a gray tweed shooting-jacket it was--and put it on, and took up
his riding-whip, and told the men to look alive and get their job done,
and then to send up to the Castle for some beer and bread and cheese
which he would order for them.
Then Joe and the Squire walked away along the hill-side talking,
and I went and sat down on a little mound, just above the Horse’s
ears, and watched the men working, and looked at the view. How I did
enjoy myself! The turf was as soft as a feather bed, and as springy
as horsehair; and it was all covered with thistle down, which came
drifting along like snow with the south wind; and all down below the
country looked so rich and peaceful, stretching out for miles and miles
at my feet in the hazy sunshine, and the larks right up overhead sang
so sweetly, that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I should have
liked to have had a turn at the besoms and shovels with the men, who
seemed very good-tempered, only I was too shy, and I couldn’t make out
half they said. So I took out my pipe and lighted it, and sat looking
on at the work, and thinking of nothing.
Presently a gentleman whom I hadn’t noticed, but who was poking about
the place, came and sat down near me. He was dressed in dark clothes,
very quiet; I suppose he was a parson from some of the villages near.
And we began talking about the weather, and what chance there was of
having fine days for the pastime. He was a very grave, elderly man, but
easy and pleasant, and had a keen look in his gray eyes, and a sort of
twinkle about his mouth, which made me put my best leg foremost, and
take care what I said.
Well, when we had done about the weather, thinks I, “This is just the
sort of gentleman to tell me what I want to know about the White Horse
and all the rest of it,” and you’ll see as you go on that I never
made a better guess in my life. So I got my note-book out quietly, so
that he shouldn’t take much notice of what I was about, and began, “I
suppose, Sir,” said I, “that it’s all right about Alfred, and that he
really did cut out this figure after winning a great battle up here?”
“Yes,” said he, “I think so myself, because there has always been a
tradition in the country side that this was so. And where antiquaries
differ, a tradition of this sort may always be pretty safely believed.
Country folk hold on to such stories, and hand them down in a very
curious manner; but you know, I dare say, that it is claimed by some as
a Druidical, or at any rate a British monument, which would make it
several hundred years older at least.”
I didn’t know any thing about it, but why should I tell him so. “I
shouldn’t like to think so, Sir,” said I, “because one wouldn’t care so
much about it if it wasn’t made by the Saxons and their great king. The
Druids don’t seem akin to us somehow; and then one would lose all about
the great battle, which was certainly fought up here, wasn’t it, Sir?”
“I have no doubt about it,” said he; “there are many signs of it--above
all, graves enough to hold the harvest of many battles. You are lying
on one.”
“No! am I really, though?” said I, sitting up and looking at the
ground; “how do you know?”
“Well, it isn’t very hard when the eye gets used to them,” said he;
“there’s another;” and he pointed to a small mound a few yards off,
and just like the one I was sitting on. “That larger mound, too, down
below, across the road, you were on it just now--”
“Yes, Sir,” said I, interrupting him, and pointing at it, “Dragon’s
Hill.”
[Illustration]
“Exactly so,” said he; “that’s another burial-place; a larger and
grander affair, you see, than these. Probably a king or other very
noble person is buried there.”
“The people say, Sir, don’t they,” said I, “that St. George killed the
Dragon there?”
“They do,” said he, “and that his blood made a pool on the top, and
ran down the steps on the other side, where the grass has never grown
since. This is another curious instance of the tenacity of tradition;
but here I think our good folk in the Vale have held on to the name,
or a part of it, and forgotten the meaning, just as they have in the
case of another village over there in Oxfordshire, the name of which is
Stanton Harcourt.”
“How was that, Sir?” said I, when he paused.
“Well,” said he, laughing, “an old man in that village told me that a
battle was fought there, which the English were very near losing, when
the general rode up to one of his captains, named Harcourt, who was in
the thick of it, and called out, ‘Stan’ to un, Harcourt, stan’ to un,
Harcourt;’ and that Harcourt won the battle, and the village has been
called Stanton Harcourt ever since. Now, as to that mound, I believe
it’s right name to be Pendragon’s Hill. Pendragon, you know, is only
a name common to those of the kings of the ancient Britons, who were
chosen leaders in the time of national distress, and means nothing more
than ‘caput regum,’ ‘the chief of kings.’ According to some, ‘Arthur’
is the same or a like word, being ‘Ardh-reg’ or ‘Ard-heer,’ and meaning
‘summus Rex’ (whence the ‘Arviragus’ of Juvenal; but I lay no stress on
this). Now we know of at least three Pendragons. There was Cassibelan,
who was chosen Pendragon at the time of Julius Cæsar’s invasion, Uter
Pendragon, and Arthur Pendragon; which Uter and Arthur were, without
doubt, chosen to resist the Saxons, who had won already the eastern
part of the island. And if Arthur and Pendragon are the same words,
doubtless (as has been well supposed), there were many Arthurs at this
time, one of whom was probably slain in battle and buried here.[2]
For in the Saxon annals we find that Cedric, founder of the West Saxon
kingdom, slew Natan-leod and five thousand men in these parts, which
Natan-leod (as is shown by Mr. Baxter) is ‘Naud-an-ludh,’ or ‘populi
tutela,’ the people’s refuge; in fact, a kindred word to ‘Pendragon,’
or ‘Arthur.’ You see how probable this would be _primâ facie_?” said
he, turning round to me.
My goodness! I couldn’t make out head or tail of his long words, and
was staring at him with my mouth open; but when he turned round I shut
it pretty quick, and looked as wise as I could. “Well, Sir,” said I,
“I hardly know; but it doesn’t look unlikely, does it?”
“Of course not,” said he, quite pleased; “and as the Britons were not
driven from these parts till the middle of the sixth century, I should
put the throwing up of Dragon’s Hill in the beginning, say the first
half, of that century. Now, in the year A.D. 520, according to Gildas
and Bede, Arthur gained his twelfth victory at ‘Mons Badonicus,’ which
might very well be Baydon Hill, which you see over there.” And he
pointed to a hill three or four miles off.
“But then, Sir,” said I, “if he gained the victory, he wasn’t killed
there, I suppose, and so he couldn’t be buried here.”
“But he was killed in battle at last,” said he; “and, as I told you,
there must have been many Arthurs or Pendragons just at that time, and
many battles fought between this and Bath--why, the Britons gained a
battle at Wanborough, over there, as late as A.D. 581.”
“But, Sir,” said I, “if Pendragon was buried down there, wouldn’t
they have been very likely to cut out the horse up here just above,
as another monument, at the same time; and then what becomes of King
Alfred and the Danes?”
“There is no instance of two such monuments over one chief,” answered
he, quite positive; but I thought I saw him give a twinkle with his
mouth, as if he felt I had been pretty near him. “Besides, as I said
before, the tradition as to the White Horse is too strong to be upset
by conjecture.”
“I didn’t mean to conjecture, I’m sure, Sir,” said I; and I thought,
though I didn’t say so, it was he who had been conjecturing pretty
freely, if it came to that. “The battle of Ashdown, Sir, was a very
great battle then,” I went on, for I liked to hear him talk about those
old times, though I didn’t quite understand all he said.
“The greatest battle probably in which Alfred ever was,” said he.
“Please, Sir,” said I, “I hope you won’t think me troublesome, but if
you would only tell me about the battle I should be so much obliged to
you.”
“Sir,” said he, looking at me rather surprised, “it is seldom that
I can get any of the youth of this day to take an interest in these
matters, the study of which would greatly benefit their manners
and morals. I shall be pleased to do what you wish. Are you a good
listener?”
“Yes, Sir,” said I, “you will get tired of talking long before I shall
of listening. And you wouldn’t mind, I hope, my taking notes of the
story?”
“By no means,” said he; “I see you are ready with your pen. Perhaps
I shouldn’t have told you so much about Pendragon and Natan-leod if
I had seen that you were taking me down; but now I will be careful
to give you nothing which is not to be found in the most trustworthy
chroniclers. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Sir,” said I; and then he settled himself in the turf, and pulled
a couple of old brown books out of his long coat-tail pockets, to which
he sometimes referred, and looking out over the Vale, as if he were
travelling in his mind far away from me and every thing about us on the
hill-side, began as follows.
[2] E. Martin Atkins, Esq., of Kingston Lisle, has lately been opening
the barrows which are nearest to the Horse; and the compiler, hearing
that he was about to examine Dragon’s Hill also, wrote to him on the
subject, and suggested how desirable it would be (if any ways possible)
to find the remains of King Bægseek there who was slain at Ashdown. To
which communication the compiler received the following reply. After
mentioning the contents of the other barrows, some clearly Saxon,
others Romano-British, his letter proceeds as to Dragon’s Hill:--
“As for old Bægseek, I should chuck him overboard at once, and assume
that our friend Uter Pendragon’s remains had been originally deposited
here, but that he had been disturbed in his repose by the decapitation
of the barrow, which at some unknown time has undoubtedly taken place.
It is unfortunate, however, that a Roman coin of the time of Constans
turned up from among the débris, and the fragments of pottery also
were chiefly of Roman manufacture, mixed with some of earlier date.
It will therefore perhaps be difficult to reconcile these matters one
with the other; but on turning them over in your mind, you will, I dare
say, _theorize with a very agreeable correctness_!” What is a wretched
compiler to do, who gets such letters from those who should be his
aiders and abettors?