[Cover Illustration]
=“_History is a pageant,_=
=_and not a philosophy._”=
=AUGUSTINE BIRRELL.=
[Illustration: =Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey.=
(_From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the Guildhall Art
Gallery, London._)]
=THE PAGEANT OF=
=BRITISH HISTORY=
=DESCRIBED BY=
=J. EDWARD PARROTT, M.A., LL.D.,=
=AND DEPICTED BY=
=THE FOLLOWING GREAT ARTISTS=
=_J. M. W. Turner_, _G. F. Watts_, _Benjamin West_, _Lord Leighton_,=
=_Sir John Gilbert_, _Daniel Maclise_, _C. W. Cope_, _John Opie_,=
=_William Dyce_, _Sir L. Alma-Tadema_, _Sir John Millais_,=
=_Paul Delaroche_, _W. Q. Orchardson_, _E. M. Ward_,=
=_Stanhope Forbes_, _F. Goodall_, _Seymour Lucas_,=
=_Ford Madox Brown_, _W. F. Yeames_,=
=_Clarkson Stanfield_,=
=_etc._, _etc._=
=[Illustration]=
=T H O M A S N E L S O N A N D S O N S=
=London, Edinburgh, Dublin, and New York=
=1908=
[Illustration]
F O R E W O R D .
_The Master of the Pageant spurs into the arena; he waves his baton, and
the trumpets sound. In the distance you see a long procession begin to
wind its way across the greensward, and as it draws nearer and nearer
you recognize the form and fashion of men and women whose names are writ
large in the annals of our land. Here they come—king and queen,
statesman and priest, warrior and merchant, poet and man of law, shipman
and craftsman, yeoman and peasant—a motley throng, all sorts and
conditions of men and women, high and low, rich and poor, gentle and
simple, noble and base, hero and craven; yet each in his or her several
degree a maker of history. These are the “counterfeit presentments” of
the men and women who through twice a thousand years have made us what
we are, and our glorious land what it is._
_As they troop by, let a humble chronicler—who prays that he may not be
considered intrusive—recall the story of their heroisms, their trials,
their sufferings, their glories, or, it may be, their failures, their
treacheries, and their shames. Perchance ’twill be a twice-told tale,
“familiar as household words” yet it is a recital that can never lack
hearers while men love the land that bore them, and would fain find
example and warning, inspiration and guidance, from the story of the
past. The chronicler pretends to no philosophy save this—that since we
have, under Providence, been created a “noble and puissant nation” and
entrusted with a heritage without peer in the history of the world, we
should be false to our sires, false to ourselves, and false to our
destiny were we, by selfishness, sloth, or ignorance, to neglect to be
great through “craven fears of being great.” And since the best and only
true foundation of patriotism is knowledge, he would fain hope that
these sketches may stimulate in some who are growing towards manhood and
womanhood a humble pride in the greatness of their land and a fervent
desire so to play their part that Britain may be what she was meant to
be—the Vicegerent of the Almighty in the uplifting and ennoblement of
the world. In this belief he echoes the prayer of the poet:_—
“_Land of Hope and Glory, Mother of the Free,_
_How shall we extol thee, who are born of thee?_
_Wider still, and wider, shall thy bounds be set;_
_God, who made thee mighty, make thee mightier yet._”
[Illustration]
=_C O N T E N T S ._=
——••——
_I._ _Britain before the Roman Conquest._
_The Phœnicians_ 9
_The Ancient Britons_ 12
_The Druids_ 17
_The Coming of Cæsar_ 20
_II._ _The Shadow of Rome._
_Caractacus_ 27
_A Warrior Queen_ 30
_The Iron Hand_ 33
_III._ _The Coming of the English._
_King Arthur and the Knights of the Round
Table_ 41
_Hengist and Horsa_ 46
_Ethelbert and Bertha_ 50
_The Singer of the First English Song_ 55
_IV._ _The Viking Invasions._
_The Coming of the Sea-Kings_ 57
_Alfred the Great_ 60
_King Canute_ 69
_V._ _The Coming of the Normans._
_Harold of England and William of Normandy_ 74
_The Eve of the Invasion_ 79
_The Battle of Hastings_ 83
_Hereward the Wake_ 91
_VI._ _England under the Normans._
_William the Red_ 96
_Matilda, “Lady” of England_ 100
_The Great Archbishop_ 106
_Strongbow_ 113
_Richard of the Lion Heart_ 118
_King John and Magna Charta_ 127
_VII._ _The Three Edwards._
_The First Prince of Wales_ 135
_William Wallace_ 140
_Robert the Bruce_ 149
_Merciful Queen_ 157
_The Black Prince_ 163
_VIII._ _On French Fields._
_King Harry the Fifth_ 169
_Joan, the Maid_ 176
_IX._ _The Wars of the Roses._
_The King-Maker_ 184
_The Little Princes in the Tower_ 191
_X._ _Tudor Times._
_John and Sebastian Cabot_ 195
_King and Cardinal_ 200
_The New Worship_ 207
_XI._ _A Tragic Story._
_Mary Queen of Scots_ 210
_XII._ _In the Spacious Days._
_The Spanish Armada_ 224
_Sir Walter Raleigh_ 232
_XIII._ _The Great Rebellion._
_Charles the First_ 242
_Oliver Cromwell_ 252
_Robert Blake_ 258
_XIV._ _From the Restoration to the Revolution._
_The Restoration of Charles the Second_ 268
_James, Duke of Monmouth_ 278
_XV._ _After the Revolution._
_William the Third_ 292
_The Great Duke of Marlborough_ 297
_XVI._ _Bonnie Prince Charlie._ 310
_XVII._ _Makers of Empire._
_Robert Clive, the Daring in War_ 323
_James Wolfe, Conqueror of Canada_ 335
_XVIII._ _Nelson of the Nile._ 347
_XIX._ _Wellington._ 363
_XX._ _Victoria the Good._ 376
_XXI._ _Edward the Peacemaker._ 383
=L I S T O F I L L U S T R A T I O N S=
———••———
IN COLOUR.
Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey,
Hunters and Traders,
Caractacus in Rome,
Sir Tristram at the Court of Arthur,
Augustine preaching to Ethelbert and Bertha,
Alfred in the Camp of the Danes,
Coronation of William the Conqueror,
Death of Becket,
Crusaders on the March,
King Richard and the Young Archer,
Hubert and Arthur,
The Trial of Wallace,
Edward the Third at the Siege of Calais,
The Black Prince being made a Knight of the Garter,
The Little Princes in the Tower,
The Departure of John and Sebastian Cabot on their First Voyage of
Discovery, 1497,
Cardinal Wolsey on his Way to Westminster Hall,
The Murder of Rizzio,
The Armada in Sight,
Charles the First leaving Westminster Hall after his Trial,
Cromwell dictating Dispatches to Milton,
The Fall of Clarendon,
The Last Sleep of Argyll,
The Prince of Orange landing at Torbay,
The British Assault on the Village of Blenheim,
A Royal Fugitive,
The Battle of Trafalgar, and the Victory of Lord Nelson over the
French and Spanish Fleets, October 21, 1805,
The Death of Nelson,
Napoleon on Board the _Bellerophon_,
The Meeting of Wellington and Blücher after the Battle of Waterloo,
Saving the Colours: An Incident of the Battle of Inkermann,
Jessie’s Dream,
* * * * *
IN BLACK AND WHITE.
The First Invasion of Britain by Julius Cæsar,
The Invasion of the Emperor Claudius,
The Emperor Hadrian visiting a Pottery in Britain,
Columba preaching,
A Great Viking,
The Death of Harold,
Hereward yielding to William,
“God Wills It!”
The First Prince of Wales,
The Battle of Bannockburn,
The Morning of Agincourt,
The Coronation of Charles the Seventh at Rheims,
Joan of Arc storming the “Bulwark” (Orleans),
Death of Warwick,
Richard the Third at the Battle of Bosworth,
Trial of Queen Catherine,
Henry the Eighth,
At Sea. “Farewell, France!”
Escape of Mary Queen of Scots from Loch Leven Castle,
Queen Elizabeth at Tilbury Fort,
The Boyhood of Sir Walter Raleigh,
Cromwell at Marston Moor,
Jane Lane helping Prince Charles to escape,
Rescued from the Plague, London, 1665,
The Arrest of Alice Lisle,
Bonnie Prince Charlie,
After Culloden: Royalist Soldiers searching for Jacobite Fugitives,
Clive at Bay,
Death of Wolfe,
Queen Victoria in her Coronation Robes,
Queen Victoria at St. Paul’s,
Edward the Seventh,
[Illustration]
Chapter I.
BRITAIN BEFORE THE ROMAN CONQUEST.
THE PHŒNICIANS.
“_The bond of commerce was designed_
_To associate all the branches of mankind;_
_And if a boundless plenty be the robe,_
_Trade is the golden girdle of the globe._”
THE procession advances. Who, you ask, are these swarthy, Jewish-looking
men leading the way? They are Phœnicians, the first visitors from
civilized shores to our island. These restless wanderers are keen
traders, who have sped their barks from distant Tyre or Carthage in
quest of merchandise. One of them, urging his ship northward towards
this fabled happy land of the western ocean, has sighted through the
clearing mists the distant line of an unknown shore. He has landed and
come into touch with the natives. Spreading out his tempting treasures
of purple cloth, glittering trinkets, and gleaming glass to the
astonished gaze of the Britons, he has begun to barter his wares for the
native products of the isle.
His keen eyes soon discover that the Britons possess something far more
precious than the furs which they proffer. Tin, the most precious metal
of the ancient world, abounds here. The Phœnician’s eyes gleam as he
makes the discovery; visions of untold wealth flash before him. Tin to
him is the most desirable of all metals. In due proportion it will
transform soft, yielding copper into bronze, which makes the best
weapons of the age. The art of tempering iron is still unknown, and
swords and spear-heads of bronze still decide the battles of the ancient
world. Alike in peace or war, tin is sought and prized as gold is
to-day. The statues of the temples, the urns that hold the ashes of the
dead, the ornaments with which men and women delight to adorn
themselves, owe their beauty and value to tin. All this the Phœnician
knows full well; he has discovered a Klondyke which will make him rich
beyond the dreams of avarice.
Again and again he visits this land of Britain, and every voyage he
grows richer and richer. He takes infinite precautions lest his secret
treasure-house should be discovered. He comes and goes mysteriously.
Other traders, greedy for similar gains, follow in his wake and closely
beset him; he even runs his ship on a foaming reef, and escapes by
swimming, rather than betray the source of his wealth. But all in vain;
his secret is discovered, and other barks in quick succession steer for
the Tin Islands. An important trade springs up between Britain and
Southern Europe. Thus, by means of those mineral treasures which have
made Britain what she is, our land becomes known to the civilized world.
Some three hundred years before Christ, an explorer from Marseilles pays
the island a visit, and on his return writes a brief account of what he
has seen. He tells us of the Kentish farms, with their granaries piled
high with golden grain; and he describes the mead of honey and wheat
which the islanders drink. More than two long centuries pass away before
another explorer arrives to lift the veil still further. He pushes into
the interior and makes acquaintance with the rustic Britons, rough and
uncouth, the hunters and graziers of the island. He visits the mines of
Cornwall, and tells us that the tin is found in earthy veins in the
rocks; that it is extracted, ground down, smelted and purified, and
exported in knuckle-shaped slabs. Packed into wagons, it is carried
during ebb-tide to a neighbouring island, which may be St. Michael’s
Mount or the Isle of Wight, and there sold and shipped to Gaul, whence
it is carried overland on the backs of pack-horses to Marseilles.
Pass on, ye Phœnicians! We salute you as the fathers of that vast
British commerce which has built up the mighty Empire in which we
rejoice to-day. Our busy hives of industry with their great factories
and roaring looms; our myriad ships that carry, over every sea to every
land, the woven fabrics of our workshops, the coal of our mines, and the
iron and steel of our furnaces and forges, all owe their beginnings to
you who first set ajar for us the golden gates of trade.
[Illustration: =Hunters and Traders.=
(_From the painting by Lord Leighton, P.R.A., in the Royal Exchange,
London._
_By permission of Mr. Matthews._)]
[Illustration]
THE ANCIENT BRITONS.
“_Where the maned bison and the wolf did roam,_
_The ancient Briton reared his wattled home;_
_Paddled his coracle across the mere;_
_In the dim forest chased the antlered deer;_
_Pastured his herds within the open glade;_
_Played with his ‘young barbarians’ in the shade;_
_And when the new moon o’er the high hills broke,_
_Worshipped his heathen gods beneath the sacred oak._”
Here come your first Britons, tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired, long of
limb, and ruddy of countenance. Some, from the dense forest interior,
are clad in the skins of the bears and other wild animals which they
have slain; others wear garments of the rough cloth which they have
woven on their own rude looms, or have obtained by barter from traders
of distant and more civilized lands. None of them are mere yelling
savages, bedaubed with blue war-paint; they have long passed that stage.
They are all warriors born and bred, fierce in fight but sociable and
friendly in peace. They live in tribes under their “kings;” they graze
their cattle, till the land, and search the gravels of the rivers for
tin.
Let us visit a British “town” of Kent, a century or so before the coming
of the Romans, and learn something of the old British mode of life. We
plunge into the dark shades of the forest, and follow a narrow track
that winds hither and thither through the dense undergrowth. We are
armed, for in the thickets and in the caves of the rocky hillocks lurk
the gray wolf, the fierce boar, the black bear, and the wild cat. Now
and then a startled deer gazes at us for a moment, and bounds away into
safety. In the stream which we ford herons are fishing and beavers are
building. Overhead the hawks are sailing by, and from a neighbouring
marsh comes the boom of a bittern.
On we go, and at length reach a great cleared space. The trees have been
felled, and some of the land is under tillage. Horses, sheep, oxen, and
swine are quietly feeding, and here and there are strips of grain and
barley. Half a mile away is the town. All round it is a moat, with an
earthen wall topped by a stockade of oak logs. As we approach the narrow
entrance, we see the pointed roofs of many huts, from which thin lines
of blue smoke are curling up into the summer air.
We enter the town by a zigzag road, and pass the homesteads, square or
round in shape, and built of unhewn or roughly hewn trees placed on end,
with roofs of interlaced boughs thatched with rushes or covered with
turf. Each homestead consists of one room, large enough to contain the
whole family. The floor is of earth, or perhaps covered with thin
slates. In the middle of it is the family fire, which continues to burn
night and day all the year round; when it dies out, the home is
deserted. The smoke escapes by a hole in the roof. Round the fire, along
the sides of the room, is a bed made of rushes and covered with hides or
coarse rugs. On this the members of the family sit at meals, and sleep
at night with their feet towards the fire. The rushes and green grass
which are placed between the family fire and the family bed serve as a
table, and on this at meal times are placed large platters containing
oatmeal cakes, meat, and broth.
In front of the entrance to one of the homesteads a blue-eyed,
fair-haired woman, in a tunic of dark-blue cloth, sits grinding corn
with a quern or handmill. Little boys, clad in strips of bear-skin,
engage in a wrestling match hard by. Sturdy little lads they are, for
their rearing has been of a Spartan character; they were plunged into
the water of the stream at birth, and they received their first taste of
food on the point of their father’s sword. Yonder old woman is boiling
water by making pebbles red-hot in the fire and dropping them into an
earthen water-pot.
Passing on, we reach a long, low dwelling, which by its size indicates
the superior condition of its owner. It is, indeed, the home of the
chieftain of the tribe. Big mastiffs and wolf-hounds growl over their
bones at the door. Within, the walls are covered with skins. Round
shields of hide with shining metal bosses and rims of iron, spears with
bronze or iron heads, and bows with quivers of reed arrows tipped with
flint adorn the walls. One sword in particular holds the place of honour
as a rare prize; it is of iron, with a sheath of bronze studded with red
coral.
The chieftain comes forward to welcome us—a tall, well-made man, blue
of eye, with long, fair hair and a tawny moustache of which he is vastly
proud. Over his flame-red blouse, which is belted at the waist, is a
twisted _torque_ of gold, cunningly fashioned and adorned with beautiful
tracery; across his blouse is thrown a tartan plaid fastened at the
shoulder by a brooch of polished boar tusk. His trousers fit closely to
the ankles, and are so characteristic an article of his attire that he
is known as “wearer of breeches” in distant Rome. Where his skin is
bare, we notice that it is painted with patterns of blue. He greets us
heartily, and a slave at his direction hands us a great silver-rimmed
horn filled with mead.
His wife shares in the welcome. She is a robust, healthy matron, fit
mother of her stalwart sons, who she prays may grow up as heroes, and do
ere long some doughty deed which shall entitle them to the heroic names
which they have yet to possess. When the day’s work is done, she will
gather them about her knees and recite the wild legends of their sires,
whose mighty feats of war still inspire young Britons to the fray. She
wears a tunic with a scarf of red-striped plaid fastened by a pin of
bronze. A string of dusky pearls hangs about her neck, and spiral rings
of silver adorn her fingers. The ivory bracelets and the amber beads
which she proudly wears have been brought from afar by the traders who
visit the town from time to time.
The wife is mistress of the home. She has the management not only of all
household affairs, but, as she is the wife of a warrior, the care and
direction of the whole concerns of the family both indoors and out. She
and her sisters spin, knit, weave, dye, sow, cook, grind corn, and milk
the cows—indeed do most of the hard work that is done. Her husband
considers field-labour and farm-work entirely beneath his dignity. War
and hunting are his work, and right well does he excel in both. Probably
safely housed in a hut hard by is his precious scythe-wheeled chariot,
in which he goes forth to war when the horn is sounded, the shield is
struck, and the _cran-tara_—the “fiery cross”—is sent through the
tribe as a call to arms. He and his fellow-warriors spend much time in
their warlike exercises; the slaves, the weaklings, and the old men tend
the flocks and herds and conduct the tillage.
Let us continue our tour of the town. Here is a man cleverly weaving
baskets of wicker-work; yonder is a fisherman returning from the river,
his broad back bearing a coracle, such as you may see on the Dee at
Llangollen or on the rivers of South Wales to-day. Not far away is the
metal-worker’s hut, where the craftsman is busy mixing his bronze, and
moulding it into axes, lance-heads, and sword-blades. Another worker is
busy chipping flints brought from the quarry in yonder chalk hills. The
potter who labours close at hand kneads out his yellow clay and fashions
his pots by hand, ornamenting them by pressing a notched stick or braid
against the wet clay. Such is a British town in the most civilized part
of the land a century or so before the coming of the Romans.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: The Druids]
“_Sage beneath a spreading oak_
_Sat the Druid, hoary chief._”
Room for the Druids! Their solemn progress, their patriarchal beards,
their white robes of office, and the chaplets of oak leaves on their
brows proclaim them at once. Priests, judges, magicians, and instructors
of youth, they rule the Britons with a rod of iron. Their altars and
idols are set deep in the gloomy shades of dense forests amidst the
gnarled and twisted stems of aged oaks. The secrets of their cruel creed
are close locked in their bosoms, and over all their words and works
they cast a dread mystery that chills the heart of the boldest Briton in
the land. Their word is law, their curse is death. Their richest
treasures go unguarded save for the awe which they inspire. Deep in
their forest shades they offer their mysterious sacrifices; sometimes
human beings, imprisoned in huge wicker-work images, are burnt to death
to appease the angry gods. The Druids claim to hold sway even over the
spirits of the departed, and the Briton trembles as he hears the voices
of tormented souls wailing in the night wind. Every shadow is a terror;
every flying cloud is an omen of good or ill; every spring, river, and
fountain has its guardian deity. Fire is the element which the Druids
hold in the highest reverence; the sacred flame on their altars never
dies.
Four times a year solemn festivals are held. On Midsummer Eve, New
Year’s Day, May Day, and Hallowe’en the great Beltane fires are lighted,
and Britons from near and far assemble for worship. The mistletoe
growing on an oak is held sacred in the highest degree, and on the sixth
day of the moon a feast is prepared beneath the hallowed branches. White
bulls are dragged to the tree, and their broad foreheads are bound to
its stem, their loud bellowings mingling with the strain of the wild
anthem which the worshippers raise. When the beasts have been
slaughtered as sacrifices, the chief Druid, clad in his flowing white
robes, his golden collar and bracelets, ascends the oak, treading on the
backs and broad shoulders of blindfolded slaves. With a golden
pruning-knife he severs the mistletoe, and beneath him attendant Druids
receive it on a white linen cloth. It is then distributed to the awed
and expectant multitude, who carry home and carefully preserve a sprig
of the all-healing plant. The Christmas mistletoe beneath which youths
and maidens now make merry at the most sacred season of the Christian
year annually recalls this heathenish rite.
Much of the Druids’ lore is imposture, but they have wrested from Nature
some of her secrets. They know the stars in their courses; they are
skilled in the lore of plants and the healing properties of herbs and
simples. They practise the arts of public speaking and poesy. Their
bards sing the songs of heroes, and inflame warriors with the lust of
battle. But over all broods the cruel shadow of death, and men tremble
as they pray.
Dread and mighty as these Druids are, the day of their doom is coming.
Even now the Roman galleys are on the sea, and their prows are rising
and falling as they furrow the heaving waters towards the white cliffs
of Albion. Centuries will elapse before the gospel of love and mercy
sweeps away the blood-stained rites of the Druids’ creed. The gods of
Rome will destroy the deities of the isle. Jupiter and Mars will
dethrone them; and in their train, how or when we know not, the message
of Christianity will be whispered, until at length the daystar rises,
never to set, on the forests of Britain.
Gone are the Druids, but their name still survives in the mountains and
valleys of Wales, where the ancient Britons found their refuge in a
later age. Our modern Druids love letters and music, and the other
beautiful arts which touch and kindle souls. Theirs it is to encourage
men and women to build the lofty rhyme, to weave the golden strands of
melody, and to limn the loveliness of earth and sea and sky. Thus
transformed, the Druid is a prophet of sweetness and light, not an
enslaver of souls.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE COMING OF CÆSAR.
“_The foremost man of all the world._”
A king amongst men now draws near. As he strides by, a proud and
majestic figure, you know that you are in the presence of one of the
world’s greatest men. He bears himself like a conqueror, yet he is far
more than a mere victorious general. Scholar, statesman, writer, orator,
and architect, he is the “noblest Roman of them all.” Look at his stern,
powerful face, his eagle-like nose, his thin, firm-set lips, his lofty
brow, and his massive head crowned with a wreath of laurel. “_Cæsar!_”
you cry, and it is none other than he.
He has subdued Gaul, and now he looks across the narrow strait towards
the white, gleaming cliffs of Dover. A new arena opens before him, a
land untrodden by Roman feet, an island of fabled wealth of pearl and
tin, of waving cornfields and rich pastures, peopled by sturdy warriors
worthy to cross swords even with him. He remembers the fiery charge of
the British on many a Gaulish battlefield, and his wrath rekindles as he
thinks of the havoc they have wrought amongst his legions, and of the
welcome and shelter they have afforded his flying foes in their
unconquered island only a few leagues away. Right well do they deserve
to feel the weight of the Roman hand. He has received invitations, too.
The tribes on yonder coveted island are ever at war with each other;
ambitious chiefs are ever seeking to subdue their weaker neighbours.
Refugees have fled to him beseeching his assistance against their
enemies. Ambition, revenge, and the prospect of easy victory over a
disunited foe, all urge him on to the new enterprise now shaping itself
in his busy brain. “The die is cast.” He will invade and conquer
Britain, and add another laurel to his wreath of fame.
He consults the chief merchants of the Gallic coast, and endeavours to
learn the military strength, the resources, the landing-places of the
island; but they are dumb, and only find their tongues when they
secretly and hurriedly send off messengers to warn the islanders of the
threatened invasion. Envoys from Britain speedily arrive, eager to
appease the wrath of great Cæsar by humbly offering to submit. They are
too late. “The die is cast.”
A Roman galley pushes out to survey the British coast and to fix upon a
suitable landing-place. Meanwhile Cæsar masses his legions and hies him
to _Portus Itius_, where his transports lie. The return of the scout is
the signal for embarkation, and on the morning of August 26, in the year
55 B.C., anchors are weighed and the galleys stream out of the harbour.
By ten o’clock they are under the cliffs of the British shore, and then
they perceive that no easy victory awaits them. Heavy fighting must be
done ere the legions form up on the British shore. The cliffs are black
with warriors, chariots, and horsemen ready to oppose their landing.
With a favouring breeze and the tide in his favour, Cæsar skirts the
shore eastward, until a shelving strand somewhere near Romney Marsh
promises him convenient landing. As his galleys move eastward, the
British on the cliffs move eastward too. There is a long pause; the
transports containing the cavalry are still miles away. They have not
appeared at three in the afternoon; the day is wearing on, and Cæsar
determines to attempt a landing without them.
With difficulty his ships approach the shallow shore, only to find the
full force of the island-army, with horsemen and chariots, drawn up in
battle-array to receive him. The British horsemen spur their steeds into
the waves; and many a half-naked footman, with sharp javelin, heavy
club, or rough-hewn war-hatchet, presses on towards the galleys. For a
few minutes the Roman soldiers are dismayed and dare not leap from their
ships. Then Cæsar orders up his warships and stations them on the flank
of the enemy. Slings and catapults open fire, and the Britons, assailed
as they have never been assailed before, draw back in confusion. Still
the Romans hesitate, but the situation is saved by the standard-bearer
of the famous Tenth Legion. “Leap, fellow-soldiers,” he cries, “unless
you wish to betray your Eagle to the enemy. I at least will do my duty
to the Republic and to my general.” Roused by his example, the Romans
leap from their ships, and immediately a fierce fight rages in the
water.
The waves are red with blood; mailed Roman and naked Briton hack and hew
at each other in confused combat; and slowly but surely the invaders
gain the beach. There they form into ranks, shoulder to shoulder, and
against that solid wall of disciplined valour nothing can stand. The
scythe-wheeled chariots thunder towards the Roman array, the evening sun
glinting from their outstretched blades; but the fiery horses are
impaled on the iron points of the Roman spears. Step by step the Britons
are forced from the strand; fainter and fainter sound the voices of the
Druids singing their frenzied war-chants; and ere darkness has settled
down the islanders have retreated, and the Roman victors remain on the
beach which they have so hardly won.
Next day come chiefs with offers of submission; but four days later,
when Cæsar’s cavalry transports are nearing the coast, a great storm
arises. The anchored galleys are wrecked; the newcomers are driven back
to Gaul. Cæsar is in perilous plight. He has no provisions for his
soldiers, no materials with which to repair his shattered ships. The
autumn storms have begun, and he is on a treacherous coast, harassed by
a fierce, unrelenting foe.
These disasters give new hope to the Britons. They rapidly muster their
men, and form an ambush in an uncut field of grain not far from the
Roman camp. When the Seventh Legion comes out to reap the corn it is
suddenly beset on all sides by a host of horsemen and charioteers. The
cloud of dust raised by the chariot wheels betrays the fight to the
sentinels of the camp. Cæsar hurries to the spot, and just manages to
save the reapers from utter destruction and convey them back to his
stronghold. The Britons follow, and make the grievous mistake of
attacking the Romans in their trenches. Beaten back time after time,
they again retreat to their fastnesses in the woods, and once more offer
submission.
Cæsar is quite ready for peace. His troops are weary, for they have been
seventeen or eighteen days on the island, and the struggle has never
ceased. His twelve thousand men are all too few to overcome the
obstinate Britons. He does not wait even to receive the promised
hostages, but, taking advantage of the first fair wind that blows, he
returns to Gaul, baffled and beaten, without a single token of conquest.
Next year he comes again. The warm spring days that bring the swallows
bring the Roman galleys once more. This time he does not despise his
enemy. Twenty-five thousand foot and two thousand horse, embarked on
eight hundred ships, speed towards the threatened shore. He lands
without striking a blow, and stray prisoners inform him that his advance
is to be challenged at a ford on the Stour twelve miles away. He is
determined not to lose an hour. Through the night his legions tramp over
the unknown country, and in the cold gray of the early dawn they find
themselves on the bank of a reedy river, with the foe drawn up on the
opposite side.
The charge is sounded, and the Roman cavalry dash into the river with
the utmost impetuosity. They break through and through the ranks of the
British infantry, their bronze swords being no match for the tempered
iron of the Roman brands and javelins. Again the Britons give way, and
betake themselves to their woodland fortresses barricaded with the
trunks of felled trees. Here Cassivellaunus, behind his stockade, holds
out stoutly. But his fortifications are carried at last, and the four
“kings” of Kent, who have failed in an attack on the Roman camp, come
once more in humble guise to offer their submission. Cæsar is again
ready for peace. Forest fighting is too perilous for his taste. Amidst
the mazes of the woodland the Roman formations are broken up, and in
hand-to-hand combats the Britons are the equals of his best and most
highly-trained soldiers. So he yields to the inevitable. He receives
hostages and empty promises of annual tribute. Again he departs, leaving
nothing to mark his so-called conquest but the earthworks of his
deserted camps.
Once more he has failed. He may not describe his campaign as he does a
later victory—“I came, I saw, I conquered.” He is fain to confess that
his usual good fortune has deserted the “eagles” in Britain. A few
hostages, a girdle of British pearls for Venus, and a lordly triumph in
Rome—these are the only fruits which Cæsar reaps from his toils and
perils on this side of the Channel. He vanishes from the pageant to win
plentiful laurels on other fields. He has failed in Britain, but
elsewhere he becomes unchallenged master of the Roman world. Ten years
later, having attained the very summit of his ambition, he falls beneath
the daggers of his erstwhile friends.
Cæsar vanishes, and with his departure twilight once more settles down
on the land. For nearly a hundred years no Roman soldier sets foot on
the island. Nevertheless, Britain is nearer to the masterful city on the
Tiber than she has been before. Roman gossips talk of the island in
their streets. Adventurous Romans and equally adventurous Britons
exchange visits. Trade increases between the far-off island and the
heart of the world. Roman huntsmen prize their British hounds, and
British slaves are fashionable in the patrician homes of Rome. Britain
moves onward in the march of civilization, and ere the century of peace
comes to an end she is a real prize of conquest—a laurel worthy of the
imperial brow itself.
[Illustration: =THE FIRST INVASION OF BRITAIN BY JULIUS CÆSAR.=
(_From the cartoon by Edward Armitage, R.A._)]
[Illustration]