THE VIKING INVASIONS.
THE COMING OF THE SEA-KINGS.
“_What sea-worn barks are those which throw_
_The light spray from each rushing prow?_
_Their frozen sails, the low, pale sun_
_Of Thule’s night has shone upon._”
ROOM for the Vikings! the sons of the creek, the bluff, stalwart rovers
who love the salt sea with a consuming passion, and shout with glee as
the waves foam beneath them and tempest roars about them. Mighty
warriors are they, wild and untamed as the element they love, swift as
the falcon, remorseless as the vulture, fierce as the wolf. From the
shores of the Baltic they come, swarming out of their barren homelands,
and descending with fire and sword upon all the coasts of Western
Europe. Every champion amongst them ardently desires to be a _Berserk_,
and thus to be regarded as the bravest of the brave, utterly
contemptuous of death. These Berserks within sight of the foe are wont
to lash themselves into a frenzy, so that they bite their shields and
rush to the fray, wielding club or battle-axe with almost superhuman
strength.
No Christian message of peace and brotherhood has touched their hearts;
they still swear by the Asir, and still glory in their descent from the
grim gods of their dark and hopeless creed. They lust for blood, and
their fiercest loathing is reserved for them who have abandoned Odin and
Thor for the mild faith of the “White Christ.” They shed with unholy joy
the blood of priests; they glory in the plunder and the burning of
churches. They are a scourge, not only to England, Scotland, and
Ireland, but to the whole of Europe; and men pray in their churches,
“From the fury of the Northmen, good Lord, deliver us.”
Never in the whole history of the world have men “followed the sea” with
such fearlessness and keen delight as these Vikings. The sea is their
“swan road,” their “Viking path,” their “land of the keel,” their
“glittering home.” Their ships are “deer of the surf” and “horses of the
sea.” Frail barks they seem to us, small and not very seaworthy; but the
men who man them are consummate sailors, and they make astounding
voyages with nothing but a thin plank between them and destruction. The
Orkneys know them; they have seen Hecla shoot out its fiery lava in
remote Iceland; they have even trodden the icy shores of Greenland, far
across the dreaded Western Ocean.
A Viking fleet is even now heading for our shores. Look at the long
black ships, with their high prows curved in the semblance of a serpent.
The sun glints on the bright shields which protect their bulwarks, on
the mail which the warriors wear, and on the battle-axes and spears
which they wield. The great sails flaunt painted devices—the eagle, the
bear, the wolf, and the raven. Fierce are these creatures, but fiercer
still the men who now come to harry these shores.
Yonder little village is happy and peaceful in the morning sunshine. The
cosy farmhouses and the smiling fields with their rich promise of
harvest tell the tale of comfort and contentment. Alas! the scene will
change when these sea-wolves arrive. They will sail up the river-mouth,
throw up stockaded earthworks to secure their retreat, and then begin
the congenial work of pillage and slaughter. Men, women, and innocent
babes will be slain, cattle will be driven off, and the smoke of burning
roof-trees will darken the sky. Yonder minster, where the frightened
monks are trembling before the altar, will be raided; its treasures, the
gifts of generations of pious souls, will be seized; the gilded cross
will be torn down and trampled upon, and blood-eagles will be carved on
the backs of the hated priests. Then torch and flame will do their work;
and the Vikings, having devastated the countryside like locusts, will
retire to their ships glutted with blood and laden with booty.
Again and again they will return, bolder and bolder, and at length they
will covet the fair land as their home. They will come in such force
that they will reave half the land from the English, and then a Viking
will rule the realm. Ay, and Englishmen will come to honour and love
him. Then the Viking settlers will disappear, absorbed into the mass of
the nation, and endowing the national character with a new strain of
courage, daring, and adventure. But before that happy day dawns the land
will run red with blood, many homes will be ruined, many patriotic
hearts will break, and the star of England will seem to have set for
ever.
[Illustration: ALFRED THE GREAT]
“_Behold a pupil of the monkish gown,_
_The pious Alfred, king to Justice dear;_
_Lord of the harp and liberating spear,_
_Mirror of princes!_”
Now, amidst the gloom, the greatest of all our kings appears. “England’s
Darling,” and “Truth-Teller,” men called him in his lifetime, and these
proud titles well attest the affection and esteem in which the men of
his own age justly held him. Nor has his glory faded with the passing of
centuries. The more his career is studied, the greater he grows and the
brighter shines his peerless fame. His nature was a beautiful blend of
courage and tenderness, perseverance and patience. He loved justice and
mercy, and he lived and died for his people. Warrior, statesman,
scholar, lawgiver, and true patriot, he stands for all time as the type
and model of the perfect king. A thousand years have sped since his pure
spirit departed, but still he is one of the greatest glories of our
land. His life was one long struggle against fierce foes, against the
darkness of ignorance, against the desolation of ruin and the cruel
pangs of bodily pain, but he triumphed over all—
“Not making his high place the lawless perch
Of wing’d ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
For pleasure; but through all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life.”
And now for his story, which writers have loved to dwell upon in every
succeeding age. Born in royal Wantage, where his statue now stands, he
was but three years of age when the Vikings made their first settlement
in England. In that year a great army of Danes, with three hundred and
fifty ships, swept up the Thames, sacked London and Canterbury, and put
to flight an English army. Two years later, Alfred’s father, Ethelwulf,
and his elder brother, Ethelbald, met them in battle, and after a
stubborn fight won a great victory. Such a desperate struggle had not
taken place in England for many years, and more than half the Danish
army perished on the field. Another victory followed, and for a time the
Danes were checked. So far, their coming had been but the low mutterings
of the fierce storm which was soon to burst in all its fury. Alfred was
cradled in an hour of terrible anxiety and ever-present danger.
Almost the first incident which his biographer recounts is the pretty
story of how his mother sought to encourage her sons to learn to read.
Showing the lads a beautifully-illuminated volume of English verse, and
reading aloud some of its contents, she promised the volume to the first
of them who could read it for himself. Fired by the desire to possess
the volume, and also to learn something more of its wondrous pages,
Alfred sought out a tutor, and ere long was able to claim it as his own.
The love of letters, thus early demonstrated, grew with the years. In
his later and more peaceful days he surrounded himself with scholars,
and loved their company and converse better than aught else. Asser, the
Welsh monk, who was his devoted friend, tells us that as “Alfred
advanced through the years of infancy and youth, he appeared more comely
in person than his brothers, and his countenance, speech, and manners
were more pleasing than theirs. His noble birth and noble nature
implanted in him from his cradle a love of wisdom above all things.”
In his twentieth year Alfred married a noble Mercian lady named Mercill.
Meanwhile, the Danes, growing bolder and bolder, had become a grievous
peril to the land. In the year of Alfred’s marriage they marched on
York, and capturing it, pushed into Mercia and wintered at Nottingham.
In the twenty-second year of Alfred’s life they triumphed over Edmund,
King of the East Angles. Him they dragged forth and bound to a tree.
Then with fiendish glee they shot arrows into his limbs, and at length,
unable to break his proud and confident spirit, they struck off his
devoted head. They parted his realm amongst themselves, and placed their
chief, Guthrum, on his throne.
Next year King Ethelred and Alfred were overcome by the Danes at
Reading. Roused by grief and shame at the loss of this battle, the
English mustered in force and advanced against their foes at Ashdown.
While Ethelred remained in his tent at prayer, Alfred led his men to the
fight, and “with the rush of a wild boar,” charged up the slopes on
which the Danes had stationed themselves. Long and fierce was the fray,
but at nightfall victory rested with the English.
Their joy was short-lived; a fortnight later the Danes were again
victorious, and soon another Viking army from across the sea joined
them. In the same year died Ethelred of his wounds, and Alfred was
crowned king of a realm which was little more than a name. A month later
his small army was overcome, and black indeed was the outlook. “Let no
one be surprised,” says Asser, “that the English had but a small number
of men, for they had been all but worn out by eight battles in this
self-same year; in the which there died one king, nine chieftains, and
innumerable troops of soldiers.”
Two years of desperate fighting followed, and the Danes were victorious
almost everywhere. At length Alfred was forced to withdraw with the
little band which still followed him to the marshes of Somersetshire.
Here, in the midst of a vast morass where the Tone and the Parret join
their waters, lay a low lift of ground some two acres in extent, girded
in by almost impassable fen-lands. This was the island of Athelney, and
here Alfred threw up a fort, and waited and longed for happier days. It
was about this time that the fugitive king, flying from his foes,
entered the hut of a cowherd and begged for shelter. In the hut occurred
that incident which is so familiar to every reader of English history.
Asser tells the story, and doubtless he had it from Alfred’s own lips.
It happened that on a certain day the wife of the cowherd prepared to
bake her bread. The king, sitting near the hearth, was making ready his
bows and arrows and other warlike implements, when the rough
countrywoman beheld her loaves burning at the fire. She ran forward and
hastily removed them, scolding the king for his inattention and
carelessness:—
“Casn’t thee mind the ca-akes, man, and doossen zee ’em burn?
I’m bound thee’s eat ’em vast enough, zo zoon as ’tis thee turn.”
“The unlucky woman,” continues Asser, “little thought that she was
addressing the King Alfred.” We can readily imagine the momentary anger
of the king as he heard the shrill clamour of the angry housewife, and
the good-natured smile that almost immediately followed when he
recognized the justice of the reproof. Legend, which has been very busy
with this period of eclipse in Alfred’s career, tells us that he
persuaded his host to study, and that in after and happier years the
cowherd held high office in the Church.
Though apparently at his last extremity, Alfred did not abandon the
struggle. Scarcely a day passed but he sallied forth at the head of his
little band, to assail such forces of the enemy as approached his
neighbourhood. In this guerilla warfare, amidst the swamps whose secret
paths were quite unknown to the stranger, Alfred schooled himself in the
arts of surprise, rapid onset, and equally rapid retreat. Patriotic
Englishmen joined him in his fastness, and day by day his forces grew.
At length the dark night passed away, and the dawn of a new day began to
flash the horizon. The hour of deliverance had arrived.
The Danes had established themselves in a strongly fortified camp at
Chippenham, in Wiltshire. The hill which they occupied is still pointed
out, and from the neighbouring plain it still appears rugged, abrupt,
and difficult of ascent. The English forces were too few to venture on
an unpremeditated attack; therefore Alfred arrayed himself as a
wandering minstrel, and, harp in hand, approached the enemy’s outposts.
The _scald_ would be right welcome, for the Danes ever loved a song, and
camp life was dull. Alfred sang and played to the Danes, and was led
even to the tent of Guthrum, the chief. As he struck the chords and
trolled the lay, his keen eyes were busy photographing the defences of
the camp on the sensitive plate of his memory. Dismissed with praise and
gifts from the Danish entrenchments, he hastened to his island retreat,
and there matured his plan of attack. The naked sword and the war-arrow
were borne by loyal hands through the length and breadth of the
south-western counties, and soon all was ready for the fateful battle.
Alfred drew up his forces on the plain, and Guthrum marshalled his men
in front, with Bratton Hill, crowned by its strong encampment, as a
secure retreat in the rear. Massing his men in a close shield-wall, the
English king gave the signal for battle. His soldiers rushed on the
enemy; they broke the Danish ranks, and a fierce hand-to-hand fight
raged on the plain. Furious was the _mêlée_ of sweeping sword, crashing
battle-axe, and sharp javelin, and slowly the Danes began to gain
ground, when a storm of arrows suddenly fell upon them, followed by an
impetuous charge of English spearmen. The Danes were swept to earth; and
through the island ranks ran the inspiring rumour that a renowned
English saint had joined the fray, and that angelic hosts were fighting
for the stricken land. The English had fought stoutly before; now they
were irresistible. The Danes fell before their onslaught like corn
before the reaper’s sickle. All was over; the shattered remnant of the
Vikings turned and fled to their hill-top camp, leaving the field strewn
with their dead and dying.
Then Alfred girdled the hill with his forces, and for fourteen days
closely besieged the Danes. Hunger, cold, fear, and despair gradually
undermined the resolution of the besieged, and every day Alfred’s
triumphant army was swelled by new recruits. On the fourteenth day
Guthrum yielded, and humbly sued for peace. “They engaged to give the
king as many hostages as he pleased, and to receive none from him in
return—in which manner they had never before made peace with any one.”
“The king took pity on them, and received from them hostages, as many as
he would. Thereupon the Danes swore that they would straightway leave
the kingdom, and their king, Guthrum, promised to embrace Christianity
and receive baptism.” Alfred himself was Guthrum’s sponsor at the
ceremony, “receiving him as a son by adoption, and raising him up from
the holy font of baptism. After this he remained twelve days with the
king, who, together with all his companions, gave him rich gifts.”
In the year 879 the Danes left Chippenham, and after a time retired into
East Anglia and settled down quietly in the Danelaw, according to the
solemn treaty which the two kings had made. Again and again Viking
fleets assailed Alfred, but he was more than a match for them. He no
longer awaited their onsets, but built ships stronger and swifter than
those of his foes, and thus was enabled to meet them on their own
element. Alfred built the first English navy, and inaugurated that
policy of naval defence which Britons of every succeeding age have
recognized as the wisest and best. The foe who threatens our island
shores must be met and vanquished on the encircling sea.
Right nobly did Alfred bestir himself during the few years of life
remaining to him. He restored the towns, he founded monasteries, he
gathered learned men about him, and laboured to build up England anew.
Studious from his early years, he endeavoured to enrich his own mind and
to encourage his people to learn the arts of reading and writing. Into
the homely language understanded of the people he translated the best
and most useful works of the Latin writers of his time, and founded
schools, that the sons of his nobles might not grow up unlettered as
their fathers. He gave the best of his attention to the four greatest
things of national life—law, justice, religion, and education. He
collected and studied the old laws of the nation: what was good he
retained, what was bad he rejected. Never was king more eager to advance
learning and make new discoveries. He sent embassies to the remotest
parts of the then known world, and our earliest accounts of Arctic
exploration are from his pen.
Method and order were the rule of his life. One portion of his income he
allotted to his warriors and attendants; another to the buildings which
his architects from beyond the seas erected for him; a third for the
relief of foreigners; and the remainder for the Church, the schools, and
the poor. His time, too, was methodically bestowed on good works. Eight
hours each day were devoted to rest and refreshment; another eight hours
to affairs of state; the remaining eight hours to study and religious
exercises. To enable him rightly to apportion the time which he deemed
so precious, he fashioned wax candles, six of which, burned in
succession, marked the lapse of twenty-four hours. To guard against the
irregularities caused by draughts, he enclosed his candles in lanterns
of thin, transparent horn. Thus he measured his time, zealous that the
golden sands should not run out unheeded, and that no day should pass
without its tale of duty done, opportunities seized, and benefits
conferred.
And now we must bid farewell to this peerless king. A thousand summers
have come and gone since his countrymen bore him to his tomb, deeming
that the light of their land had been extinguished. They loved and
honoured him, and we revere his memory as that of probably the most
perfect character in history. He remains as the mirror of monarchs in
which they may perceive the elements of true majesty, and an inspiring
example to all of triumphant devotion, fortitude, and faith.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =Alfred in the Camp of the Danes.=
(_From the design by H. A. Bone. By permission of Antony Gibbs, Esq._)]
[Illustration]
KING CANUTE.
“_Canute o’ercame the race of Ethelred, and Danes wielded the dear realm
of Angle-land, eight-and-twenty of winters numbered._”
No saint he who now strides by—a thrice-crowned king, with the Viking
blood surging tumultuously in his veins. England, Norway, and Denmark
own his sway; but though Denmark is the land of his birth, England is
the land of his love and pride. Dane he is in form and feature, but his
lust of strife and fierce Berserk rage are controlled by cool judgment
and the generous instincts of a good but wayward heart, so that in his
later days he grows wise and temperate. His father, Sweyn, “lighting his
war-beacons in blazing homestead and town,” has harried the realm of
England in revenge for a cruel massacre of his kinsmen by a weak and
ruthless king, and Canute, ere his beard has grown, has entered into a
glorious heritage.
Not without fierce strife has this kingdom of England come to him. He
has met his match in Edmund Ironside, true hero and true Englishman. But
Edmund is dead, and the young Dane is unchallenged master of the land.
And now, secure in the possession of three kingdoms, he sets himself to
win the confidence of his new subjects. The armed bands with which he
has conquered his new realm are sent home, save for a stalwart
bodyguard. He will trust his Englishmen, and will link his fortunes with
theirs. He marries the beautiful widow of the late king, and labours to
hold the balance even between Dane and native. As the years go by his
new subjects come to be his best supporters, and England is England
still, though a Dane sits on the throne.
A pagan born, he nevertheless becomes a zealous Christian, and many a
fair monastery is reared and endowed by him. He strives to do justice to
all men, and he pledges himself to rule according to the old and
cherished law of the realm. One day, however, the fierce spirit within
him suddenly flames up, and he slays with his own hand a soldier of his
guard. When his wrath has died down he bitterly repents of the deed, and
deplores the evil example which he has set to others. Then he descends
from his throne and bids the Witan judge him and punish him, regardless
of his rank and power. Flinging himself prostrate on the ground, he
awaits the verdict which his judges dare not give, despite his promise
of free pardon. They bid him appoint his own judgment. The fine for
slaying a man is forty talents of silver. Canute sentences himself to
pay nine times the sum, and nine talents of gold in addition. Some see
in this act a mere theatrical display, a crafty method of re-enforcing
the law which he, the lawgiver, had violated. Let us be charitable, and
believe that he was sincere and honest in desiring to atone for his
crime.
Better known is the story of the rebuke which he administered to the
flattering courtiers who crowded round his throne. They, recounting his
mighty deeds of valour, his conquests, his glories, were not ashamed to
say, “Great lord, even the sea obeys you. The rising tide dare not wet
the hem of your garment.” On the seashore Canute set up his throne, and
as the waters rolled in and splashed about his feet he cried, “Confess
ye now how frivolous and vain is the might of an earthly king compared
with the Great Power who rules the elements, and can say unto the ocean,
‘Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther.’”
“And he strongly bade them never more to kneel to human clay,
But alone to praise and worship that which earth and seas obey;
And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day.
King Canute is dead and gone; parasites exist alway.”
An old chronicler tells us a pleasing story of his love of minstrelsy.
It was on the eve of a feast which he desired to keep in the abbey at
Ely. As his barge sped through the maze of waters by which the island
was approached, the voices of the chanting monks were borne faintly on
the breeze. Bidding the rowers cease their work, Canute listened with
unfeigned delight to the strain, rendered all the more harmonious by
distance and the intervening waters. Then as the boat shot forward once
more he composed the following verse, keeping time with the beat of the
oars:——
“Merrily sang the monks of Ely,
As Cnut the king rowed by;
Row, knights, near the land,
And let us hear these good monks sing.”
In Rome, the heart of Christendom, the Viking was still regarded as a
heathen pirate, a deadly enemy alike of civilization and true religion.
Canute was eager to remove this impression, and to bring his empire into
union with the greatest spiritual power of the world. He therefore
undertook a pilgrimage to Rome. West Saxon kings for three hundred years
past had visited the Pope and the tombs of the saints, but now, for the
first time, a Dane set out on the pious journey. A long train of
attendants accompanied him, but he himself wore a pilgrim’s robe and
carried a pilgrim’s staff in his hand. As he journeyed along the
pilgrims’ route, he bethought him of those who should hereafter follow
him, and made treaties with the masters of the Alpine passes, so that
his subjects should come and go unmolested. Arrived in Rome, he prayed
before the altars, placed rich gifts on every shrine, and purchased
relics for the churches at home.
From Rome he wrote to the Witan a letter which reveals him in a most
favourable light. Ere Canute passes by and our pageant knows him no
more, let us extract one passage from the message which he sent to his
people: “I would have you know that I have made a vow to Almighty God to
regulate my life by the dictates of virtue, and to govern my people with
judgment. If during the rashness of youth I have done anything contrary
to justice, I will for the future, with the help of God, amend this to
the best of my power. Wherefore I require and command all my counsellors
to lend themselves to no injustice, either in fear of me or to favour
the powerful. I recommend them, if they prize my friendship and their
own lives, to do no harm or violence to any man, rich or poor. Let every
one, in his place, enjoy that which he possesses, and not be disturbed
in that enjoyment, either in the king’s name or in the name of any other
person, nor under pretext of levying money for my treasury, for I need
no money obtained by unjust means.”
Truly a kingly resolve! Looking down the long avenue of time, we
recognize Canute as a “conscious creator of England’s greatness.” His
empire was destined to fall to pieces at his death, and ere seven years
had sped his line was extinct. A brief space more, and another tide of
conquest swept over his beloved England. Another king of Viking breed
held the sceptre which had fallen from his hand. Once more the English
bowed their necks to a foreign lord; but Canute’s work was never undone,
and the England of to-day acclaims him as her benefactor.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: =A GREAT VIKING.=
(_From the picture by H. W. Koekkoek._)]
[Illustration]