CHAPTER I

AFTER LONDON

or

Wild England

by

Richard Jefferies

Contents

Part I The Relapse into Barbarism

Chapter 1 The Great Forest

Chapter 2 Wild Animals

Chapter 3 Men of the Woods

Chapter 4 The Invaders

Chapter 5 The Lake

Part II Wild England

Chapter 1 Sir Felix

Chapter 2 The House of Aquila

Chapter 3 The Stockade

Chapter 4 The Canoe

Chapter 5 Baron Aquila

Chapter 6 The Forest Track

Chapter 7 The Forest Track continued

Chapter 8 Thyma Castle

Chapter 9 Superstitions

Chapter 10 The Feast

Chapter 11 Aurora

Chapter 12 Night in the Forest

Chapter 13 Sailing Away

Chapter 14 The Straits

Chapter 15 Sailing Onwards

Chapter 16 The City

Chapter 17 The Camp

Chapter 18 The King's Levy

Chapter 19 Fighting

Chapter 20 In Danger

Chapter 21 A Voyage

Chapter 22 Discoveries

Chapter 23 Strange Things

Chapter 24 Fiery Vapours

Chapter 25 The Shepherds

Chapter 26 Bow and Arrow

Chapter 27 Surprised

Chapter 28 For Aurora

Part I

The Relapse into Barbarism

CHAPTER I

THE GREAT FOREST

The old men say their fathers told them that soon after the fields were

left to themselves a change began to be visible. It became green

everywhere in the first spring, after London ended, so that all the

country looked alike.

The meadows were green, and so was the rising wheat which had been sown,

but which neither had nor would receive any further care. Such arable

fields as had not been sown, but where the last stubble had been

ploughed up, were overrun with couch-grass, and where the short stubble

had not been ploughed, the weeds hid it. So that there was no place

which was not more or less green; the footpaths were the greenest of

all, for such is the nature of grass where it has once been trodden on,

and by-and-by, as the summer came on, the former roads were thinly

covered with the grass that had spread out from the margin.

In the autumn, as the meadows were not mown, the grass withered as it

stood, falling this way and that, as the wind had blown it; the seeds

dropped, and the bennets became a greyish-white, or, where the docks and

sorrel were thick, a brownish-red. The wheat, after it had ripened,

there being no one to reap it, also remained standing, and was eaten by

clouds of sparrows, rooks, and pigeons, which flocked to it and were

undisturbed, feasting at their pleasure. As the winter came on, the

crops were beaten down by the storms, soaked with rain, and trodden upon

by herds of animals.

Next summer the prostrate straw of the preceding year was concealed by

the young green wheat and barley that sprang up from the grain sown by

dropping from the ears, and by quantities of docks, thistles, oxeye

daisies, and similar plants. This matted mass grew up through the

bleached straw. Charlock, too, hid the rotting roots in the fields under

a blaze of yellow flower. The young spring meadow-grass could scarcely

push its way up through the long dead grass and bennets of the year

previous, but docks and thistles, sorrel, wild carrots, and nettles,

found no such difficulty.

Footpaths were concealed by the second year, but roads could be traced,

though as green as the sward, and were still the best for walking,

because the tangled wheat and weeds, and, in the meadows, the long

grass, caught the feet of those who tried to pass through. Year by year

the original crops of wheat, barley, oats, and beans asserted their

presence by shooting up, but in gradually diminished force, as nettles

and coarser plants, such as the wild parsnips, spread out into the

fields from the ditches and choked them.

Aquatic grasses from the furrows and water-carriers extended in the

meadows, and, with the rushes, helped to destroy or take the place of

the former sweet herbage. Meanwhile, the brambles, which grew very fast,

had pushed forward their prickly runners farther and farther from the

hedges till they had now reached ten or fifteen yards. The briars had

followed, and the hedges had widened to three or four times their first

breadth, the fields being equally contracted. Starting from all sides at

once, these brambles and briars in the course of about twenty years met

in the centre of the largest fields.

Hawthorn bushes sprang up among them, and, protected by the briars and

thorns from grazing animals, the suckers of elm-trees rose and

flourished. Sapling ashes, oaks, sycamores, and horse-chestnuts, lifted

their heads. Of old time the cattle would have eaten off the seed leaves

with the grass so soon as they were out of the ground, but now most of

the acorns that were dropped by birds, and the keys that were wafted by

the wind, twirling as they floated, took root and grew into trees. By

this time the brambles and briars had choked up and blocked the former

roads, which were as impassable as the fields.

No fields, indeed, remained, for where the ground was dry, the thorns,

briars, brambles, and saplings already mentioned filled the space, and

these thickets and the young trees had converted most part of the

country into an immense forest. Where the ground was naturally moist,

and the drains had become choked with willow roots, which, when confined

in tubes, grow into a mass like the brush of a fox, sedges and flags and

rushes covered it. Thorn bushes were there, too, but not so tall; they

were hung with lichen. Besides the flags and reeds, vast quantities of

the tallest cow-parsnips or "gicks" rose five or six feet high, and the

willow herb with its stout stem, almost as woody as a shrub, filled

every approach.

By the thirtieth year there was not one single open place, the hills

only excepted, where a man could walk, unless he followed the tracks of

wild creatures or cut himself a path. The ditches, of course, had long

since become full of leaves and dead branches, so that the water which

should have run off down them stagnated, and presently spread out into

the hollow places and by the corner of what had once been fields,

forming marshes where the horsetails, flags, and sedges hid the water.

As no care was taken with the brooks, the hatches upon them gradually

rotted, and the force of the winter rains carried away the weak timbers,

flooding the lower grounds, which became swamps of larger size. The

dams, too, were drilled by water-rats, and the streams percolating

through, slowly increased the size of these tunnels till the structure

burst, and the current swept on and added to the floods below. Mill-dams

stood longer, but, as the ponds silted up, the current flowed round and

even through the mill-houses, which, going by degrees to ruin, were in

some cases undermined till they fell.

Everywhere the lower lands adjacent to the streams had become marshes,

some of them extending for miles in a winding line, and occasionally

spreading out to a mile in breadth. This was particularly the case where

brooks and streams of some volume joined the rivers, which were also

blocked and obstructed in their turn, and the two, overflowing, covered

the country around; for the rivers brought down trees and branches,

timbers floated from the shore, and all kinds of similar materials,

which grounded in the shallows or caught against snags, and formed huge

piles where there had been weirs.

Sometimes, after great rains, these piles swept away the timbers of the

weir, driven by the irresistible power of the water, and then in its

course the flood, carrying the balks before it like battering rams,

cracked and split the bridges of solid stone which the ancients had

built. These and the iron bridges likewise were overthrown, and

presently quite disappeared, for the very foundations were covered with

the sand and gravel silted up.

Thus, too, the sites of many villages and towns that anciently existed

along the rivers, or on the lower lands adjoining, were concealed by the

water and the mud it brought with it. The sedges and reeds that arose

completed the work and left nothing visible, so that the mighty

buildings of olden days were by these means utterly buried. And, as has

been proved by those who have dug for treasures, in our time the very

foundations are deep beneath the earth, and not to be got at for the

water that oozes into the shafts that they have tried to sink through

the sand and mud banks.

From an elevation, therefore, there was nothing visible but endless

forest and marsh. On the level ground and plains the view was limited to

a short distance, because of the thickets and the saplings which had now

become young trees. The downs only were still partially open, yet it was

not convenient to walk upon them except in the tracks of animals,

because of the long grass which, being no more regularly grazed upon by

sheep, as was once the case, grew thick and tangled. Furze, too, and

heath covered the slopes, and in places vast quantities of fern. There

had always been copses of fir and beech and nut-tree covers, and these

increased and spread, while bramble, briar, and hawthorn extended around

them.

By degrees the trees of the vale seemed as it were to invade and march

up the hills, and, as we see in our time, in many places the downs are

hidden altogether with a stunted kind of forest. But all the above

happened in the time of the first generation. Besides these things a

great physical change took place; but before I speak of that, it will be

best to relate what effects were produced upon animals and men.

In the first years after the fields were left to themselves, the fallen

and over-ripe corn crops became the resort of innumerable mice. They

swarmed to an incredible degree, not only devouring the grain upon the

straw that had never been cut, but clearing out every single ear in the

wheat-ricks that were standing about the country. Nothing remained in

these ricks but straw, pierced with tunnels and runs, the home and

breeding-place of mice, which thence poured forth into the fields. Such

grain as had been left in barns and granaries, in mills, and in

warehouses of the deserted towns, disappeared in the same manner.

When men tried to raise crops in small gardens and enclosures for their

sustenance, these legions of mice rushed in and destroyed the produce of

their labour. Nothing could keep them out, and if a score were killed, a

hundred more supplied their place. These mice were preyed upon by

kestrel hawks, owls, and weasels; but at first they made little or no

appreciable difference. In a few years, however, the weasels, having

such a superabundance of food, trebled in numbers, and in the same way

the hawks, owls, and foxes increased. There was then some relief, but

even now at intervals districts are invaded, and the granaries and the

standing corn suffer from these depredations.

This does not happen every year, but only at intervals, for it is

noticed that mice abound very much more in some seasons than others. The

extraordinary multiplication of these creatures was the means of

providing food for the cats that had been abandoned in the towns, and

came forth into the country in droves. Feeding on the mice, they became,

in a very short time, quite wild, and their descendants now roam the

forest.

In our houses we still have several varieties of the domestic cat, such

as the tortoise-shell, which is the most prized, but when the

above-mentioned cats became wild, after a while the several varieties

disappeared, and left but one wild kind. Those which are now so often

seen in the forest, and which do so much mischief about houses and

enclosures, are almost all greyish, some being striped, and they are

also much longer in the body than the tame. A few are jet black; their

skins are then preferred by hunters.

Though the forest cat retires from the sight of man as much as possible,

yet it is extremely fierce in defence of its young, and instances have

been known where travellers in the woods have been attacked upon

unwittingly approaching their dens. Dropping from the boughs of a tree

upon the shoulders, the creature flies at the face, inflicting deep

scratches and bites, exceedingly painful, and sometimes dangerous, from

the tendency to fester. But such cases are rare, and the reason the

forest cat is so detested is because it preys upon fowls and poultry,

mounting with ease the trees or places where they roost.

Almost worse than the mice were the rats, which came out of the old

cities in such vast numbers that the people who survived and saw them

are related to have fled in fear. This terror, however, did not last so

long as the evil of the mice, for the rats, probably not finding

sufficient food when together, scattered abroad, and were destroyed

singly by the cats and dogs, who slew them by thousands, far more than

they could afterwards eat, so that the carcases were left to decay. It

is said that, overcome with hunger, these armies of rats in some cases

fell upon each other, and fed on their own kindred. They are still

numerous, but do not appear to do the same amount of damage as is

occasionally caused by the mice, when the latter invade the cultivated

lands.

The dogs, of course, like the cats, were forced by starvation into the

fields, where they perished in incredible numbers. Of many species of

dogs which are stated to have been plentiful among the ancients, we have

now nothing but the name. The poodle is extinct, the Maltese terrier,

the Pomeranian, the Italian greyhound, and, it is believed, great

numbers of crosses and mongrels have utterly disappeared. There was none

to feed them, and they could not find food for themselves, nor could

they stand the rigour of the winter when exposed to the frost in the

open air.

Some kinds, more hardy and fitted by nature for the chase, became wild,

and their descendants are now found in the woods. Of these, there are

three sorts which keep apart from each other, and are thought not to

interbreed. The most numerous are the black. The black wood-dog is short

and stoutly made, with shaggy hair, sometimes marked with white patches.

There can be no doubt that it is the descendant of the ancient

sheep-dog, for it is known that the sheep-dog was of that character, and

it is said that those who used to keep sheep soon found their dogs

abandon the fold, and join the wild troops that fell upon the sheep. The

black wood-dogs hunt in packs of ten or more (as many as forty have been

counted), and are the pest of the farmer, for, unless his flocks are

protected at night within stockades or enclosures, they are certain to

be attacked. Not satisfied with killing enough to satisfy hunger, these

dogs tear and mangle for sheer delight of blood, and will destroy twenty

times as many as they can eat, leaving the miserably torn carcases on

the field. Nor are the sheep always safe by day if the wood-dogs happen

to be hungry. The shepherd is, therefore, usually accompanied by two or

three mastiffs, of whose great size and strength the others stand in

awe. At night, and when in large packs, starving in the snow, not even

the mastiffs can check them.

No wood-dog, of any kind, has ever been known to attack man, and the

hunter in the forest hears their bark in every direction without fear.

It is, nevertheless, best to retire out of their way when charging sheep

in packs, for they then seem seized with a blind fury, and some who have

endeavoured to fight them have been thrown down and seriously mauled.

But this has been in the blindness of their rush; no instance has ever

been known of their purposely attacking man.

These black wood-dogs will also chase and finally pull down cattle, if

they can get within the enclosures, and even horses have fallen victims

to their untiring thirst for blood. Not even the wild cattle can always

escape, despite their strength, and they have been known to run down

stags, though not their usual quarry.

The next kind of wild wood-dog is the yellow, a smaller animal, with

smooth hair inclining to a yellow colour, which lives principally upon

game, chasing all, from the hare to the stag. It is as swift, or nearly

as swift, as the greyhound, and possesses greater endurance. In coursing

the hare, it not uncommonly happens that these dogs start from the brake

and take the hare, when nearly exhausted, from the hunter's hounds. They

will in the same way follow a stag, which has been almost run down by

the hunters, and bring him to bay, though in this case they lose their

booty, dispersing through fear of man, when the hunters come up in a

body.

But such is their love of the chase, that they are known to assemble

from their lairs at the distant sound of the horn, and, as the hunters

ride through the woods, they often see the yellow dogs flitting along

side by side with them through bush and fern. These animals sometimes

hunt singly, sometimes in couples, and as the season advances, and

winter approaches, in packs of eight or twelve. They never attack sheep

or cattle, and avoid man, except when they perceive he is engaged in the

chase. There is little doubt that they are the descendants of the dogs

which the ancients called lurchers, crossed, perhaps, with the

greyhound, and possibly other breeds. When the various species of dogs

were thrown on their own resources, those only withstood the exposure

and hardships which were naturally hardy, and possessed natural aptitude

for the chase.

The third species of wood-dog is the white. They are low on the legs, of

a dingy white colour, and much smaller than the other two. They neither

attack cattle nor game, though fond of hunting rabbits. This dog is, in

fact, a scavenger, living upon the carcases of dead sheep and animals,

which are found picked clean in the night. For this purpose it haunts

the neighbourhood of habitations, and prowls in the evening over heaps

of refuse, scampering away at the least alarm, for it is extremely

timid.

It is perfectly harmless, for even the poultry do not dread it, and it

will not face a tame cat, if by chance the two meet. It is rarely met

with far from habitations, though it will accompany an army on the

march. It may be said to remain in one district. The black and yellow

dogs, on the contrary, roam about the forest without apparent home. One

day the hunter sees signs of their presence, and perhaps may, for a

month afterwards, not so much as hear a bark.

This uncertainty in the case of the black dog is the bane of the

shepherds; for, not seeing or hearing anything of the enemy for months

altogether, in spite of former experience their vigilance relaxes, and

suddenly, while they sleep, their flocks are scattered. We still have,

among tame dogs, the mastiff, terrier, spaniel, deerhound, and

greyhound, all of which are as faithful to man as ever.

CHAPTER II

WILD ANIMALS

When the ancients departed, great numbers of their cattle perished. It

was not so much the want of food as the inability to endure exposure

that caused their death; a few winters are related to have so reduced

them that they died by hundreds, many mangled by dogs. The hardiest that

remained became perfectly wild, and the wood cattle are now more

difficult to approach than deer.

There are two kinds, the white and the black. The white (sometimes dun)

are believed to be the survivors of the domestic roan-and-white, for the

cattle in our enclosures at the present day are of that colour. The

black are smaller, and are doubtless little changed from their state in

the olden times, except that they are wild. These latter are timid,

unless accompanied by a calf, and are rarely known to turn upon their

pursuers. But the white are fierce at all times; they will not, indeed,

attack man, but will scarcely run from him, and it is not always safe to

cross their haunts.

The bulls are savage beyond measure at certain seasons of the year. If

they see men at a distance, they retire; if they come unexpectedly face

to face, they attack. This characteristic enables those who travel

through districts known to be haunted by white cattle to provide against

an encounter, for, by occasionally blowing a horn, the herd that may be

in the vicinity is dispersed. There are not often more than twenty in a

herd. The hides of the dun are highly prized, both for their intrinsic

value, and as proofs of skill and courage, so much so that you shall

hardly buy a skin for all the money you may offer; and the horns are

likewise trophies. The white or dun bull is the monarch of our forests.

Four kinds of wild pigs are found. The most numerous, or at least the

most often seen, as it lies about our enclosures, is the common

thorn-hog. It is the largest of the wild pigs, long-bodied and

flat-sided, in colour much the hue of the mud in which it wallows. To

the agriculturist it is the greatest pest, destroying or damaging all

kinds of crops, and routing up the gardens. It is with difficulty kept

out by palisading, for if there be a weak place in the wooden framework,

the strong snout of the animal is sure to undermine and work a passage

through.

As there are always so many of these pigs round about inhabited places

and cultivated fields, constant care is required, for they instantly

discover an opening. From their habit of haunting the thickets and bush

which come up to the verge of the enclosures, they have obtained the

name of thorn-hogs. Some reach an immense size, and they are very

prolific, so that it is impossible to destroy them. The boars are fierce

at a particular season, but never attack unless provoked to do so. But

when driven to bay they are the most dangerous of the boars, on account

of their vast size and weight. They are of a sluggish disposition, and

will not rise from their lairs unless forced to do so.

The next kind is the white hog, which has much the same habits as the

former, except that it is usually found in moist places, near lakes and

rivers, and is often called the marsh-pig. The third kind is perfectly

black, much smaller in size, and very active, affording by far the best

sport, and also the best food when killed. As they are found on the

hills where the ground is somewhat more open, horses can follow freely,

and the chase becomes exciting. By some it is called the hill-hog, from

the locality it frequents. The small tusks of the black boar are used

for many ornamental purposes.

These three species are considered to be the descendants of the various

domestic pigs of the ancients, but the fourth, or grey, is thought to be

the true wild boar. It is seldom seen, but is most common in the

south-western forests, where, from the quantity of fern, it is called

the fern-pig. This kind is believed to represent the true wild boar,

which was extinct, or merged in the domestic hog among the ancients,

except in that neighbourhood where the strain remained.

With wild times, the wild habits have returned, and the grey boar is at

once the most difficult of access, and the most ready to encounter

either dogs or men. Although the first, or thorn-hog, does the most

damage to the agriculturist because of its numbers, and its habit of

haunting the neighbourhood of enclosures, the others are equally

injurious if they chance to enter the cultivated fields.

The three principal kinds of wild sheep are the horned, the thyme, and

the meadow. The thyme sheep are the smallest, and haunt the highest

hills in the south, where, feeding on the sweet herbage of the ridges,

their flesh is said to acquire a flavour of wild thyme. They move in

small flocks of not more than thirty, and are the most difficult to

approach, being far more wary than deer, so continuously are they hunted

by the wood-dogs. The horned are larger, and move in greater numbers; as

many as two hundred are sometimes seen together.

They are found on the lower slopes and plains, and in the woods. The

meadow sheep have long shaggy wool, which is made into various articles

of clothing, but they are not numerous. They haunt river sides, and the

shores of lakes and ponds. None of these are easily got at, on account

of the wood-dogs; but the rams of the horned kind are reputed to

sometimes turn upon the pursuing pack, and butt them to death. In the

extremity of their terror whole flocks of wild sheep have been driven

over precipices and into quagmires and torrents.

Besides these, there are several other species whose haunt is local. On

the islands, especially, different kinds are found. The wood-dogs will

occasionally, in calm weather, swim out to an island and kill every

sheep upon it.

From the horses that were in use among the ancients the two wild species

now found are known to have descended, a fact confirmed by their evident

resemblance to the horses we still retain. The largest wild horse is

almost black, or inclined to a dark colour, somewhat less in size than

our present waggon horses, but of the same heavy make. It is, however,

much swifter, on account of having enjoyed liberty for so long. It is

called the bush-horse, being generally distributed among thickets and

meadow-like lands adjoining water.

The other species is called the hill-pony, from its habitat, the hills,

and is rather less in size than our riding-horse. This latter is short

and thick-set, so much so as not to be easily ridden by short persons

without high stirrups. Neither of these wild horses are numerous, but

neither are they uncommon. They keep entirely separate from each other.

As many as thirty mares are sometimes seen together, but there are

districts where the traveller will not observe one for weeks.

Tradition says that in the olden times there were horses of a slender

build whose speed outstripped the wind, but of the breed of these famous

racers not one is left. Whether they were too delicate to withstand

exposure, or whether the wild dogs hunted them down is uncertain, but

they are quite gone. Did but one exist, how eagerly it would be sought

out, for in these days it would be worth its weight in gold, unless,

indeed, as some affirm, such speed only endured for a mile or two.

It is not necessary, having written thus far of the animals, that

anything be said of the birds of the woods, which every one knows were

not always wild, and which can, indeed, be compared with such poultry as

are kept in our enclosures. Such are the bush-hens, the wood-turkeys,

the galenæ, the peacocks, the white duck and the white goose, all of

which, though now wild as the hawk, are well known to have been once

tame.

There were deer, red and fallow, in numerous parks and chases of very

old time, and these, having got loose, and having such immense tracts to

roam over unmolested, went on increasing till now they are beyond

computation, and I have myself seen a thousand head together. Within

these forty years, as I learn, the roe-deer, too, have come down from

the extreme north, so that there are now three sorts in the woods.

Before them the pine-marten came from the same direction, and, though

they are not yet common, it is believed they are increasing. For the

first few years after the change took place there seemed a danger lest

the foreign wild beasts that had been confined as curiosities in

menageries should multiply and remain in the woods. But this did not

happen.

Some few lions, tigers, bears, and other animals did indeed escape,

together with many less furious creatures, and it is related that they

roamed about the fields for a long time. They were seldom met with,

having such an extent of country to wander over, and after a while

entirely disappeared. If any progeny were born, the winter frosts must

have destroyed it, and the same fate awaited the monstrous serpents

which had been collected for exhibition. Only one such animal now exists

which is known to owe its origin to those which escaped from the dens of

the ancients. It is the beaver, whose dams are now occasionally found

upon the streams by those who traverse the woods. Some of the aquatic

birds, too, which frequent the lakes, are thought to have been

originally derived from those which were formerly kept as curiosities.

In the castle yard at Longtover may still be seen the bones of an

elephant which was found dying in the woods near that spot.

CHAPTER III

MEN OF THE WOODS

So far as this, all that I have stated has been clear, and there can be

no doubt that what has been thus handed down from mouth to mouth is for

the most part correct. When I pass from trees and animals to men,

however, the thing is different, for nothing is certain and everything

confused. None of the accounts agree, nor can they be altogether

reconciled with present facts or with reasonable supposition; yet it is

not so long since but a few memories, added one to the other, can bridge

the time, and, though not many, there are some written notes still to be

found. I must attribute the discrepancy to the wars and hatreds which

sprang up and divided the people, so that one would not listen to what

the others wished to say, and the truth was lost.

Besides which, in the conflagration which consumed the towns, most of

the records were destroyed, and are no longer to be referred to. And it

may be that even when they were proceeding, the causes of the change

were not understood. Therefore, what I am now about to describe is not

to be regarded as the ultimate truth, but as the nearest to which I

could attain after comparing the various traditions. Some say, then,

that the first beginning of the change was because the sea silted up the

entrances to the ancient ports, and stopped the vast commerce which was

once carried on. It is certainly true that many of the ports are silted

up, and are now useless as such, but whether the silting up preceded the

disappearance of the population, or whether the disappearance of the

population, and the consequent neglect caused the silting, I cannot

venture to positively assert.

For there are signs that the level of the sea has sunk in some places,

and signs that it has become higher in others, so that the judicious

historian will simply state the facts, and refrain from colouring them

with his own theory as Silvester has done. Others again maintain that

the supply of food from over the ocean suddenly stopping caused great

disorders, and that the people crowded on board all the ships to escape

starvation, and sailed away, and were no more heard of.

It has, too, been said that the earth, from some attractive power

exercised by the passage of an enormous dark body through space, became

tilted or inclined to its orbit more than before, and that this, while

it lasted, altered the flow of the magnetic currents, which, in an

imperceptible manner, influence the minds of men. Hitherto the stream of

human life had directed itself to the westward, but when this reversal

of magnetism occurred, a general desire arose to return to the east. And

those whose business is theology have pointed out that the wickedness of

those times surpassed understanding, and that a change and sweeping away

of the human evil that had accumulated was necessary, and was effected

by supernatural means. The relation of this must be left to them, since

it is not the province of the philosopher to meddle with such matters.

All that seems certain is, that when the event took place, the immense

crowds collected in cities were most affected, and that the richer and

upper classes made use of their money to escape. Those left behind were

mainly the lower and most ignorant, so far as the arts were concerned;

those that dwelt in distant and outlying places; and those who lived by

agriculture. These last at that date had fallen to such distress that

they could not hire vessels to transport themselves. The exact number of

those left behind cannot, of course, be told, but it is on record that

when the fields were first neglected (as I have already described), a

man might ride a hundred miles and not meet another. They were not only

few, but scattered, and had not drawn together and formed towns as at

present.

Of what became of the vast multitudes that left the country, nothing has

ever been heard, and no communication has been received from them. For

this reason I cannot conceal my opinion that they must have sailed

either to the westward or to the southward where the greatest extent of

ocean is understood to exist, and not to the eastward as Silvester would

have it in his work upon the "Unknown Orb", the dark body travelling in

space to which I have alluded. None of our vessels in the present day

dare venture into those immense tracts of sea, nor, indeed, out of sight

of land, unless they know they shall see it again so soon as they have

reached and surmounted the ridge of the horizon. Had they only crossed

to the mainland or continent again, we should most likely have heard of

their passage across the countries there.

It is true that ships rarely come over, and only to two ports, and that

the men on them say (so far as can be understood) that their country is

equally deserted now, and has likewise lost its population. But still,

as men talk unto men, and we pass intelligence across great breadths of

land, it is almost certain that, had they travelled that way, some echo

of their footsteps would yet sound back to us. Regarding this theory,

therefore, as untenable, I put forward as a suggestion that the ancients

really sailed to the west or to the south.

As, for the most part, those who were left behind were ignorant, rude,

and unlettered, it consequently happened that many of the marvellous

things which the ancients did, and the secrets of their science, are

known to us by name only, and, indeed, hardly by name. It has happened

to us in our turn as it happened to the ancients. For they were aware

that in times before their own the art of making glass malleable had

been discovered, so that it could be beaten into shape like copper. But

the manner in which it was accomplished was entirely unknown to them;

the fact was on record, but the cause lost. So now we know that those

who to us are the ancients had a way of making diamonds and precious

stones out of black and lustreless charcoal, a fact which approaches the

incredible. Still, we do not doubt it, though we cannot imagine by what

means it was carried out.

They also sent intelligence to the utmost parts of the earth along wires

which were not tubular, but solid, and therefore could not transmit

sound, and yet the person who received the message could hear and

recognise the voice of the sender a thousand miles away. With certain

machines worked by fire, they traversed the land swift as the swallow

glides through the sky, but of these things not a relic remains to us.

What metal-work or wheels or bars of iron were left, and might have

given us a clue, were all broken up and melted down for use in other

ways when metal became scarce.

Mounds of earth are said to still exist in the woods, which originally

formed the roads for these machines, but they are now so low, and so

covered with thickets, that nothing can be learnt from them; and,

indeed, though I have heard of their existence, I have never seen one.

Great holes were made through the very hills for the passage of the iron

chariot, but they are now blocked by the falling roofs, nor dare any one

explore such parts as may yet be open. Where are the wonderful

structures with which the men of those days were lifted to the skies,

rising above the clouds? These marvellous things are to us little more

than fables of the giants and of the old gods that walked upon the

earth, which were fables even to those whom we call the ancients.

Indeed, we have fuller knowledge of those extremely ancient times than

of the people who immediately preceded us, and the Romans and the Greeks

are more familiar to us than the men who rode in the iron chariots and

mounted to the skies. The reason why so many arts and sciences were lost

was because, as I have previously said, the most of those who were left

in the country were ignorant, rude, and unlettered. They had seen the

iron chariots, but did not understand the method of their construction,

and could not hand down the knowledge they did not themselves possess.

The magic wires of intelligence passed through their villages, but they

did not know how to work them.

The cunning artificers of the cities all departed, and everything fell

quickly into barbarism; nor could it be wondered at, for the few and

scattered people of those days had enough to do to preserve their lives.

Communication between one place and another was absolutely cut off, and

if one perchance did recollect something that might have been of use, he

could not confer with another who knew the other part, and thus between

them reconstruct the machine. In the second generation even these

disjointed memories died out.

At first it is supposed that those who remained behind existed upon the

grain in the warehouses, and what they could thresh by the flail from

the crops left neglected in the fields. But as the provisions in the

warehouses were consumed or spoiled, they hunted the animals, lately

tame and as yet but half wild. As these grew less in number and

difficult to overtake, they set to work again to till the ground, and

cleared away small portions of the earth, encumbered already with

brambles and thistles. Some grew corn, and some took charge of sheep.

Thus, in time, places far apart from each other were settled, and towns

were built; towns, indeed, we call them to distinguish them from the

champaign, but they are not worthy of the name in comparison with the

mighty cities of old time.

There are many that have not more than fifty houses in the enclosure,

and perhaps no other station within a day's journey, and the largest are

but villages, reckoning by antiquity. For the most part they have their

own government, or had till recently, and thus there grew up many

provinces and kingdoms in the compass of what was originally but one.

Thus separated and divided, there came also to be many races where in

the first place was one people. Now, in briefly recounting the principal

divisions of men, I will commence with those who are everywhere

considered the lowest. These are the Bushmen, who live wholly in the

woods.

Even among the ancients, when every man, woman, and child could exercise

those arts which are now the special mark of nobility, _i.e._ reading

and writing, there was a degraded class of persons who refused to avail

themselves of the benefits of civilization. They obtained their food by

begging, wandering along the highways, crouching around fires which they

lit in the open, clad in rags, and exhibiting countenances from which

every trace of self-respect had disappeared. These were the ancestors of

the present men of the bushes.

They took naturally to the neglected fields, and forming "camps" as they

call their tribes, or rather families, wandered to and fro, easily

subsisting upon roots and trapped game. So they live to this day, having

become extremely dexterous in snaring every species of bird and animal,

and the fishes of the streams. These latter they sometimes poison with a

drug or a plant (it is not known which), the knowledge of which has been

preserved among them since the days of the ancients. The poison kills

the fishes, and brings them to the surface, when they can be collected

by hundreds, but does not injure them for eating.

Like the black wood-dogs, the Bushmen often in fits of savage frenzy

destroy thrice as much as they can devour, trapping deer in wickerwork

hedges, or pitfalls, and cutting the miserable animals in pieces, for

mere thirst of blood. The oxen and cattle in the enclosures are

occasionally in the same manner fearfully mutilated by these wretches,

sometimes for amusement, and sometimes in vengeance for injuries done to

them. Bushmen have no settled home, cultivate no kind of corn or

vegetable, keep no animals, not even dogs, have no houses or huts, no

boats or canoes, nothing that requires the least intelligence or energy

to construct.

Roaming to and fro without any apparent aim or object, or any particular

route, they fix their camp for a few days wherever it suits their fancy,

and again move on, no man knows why or whither. It is this uncertainty

of movement which makes them so dangerous. To-day there may not be the

least sign of any within miles of an enclosure. In the night a "camp"

may pass, slaughtering such cattle as may have remained without the

palisade, or killing the unfortunate shepherd who has not got within the

walls, and in the morning they may be nowhere to be seen, having

disappeared like vermin. Face to face the Bushman is never to be feared;

a whole "camp" or tribal family will scatter if a traveler stumbles into

their midst. It is from behind a tree or under cover of night that he

deals his murderous blow.

A "camp" may consist of ten or twenty individuals, sometimes, perhaps,

of forty, or even fifty, of various ages, and is ruled by the eldest,

who is also the parent. He is absolute master of his "camp", but has no

power or recognition beyond it, so that how many leaders there may be

among them it is not possible even to guess. Nor is the master known to

them as king, or duke, nor has he any title, but is simply the oldest or

founder of the family. The "camp" has no law, no established custom;

events happen, and even the master cannot be said to reign. When he

becomes feeble, they simply leave him to die.

They are depraved, and without shame, clad in sheep-skins chiefly, if

clad at all, or in such clothes as they have stolen. They have no

ceremonies whatever. The number of these "camps" must be considerable,

and yet the Bushman is seldom seen, nor do we very often hear of their

depredations, which is accounted for by the extent of country they

wander over. It is in severe winters that the chief danger occurs; they

then suffer from hunger and cold, and are driven to the neighbourhood of

the enclosures to steal. So dexterous are they in slipping through the

bushes, and slinking among the reeds and osiers, that they will pass

within a few yards without discovering their presence, and the signs of

their passage can be detected only by the experienced hunter, and not

always by him.

It is observed that whatever mischief the Bushman commits, he never sets

fire to any ricks or buildings; the reason is because his nature is to

slink from the scene of his depredations, and flame at once attracts

people to the spot. Twice the occurrence of a remarkably severe winter

has caused the Bushmen to flock together and act in an approach to

concert in attacking the enclosures. The Bushmen of the north, who were

even more savage and brutal, then came down, and were with difficulty

repulsed from the walled cities. In ordinary times we see very little of

them. They are the thieves, the human vermin of the woods.

Under the name of gipsies, those who are now often called Romany and

Zingari were well known to the ancients. Indeed, they boast that their

ancestry goes back so much farther than the oldest we can claim, that

the ancients themselves were but modern to them. Even in that age of

highest civilization, which immediately preceded the present, they say

(and there is no doubt of it) that they preserved the blood of their

race pure and untainted, that they never dwelt under permanent roofs,

nor bowed their knees to the prevalent religion. They remained apart,

and still continue after civilization has disappeared, exactly the same

as they were before it commenced.

Since the change their numbers have greatly increased, and were they not

always at war with each other, it is possible that they might go far to

sweep the house people from the land. But there are so many tribes, each

with its king, queen, or duke, that their power is divided, and their

force melts away. The ruler of the Bushman families is always a man, but

among the gipsies a woman, and even a young girl, often exercises

supreme authority, but must be of the sacred blood. These kings and

dukes are absolute autocrats within their tribe, and can order by a nod

the destruction of those who offend them. Habits of simplest obedience

being enjoined on the tribe from earliest childhood, such executions are

rare, but the right to command them is not for a moment questioned.

Of the sorcerers, and particularly the sorceresses, among them, all have

heard, and, indeed, the places where they dwell seem full of mystery and

magic. They live in tents, and though they constantly remove from

district to district, one tribe never clashes with or crosses another,

because all have their especial routes, upon which no intrusion is ever

made. Some agriculture is practiced, and flocks and herds are kept, but

the work is entirely done by the women. The men are always on horseback,

or sleeping in their tents.

Each tribe has its central camping-place, to which they return at

intervals after perhaps wandering for months, a certain number of

persons being left at home to defend it. These camps are often situated

in inaccessible positions, and well protected by stockades. The

territory which is acknowledged to belong to such a camp is extremely

limited; its mere environs only are considered the actual property of

the tribe, and a second can pitch its tents with a few hundred yards.

These stockades, in fact, are more like store-houses than residences;

each is a mere rendezvous.

The gipsies are everywhere, but their stockades are most numerous in the

south, along the sides of the green hills and plains, and especially

round Stonehenge, where, on the great open plains, among the huge

boulders, placed ages since in circles, they perform strange ceremonies

and incantations. They attack every traveller, and every caravan or

train of waggons which they feel strong enough to master, but they do

not murder the solitary sleeping hunter or shepherd like the Bushmen.

They will, indeed, steal from him, but do not kill, except in fight.

Once, now and then, they have found their way into towns, when terrible

massacres have followed, for, when excited, the savage knows not how to

restrain himself.

Vengeance is their idol. If any community has injured or affronted them,

they never cease endeavouring to retaliate, and will wipe it out in fire

and blood generations afterwards. There are towns which have thus been

suddenly harried when the citizens had forgotten that any cause of

enmity existed. Vengeance is their religion and their social law, which

guides all their actions among themselves. It is for this reason that

they are continually at war, duke with duke, and king with king. A

deadly feud, too, has set Bushman and gipsy at each other's throat, far

beyond the memory of man. The Romany looks on the Bushman as a dog, and

slaughters him as such. In turn, the despised human dog slinks in the

darkness of the night into the Romany's tent, and stabs his daughter or

his wife, for such is the meanness and cowardice of the Bushman that he

would always rather kill a woman than a man.

There is also a third class of men who are not true gipsies, but have

something of their character, though the gipsies will not allow that

they were originally half-breeds. Their habits are much the same, except

that they are foot men and rarely use horses, and are therefore called

the foot gipsies. The gipsy horse is really a pony. Once only have the

Romany combined to attack the house people, driven, like the Bushmen, by

an exceedingly severe winter, against which they had no provision.

But, then, instead of massing their forces and throwing their

irresistible numbers upon one city or territory, all they would agree to

do was that, upon a certain day, each tribe should invade the land

nearest to it. The result was that they were, though with trouble,

repulsed. Until lately, no leader ventured to follow the gipsies to

their strongholds, for they were reputed invincible behind their

stockades. By infesting the woods and lying in ambush they rendered

communication between city and city difficult and dangerous, except to

bodies of armed men, and every waggon had to be defended by troops.

The gipsies, as they roam, make little secret of their presence (unless,

of course, intent upon mischief), but light their fires by day and night

fearlessly. The Bushmen never light a fire by day, lest the ascending

smoke, which cannot be concealed, should betray their whereabouts. Their

fires are lit at night in hollows or places well surrounded with

thickets, and, that the flame may not be seen, they will build screens

of fir boughs or fern. When they have obtained a good supply of hot wood

coals, no more sticks are thrown on, but these are covered with turf,

and thus kept in long enough for their purposes. Much of their meat they

devour raw, and thus do not need a fire so frequently as others.

CHAPTER IV

THE INVADERS

Those who live by agriculture or in towns, and are descended from the

remnant of the ancients, are divided, as I have previously said, into

numerous provinces, kingdoms, and republics. In the middle part of the

country the cities are almost all upon the shores of the Lake, or within

a short distance of the water, and there is therefore more traffic and

communication between them by means of vessels than is the case with

inland towns, whose trade must be carried on by caravans and waggons.

These not only move slowly, but are subject to be interrupted by the

Romany and by the banditti, or persons who, for moral or political

crimes, have been banished from their homes.

It is in the cities that cluster around the great central lake that all

the life and civilization of our day are found; but there also begin

those wars and social convulsions which cause so much suffering. When

was the Peninsula at peace? and when was there not some mischief and

change brewing in the republics? When was there not a danger from the

northern mainland?

Until recent years there was little knowledge of, and scarcely any

direct commerce or intercourse between, the central part and the

districts either of the extreme west or the north, and it is only now

that the north and east are becoming open to us; for at the back of the

narrow circle or cultivated land, the belt about the Lake, there extend

immense forests in every direction, through which, till very lately, no

practicable way had been cut. Even in the more civilized central part it

is not to this day easy to travel, for at the barriers, as you approach

the territories of every prince, they demand your business and your

papers; nor even if you establish the fact that you are innocent of

designs against the State, shall you hardly enter without satisfying the

greed of the officials.

A fine is thus exacted at the gate of every province and kingdom, and

again at the gateways of the towns. The difference of the coinage, such

as it is, causes also great loss and trouble, for the money of one

kingdom (though passing current by command in that territory) is not

received at its nominal value in the next on account of the alloy it

contains. It is, indeed, in many kingdoms impossible to obtain sterling

money. Gold there is little or none anywhere, but silver is the standard

of exchange, and copper, bronze, and brass, sometimes tin, are the

metals with which the greater number of the people transact their

business.

Justice is corrupt, for where there is a king or a prince it depends on

the caprice of a tyrant, and where there is a republic upon the shout of

the crowd, so that many, if they think they may be put on trial, rather

than face the risk at once escape into the woods. The League, though

based ostensibly on principles the most exalted and beneficial to

humanity, is known to be perverted. The members sworn to honour and the

highest virtue are swayed by vile motives, political hatreds, and

private passions, and even by money.

Men for ever trample upon men, each pushing to the front; nor is there

safety in remaining in retirement, since such are accused of biding

their time and of occult designs. Though the population of these cities

all counted together is not equal to the population that once dwelt in a

single second-rate city of the ancients, yet how much greater are the

bitterness and the struggle!

Yet not content with the bloodshed they themselves cause, the tyrants

have called in the aid of mercenary soldiers to assist them. And, to

complete the disgrace, those republics which proclaim themselves the

very home of patriotic virtues, have resorted to the same means. Thus we

see English cities kept in awe by troops of Welshmen, Irish, and even

the western Scots, who swarm in the council-chambers of the republics,

and, opening the doors of the houses, help themselves to what they will.

This, too, in the face of the notorious fact that these nations have

sworn to be avenged upon us, that their vessels sail about the Lake

committing direful acts of piracy, and that twice already vast armies

have swept along threatening to entirely overwhelm the whole

commonwealth.

What infatuation to admit bands of these same men into the very

strongholds and the heart of the land! As if upon the approach of their

countrymen they would remain true to the oaths they have sworn for pay,

and not rather admit them with open arms. No blame can, upon a just

consideration, be attributed to either of these nations that endeavour

to oppress us. For, as they point out, the ancients from whom we are

descended held them in subjection many hundred years, and took from them

all their liberties.

Thus the Welsh, or, as they call themselves, the Cymry, say that the

whole island was once theirs, and is theirs still by right of

inheritance. They were the original people who possessed it ages before

the arrival of those whom we call the ancients. Though they were driven

into the mountains of the far distant west, they never forgot their

language, ceased their customs, or gave up their aspirations to recover

their own. This is now their aim, and until recently it seemed as if

they were about to accomplish it. For they held all that country

anciently called Cornwall, having crossed over the Severn, and marched

down the southern shore. The rich land of Devon, part of Dorset (all,

indeed, that is inhabited), and the most part of Somerset, acknowledged

their rule. Worcester and Hereford and Gloucester were theirs; I mean,

of course, those parts that are not forest.

Their outposts were pushed forward to the centre of Leicestershire, and

came down towards Oxford. But thereabouts they met with the forces of

which I will shortly speak. Then their vessels every summer sailing from

the Severn, came into the Lake, and, landing wherever there was an

opportunity, they destroyed all things and carried off the spoil. Is it

necessary to say more to demonstrate the madness which possesses those

princes and republics which, in order to support their own tyranny, have

invited bands of these men into their very palaces and forts?

As they approached near what was once Oxford and is now Sypolis, the

armies of the Cymry came into collision with another of our invaders,

and thus their forward course to the south was checked. The Irish, who

had hitherto abetted them, turned round to defend their own usurpations.

They, too, say that in conquering and despoiling my countrymen they are

fulfilling a divine vengeance. Their land of Ireland had been for

centuries ground down with an iron tyranny by our ancestors, who closed

their lips with a muzzle, and led them about with a bridle, as their

poets say. But now the hateful Saxons (for thus both they and the Welsh

designate us) are broken, and delivered over to them for their spoil.

It is not possible to deny many of the statements that they make, but

that should not prevent us from battling with might and main against the

threatened subjection. What crime can be greater than the admission of

such foreigners as the guards of our cities? Now the Irish have their

principal rendezvous and capital near to the ancient city of Chester,

which is upon the ocean, and at the very top and angle of Wales. This is

their great settlement, their magazine and rallying-place, and thence

their expeditions have proceeded. It is a convenient port, and well

opposite their native land, from which reinforcements continually

arrive, but the Welsh have ever looked upon their possession of it with

jealousy.

At the period when the Cymry had nearly penetrated to Sypolis or Oxford,

the Irish, on their part, had overrun all the cultivated and inhabited

country in a south and south-easterly line from Chester, through Rutland

to Norfolk and Suffolk, and even as far as Luton. They would have spread

to the north, but in that direction they were met by the Scots, who had

all Northumbria. When the Welsh came near Sypolis, the Irish awoke to

the position of affairs.

Sypolis is the largest and most important city upon the northern shore

of the Lake, and it is situated at the entrance to the neck of land that

stretches out to the straits. If the Welsh were once well posted there,

the Irish could never hope to find their way to the rich and cultivated

south, for it is just below Sypolis that the Lake contracts, and forms a

strait in one place but a furlong wide. The two forces thus came into

collision, and while they fought and destroyed each other, Sypolis was

saved. After which, finding they were evenly matched, the Irish withdrew

two days' march northwards, and the Cymry as far westwards.

But now the Irish, sailing round the outside of Wales, came likewise up

through the Red Rocks, and so into the Lake, and in their turn landing,

harassed the cities. Often Welsh and Irish vessels, intending to attack

the same place, have discerned each other approaching, and, turning from

their proposed action, have flown at each other's throats. The Scots

have not harassed us in the south much, being too far distant, and those

that wander hither come for pay, taking service as guards. They are,

indeed, the finest of men, and the hardiest to battle with. I had

forgotten to mention that it is possible the Irish might have pushed

back the Welsh, had not the kingdom of York suddenly reviving, by means

which shall be related, valiantly thrust out its masters, and fell upon

their rear.

But still these nations are always upon the verge and margin of our

world, and wait but an opportunity to rush in upon it. Our countrymen

groan under their yoke, and I say again that infamy should be the

portion of those rulers among us who have filled their fortified places

with mercenaries derived from such sources.

The land, too, is weak, because of the multitude of bondsmen. In the

provinces and kingdoms round about the Lake there is hardly a town where

the slaves do not outnumber the free as ten to one. The laws are framed

for the object of reducing the greater part of the people to servitude.

For every offence the punishment is slavery, and the offences are daily

artificially increased, that the wealth of the few in human beings may

grow with them. If a man in his hunger steal a loaf, he becomes a slave;

that is, it is proclaimed he must make good to the State the injury he

has done it, and must work out his trespass. This is not assessed as the

value of the loaf, nor supposed to be confined to the individual from

whom it was taken.

The theft is said to damage the State at large, because it corrupts the

morality of the commonwealth; it is as if the thief had stolen a loaf,

not from one, but from every member of the State. Restitution must,

therefore, be made to all, and the value of the loaf returned in labour

a thousandfold. The thief is the bondsman of the State. But as the State

cannot employ him, he is leased out to those who will pay into the

treasury of the prince the money equivalent to the labour he is capable

of performing. Thus, under cover of the highest morality, the greatest

iniquity is perpetrated. For the theft of a loaf, the man is reduced to

a slave; then his wife and children, unable to support themselves,

become a charge to the State, that is, they beg in the public ways.

This, too, forsooth, corrupts morality, and they likewise are seized and

leased out to any who like to take them. Nor can he or they ever become

free again, for they must repay to their proprietor the sum he gave for

them, and how can that be done, since they receive no wages? For

striking another, a man may be in the same way, as they term it,

forfeited to the State, and be sold to the highest bidder. A stout brass

wire is then twisted around his left wrist loosely, and the ends

soldered together. Then a bar of iron being put through, a half turn is

given to it, which forces the wire sharply against the arm, causing it

to fit tightly, often painfully, and forms a smaller ring at the

outside. By this smaller ring a score of bondsmen may be seen strung

together with a rope.

To speak disrespectfully of the prince or his council, or of the nobles,

or of religion, to go out of the precincts without permission, to trade

without license, to omit to salute the great, all these and a thousand

others are crimes deserving of the brazen bracelet. Were a man to study

all day what he must do, and what he must not do, to escape servitude,

it would not be possible for him to stir one step without becoming

forfeit! And yet they hypocritically say that these things are done for

the sake of public morality, and that there are not slaves (not

permitting the word to be used), and no man was ever sold.

It is, indeed, true that no man is sold in open market, he is leased

instead; and, by a refined hypocrisy, the owner of slaves cannot sell

them to another owner, but he can place them in the hands of the notary,

presenting them with their freedom, so far as he is concerned. The

notary, upon payment of a fine from the purchaser, transfers them to

him, and the larger part of the fine goes to the prince. Debt alone

under their laws must crowd the land with slaves, for, as wages are

scarcely known, a child from its birth is often declared to be in debt.

For its nourishment is drawn from its mother, and the wretched mother is

the wife of a retainer who is fed by his lord. To such a degree is this

tyranny carried! If any owe a penny, his doom is sealed; he becomes a

bondsman, and thus the estates of the nobles are full of men who work

during their whole lives for the profit of others. Thus, too, the woods

are filled with banditti, for those who find an opportunity never fail

to escape, notwithstanding the hunt that is invariably made for them,

and the cruel punishment that awaits recapture. And numbers, foreseeing

that they must become bondsmen, before they are proclaimed forfeit steal

away by night, and live as they may in the forests.

How, then, does any man remain free? Only by the favour of the nobles,

and only that he may amass wealth for them. The merchants, and those who

have license to trade by land or water, are all protected by some noble

house, to whom they pay heavily for permission to live in their own

houses. The principal tyrant is supported by the nobles, that they in

their turn may tyrannise over the merchants, and they again over all the

workmen of their shops and bazaars.

Over their own servants (for thus they call the slaves, that the word

itself may not be used), who work upon their estates, the nobles are

absolute masters, and may even hang them upon the nearest tree. And here

I cannot but remark how strange it is, first, that any man can remain a

slave rather than die; and secondly, how much stranger it is that any

other man, himself a slave, can be found to hunt down or to hang his

fellow; yet the tyrants never lack executioners. Their castles are

crowded with retainers who wreak their wills upon the defenceless. These

retainers do not wear the brazen bracelet; they are free. Are there,

then, no beggars? Yes, they sit at every corner, and about the gates of

the cities, asking for alms.

Though begging makes a man forfeit to the State, it is only when he has

thews and sinews, and can work. The diseased and aged, the helpless and

feeble, may break the law, and starve by the roadside, because it

profits no one to make them his slaves. And all these things are done in

the name of morality, and for the good of the human race, as they

constantly announce in their councils and parliaments.

There are two reasons why the mercenaries have been called in; first,

because the princes found the great nobles so powerful, and can keep

them in check only by the aid of these foreigners; and secondly, because

the number of the outlaws in the woods has become so great that the

nobles themselves are afraid lest their slaves should revolt, and, with

the aid of the outlaws, overcome them.

Now the mark of a noble is that he can read and write. When the ancients

were scattered, the remnant that was left behind was, for the most part,

the ignorant and the poor. But among them there was here and there a man

who possessed some little education and force of mind. At first there

was no order; but after thirty years or so, after a generation, some

order grew up, and these men, then become aged, were naturally chosen as

leaders. They had, indeed, no actual power then, no guards or armies;

but the common folk, who had no knowledge, came to them for decision of

their disputes, for advice what to do, for the pronouncement of some

form of marriage, for the keeping of some note of property, and to be

united against a mutual danger.

These men in turn taught their children to read and write, wishing that

some part of the wisdom of the ancients might be preserved. They

themselves wrote down what they knew, and these manuscripts, transmitted

to their children, were saved with care. Some of them remain to this

day. These children, growing to manhood, took more upon them, and

assumed higher authority as the past was forgotten, and the original

equality of all men lost in antiquity. The small enclosed farms of their

fathers became enlarged to estates, the estates became towns, and thus,

by degrees, the order of the nobility was formed. As they intermarried

only among themselves, they preserved a certain individuality. At this

day a noble is at once known, no matter how coarsely he may be dressed,

or how brutal his habits, by his delicacy of feature, his air of

command, even by his softness of skin and fineness of hair.

Still the art of reading and writing is scrupulously imparted to all

their legitimate offspring, and scrupulously confined to them alone. It

is true that they do not use it except on rare occasions when necessity

demands, being wholly given over to the chase, to war, and politics, but

they retain the knowledge. Indeed, were a noble to be known not to be

able to read and write, the prince would at once degrade him, and the

sentence would be upheld by the entire caste. No other but the nobles

are permitted to acquire these arts; if any attempt to do so, they are

enslaved and punished. But none do attempt; of what avail would it be to

them?

All knowledge is thus retained in the possession of the nobles; they do

not use it, but the physicians, for instance, who are famous, are so

because by favour of some baron, they have learned receipts in the

ancient manuscripts which have been mentioned. One virtue, and one only,

adorns this exclusive caste; they are courageous to the verge of

madness. I had almost omitted to state that the merchants know how to

read and write, having special license and permits to do so, without

which they may not correspond. There are few books, and still fewer to

read them; and these all in manuscript, for though the way to print is

not lost, it is not employed since no one wants books.

CHAPTER V

THE LAKE

There now only remains the geography of our country to be treated of

before the history is commenced. Now the most striking difference

between the country as we know it and as it was known to the ancients is

the existence of the great Lake in the centre of the island. From the

Red Rocks (by the Severn) hither, the most direct route a galley can

follow is considered to be about 200 miles in length, and it is a

journey which often takes a week even for a vessel well manned, because

the course, as it turns round the islands, faces so many points of the

compass, and therefore the oarsmen are sure to have to labour in the

teeth of the wind, no matter which way it blows.

Many parts are still unexplored, and scarce anything known of their

extent, even by repute. Until Felix Aquila's time, the greater portion,

indeed, had not even a name. Each community was well acquainted with the

bay before its own city, and with the route to the next, but beyond that

they were ignorant, and had no desire to learn. Yet the Lake cannot

really be so long and broad as it seems, for the country could not

contain it. The length is increased, almost trebled, by the islands and

shoals, which will not permit of navigation in a straight line. For the

most part, too, they follow the southern shore of the mainland, which is

protected by a fringe of islets and banks from the storms which sweep

over the open waters.

Thus rowing along round the gulfs and promontories, their voyage is

thrice prolonged, but rendered nearly safe from the waves, which rise

with incredible celerity before the gales. The slow ships of commerce,

indeed, are often days in traversing the distance between one port and

another, for they wait for the wind to blow abaft, and being heavy,

deeply laden, built broad and flat-bottomed for shallows, and bluff at

the bows, they drift like logs of timber. In canoes the hunters, indeed,

sometimes pass swiftly from one place to another, venturing farther out

to sea than the ships. They could pass yet more quickly were it not for

the inquisition of the authorities at every city and port, who not only

levy dues and fees for the treasury of the prince, and for their own

rapacious desires, but demand whence the vessel comes, to whom she

belongs, and whither she is bound, so that no ship can travel rapidly

unless so armed as to shake off these inquisitors.

The canoes, therefore, travel at night and in calm weather many miles

away from the shore, and thus escape, or slip by daylight among the

reedy shallows, sheltered by the flags and willows from view. The ships

of commerce haul up to the shore towards evening, and the crews,

disembarking, light their fires and cook their food. There are, however,

one or two gaps, as it were, in their usual course which they cannot

pass in this leisurely manner; where the shore is exposed and rocky, or

too shallow, and where they must reluctantly put forth, and sail from

one horn of the land to the other.

The Lake is also divided into two unequal portions by the straits of

White Horse, where vessels are often weather-bound, and cannot make way

against the wind, which sets a current through the narrow channel. There

is no tide; the sweet waters do not ebb and flow; but while I thus

discourse, I have forgotten to state how they came to fill the middle of

the country. Now, the philosopher Silvester, and those who seek after

marvels, say that the passage of the dark body through space caused an

immense volume of fresh water to fall in the shape of rain, and also

that the growth of the forests distilled rain from the clouds. Let us

leave these speculations to dreamers, and recount what is known to be.

For there is no tradition among the common people, who are extremely

tenacious of such things, of any great rainfall, nor is there any

mention of floods in the ancient manuscripts, nor is there any larger

fall of rain now than was formerly the case. But the Lake itself tells

us how it was formed, or as nearly as we shall ever know, and these

facts were established by the expeditions lately sent out.

At the eastern extremity the Lake narrows, and finally is lost in the

vast marshes which cover the site of the ancient London. Through these,

no doubt, in the days of the old world there flowed the river Thames. By

changes of the sea level and the sand that was brought up there must

have grown great banks, which obstructed the stream. I have formerly

mentioned the vast quantities of timber, the wreckage of towns and

bridges which was carried down by the various rivers, and by none more

so than by the Thames. These added to the accumulation, which increased

the faster because the foundations of the ancient bridges held it like

piles driven in for the purpose. And before this the river had become

partially choked from the cloacæ of the ancient city which poured into

it through enormous subterranean aqueducts and drains.

After a time all these shallows and banks became well matted together by

the growth of weeds, of willows, and flags, while the tide, ebbing lower

at each drawing back, left still more mud and sand. Now it is believed

that when this had gone on for a time, the waters of the river, unable

to find a channel, began to overflow up into the deserted streets, and

especially to fill the underground passages and drains, of which the

number and extent was beyond all the power of words to describe. These,

by the force of the water, were burst up, and the houses fell in.

For this marvellous city, of which such legends are related, was after

all only of brick, and when the ivy grew over and trees and shrubs

sprang up, and, lastly, the waters underneath burst in, this huge

metropolis was soon overthrown. At this day all those parts which were

built upon low ground are marshes and swamps. Those houses that were

upon high ground were, of course, like the other towns, ransacked of all

they contained by the remnant that was left; the iron, too, was

extracted. Trees growing up by them in time cracked the walls, and they

fell in. Trees and bushes covered them; ivy and nettles concealed the

crumbling masses of brick.

The same was the case with the lesser cities and towns whose sites are

known in the woods. For though many of our present towns bear the

ancient names, they do not stand upon the ancient sites, but are two or

three, and sometimes ten miles distant. The founders carried with them

the name of their original residence.

Thus the low-lying parts of the mighty city of London became swamps, and

the higher grounds were clad with bushes. The very largest of the

buildings fell in, and there was nothing visible but trees and hawthorns

on the upper lands, and willows, flags, reeds, and rushes on the lower.

These crumbling ruins still more choked the stream, and almost, if not

quite, turned it back. If any water ooze past, it is not perceptible,

and there is no channel through to the salt ocean. It is a vast stagnant

swamp, which no man dare enter, since death would be his inevitable

fate.

There exhales from this oozy mass so fatal a vapour that no animal can

endure it. The black water bears a greenish-brown floating scum, which

for ever bubbles up from the putrid mud of the bottom. When the wind

collects the miasma, and, as it were, presses it together, it becomes

visible as a low cloud which hangs over the place. The cloud does not

advance beyond the limit of the marsh, seeming to stay there by some

constant attraction; and well it is for us that it does not, since at

such times when the vapour is thickest, the very wildfowl leave the

reeds, and fly from the poison. There are no fishes, neither can eels

exist in the mud, nor even newts. It is dead.

The flags and reeds are coated with slime and noisome to the touch;

there is one place where even these do not grow, and where there is

nothing but an oily liquid, green and rank. It is plain there are no

fishes in the water, for herons do not go thither, nor the kingfishers,

not one of which approaches the spot. They say the sun is sometimes

hidden by the vapour when it is thickest, but I do not see how any can

tell this, since they could not enter the cloud, as to breathe it when

collected by the wind is immediately fatal. For all the rottenness of a

thousand years and of many hundred millions of human beings is there

festering under the stagnant water, which has sunk down into and

penetrated the earth, and floated up to the surface the contents of the

buried cloacæ.

Many scores of men have, I fear, perished in the attempt to enter this

fearful place, carried on by their desire of gain. For it can scarcely

be disputed that untold treasures lie hidden therein, but guarded by

terrors greater than fiery serpents. These have usually made their

endeavours to enter in severe and continued frost, or in the height of a

drought. Frost diminishes the power of the vapour, and the marshes can

then, too, be partially traversed, for there is no channel for a boat.

But the moment anything be moved, whether it be a bush, or a willow,

even a flag, if the ice be broken, the pestilence rises yet stronger.

Besides which, there are portions which never freeze, and which may be

approached unawares, or a turn of the wind may drift the gas towards the

explorer.

In the midst of summer, after long heat, the vapour rises, and is in a

degree dissipated into the sky, and then by following devious ways an

entrance may be effected, but always at the cost of illness. If the

explorer be unable to quit the spot before night, whether in summer or

winter, his death is certain. In the earlier times some bold and

adventurous men did indeed succeed in getting a few jewels, but since

then the marsh has become more dangerous, and its pestilent character,

indeed, increases year by year, as the stagnant water penetrates deeper.

So that now for very many years no such attempts have been made.

The extent of these foul swamps is not known with certainty, but it is

generally believed that they are, at the widest, twenty miles across,

and that they reach in a winding line for nearly forty. But the outside

parts are much less fatal; it is only the interior which is avoided.

Towards the Lake the sand thrown up by the waves has long since formed a

partial barrier between the sweet water and the stagnant, rising up to

within a few feet of the surface. This barrier is overgrown with flags

and reeds, where it is shallow. Here it is possible to sail along the

sweet water within an arrow-shot of the swamp. Nor, indeed, would the

stagnant mingle with the sweet, as is evident at other parts of the

swamp, where streams flow side by side with the dark or reddish water;

and there are pools, upon one side of which the deer drink, while the

other is not frequented even by rats.

The common people aver that demons reside in these swamps; and, indeed,

at night fiery shapes are seen, which, to the ignorant, are sufficient

confirmation of such tales. The vapour, where it is most dense, takes

fire, like the blue flame of spirits, and these flaming clouds float to

and fro, and yet do not burn the reeds. The superstitious trace in them

the forms of demons and winged fiery serpents, and say that white

spectres haunt the margin of the marsh after dusk. In a lesser degree,

the same thing has taken place with other ancient cities. It is true

that there are not always swamps, but the sites are uninhabitable

because of the emanations from the ruins. Therefore they are avoided.

Even the spot where a single house has been known to have existed, is

avoided by the hunters in the woods.

They say when they are stricken with ague or fever, that they must have

unwittingly slept on the site of an ancient habitation. Nor can the

ground be cultivated near the ancient towns, because it causes fever;

and thus it is that, as I have already stated, the present places of the

same name are often miles distant from the former locality. No sooner

does the plough or the spade turn up an ancient site than those who work

there are attacked with illness. And thus the cities of the old world,

and their houses and habitations, are deserted and lost in the forest.

If the hunters, about to pitch their camp for the night, should stumble

on so much as a crumbling brick or a fragment of hewn stone, they at

once remove at least a bowshot away.

The eastward flow of the Thames being at first checked, and finally

almost or quite stopped by the formation of these banks, the water

turned backwards as it were, and began to cover hitherto dry land. And

this, with the other lesser rivers and brooks that no longer had any

ultimate outlet, accounts for the Lake, so far as this side of the

country is concerned.

At the western extremity the waters also contract between the steep

cliffs called the Red Rocks, near to which once existed the city of

Bristol. Now the Welsh say, and the tradition of those who dwell in that

part of the country bears them out, that in the time of the old world

the River Severn flowed past the same spot, but not between these

cliffs. The great river Severn coming down from the north, with England

on one bank and Wales upon the other, entered the sea, widening out as

it did so. Just before it reached the sea, another lesser river, called

the Avon, the upper part of which is still there, joined it passing

through this cleft in the rocks.

But when the days of the old world ended in the twilight of the

ancients, as the salt ocean fell back and its level became lower, vast

sandbanks were disclosed, which presently extended across the most part

of the Severn river. Others, indeed, think that the salt ocean did not

sink, but that the land instead was lifted higher. Then they say that

the waves threw up an immense quantity of shingle and sand, and that

thus these banks were formed. All that we know with certainty, however,

is, that across the estuary of the Severn there rose a broad barrier of

beach, which grew wider with the years, and still increases westwards.

It is as if the ocean churned up its floor and cast it forth upon the

strand.

Now when the Severn was thus stayed yet more effectually than the

Thames, in the first place it also flowed backwards as it were, till its

overflow mingled with the reflux of the Thames. Thus the inland sea of

fresh water was formed; though Silvester hints (what is most improbable)

that the level of the land sank and formed a basin. After a time, when

the waters had risen high enough, since all water must have an outlet

somewhere, the Lake, passing over the green country behind the Red

Rocks, came pouring through the channel of the Avon.

Then, farther down, it rose over the banks which were lowest there, and

thus found its way over a dam into the sea. Now when the tide of the

ocean is at its ebb, the waters of the Lake rush over these banks with

so furious a current that no vessel can either go down or come up. If

they attempted to go down, they would be swamped by the meeting of the

waves; if they attempted to come up, the strongest gale that blows could

not force them against the stream. As the tide gradually returns,

however, the level of the ocean rises to the level of the Lake, the

outward flow of water ceases, and there is even a partial inward flow of

the tide which, at its highest, reaches to the Red Rocks. At this state

of the tide, which happens twice in a day and night, vessels can enter

or go forth.

The Irish ships, of which I have spoken, thus come into the Lake,

waiting outside the bar till the tide lifts them over. The Irish ships,

being built to traverse the ocean from their country, are large and

stout and well manned, carrying from thirty to fifty men. The Welsh

ships, which come down from that inlet of the Lake which follows the

ancient course of the Severn, are much smaller and lighter, as not being

required to withstand the heavy seas. They carry but fifteen or twenty

men each, but then they are more numerous. The Irish ships, on account

of their size and draught, in sailing about the sweet waters, cannot

always haul on shore at night, nor follow the course of the ships of

burden between the fringe of islands and the strand.

They have often to stay in the outer and deeper waters; but the Welsh

boats come in easily at all parts of the coast, so that no place is safe

against them. The Welsh have ever been most jealous of the Severn, and

will on no account permit so much as a canoe to enter it. So that

whether it be a narrow creek, or whether there be wide reaches, or what

the shores may be like, we are ignorant. And this is all that is with

certainty known concerning the origin of the inland sea of sweet water,

excluding all that superstition and speculation have advanced, and

setting down nothing but ascertained facts.

A beautiful sea it is, clear as crystal, exquisite to drink, abounding

with fishes of every kind, and adorned with green islands. There is

nothing more lovely in the world than when, upon a calm evening, the sun

goes down across the level and gleaming water, where it is so wide that

the eye can but just distinguish a low and dark cloud, as it were,

resting upon the horizon, or perhaps, looking lengthways, cannot

distinguish any ending to the expanse. Sometimes it is blue, reflecting

the noonday sky; sometimes white from the clouds; again green and dark

as the wind rises and the waves roll.

Storms, indeed, come up with extraordinary swiftness, for which reason

the ships, whenever possible, follow the trade route, as it is called,

behind the islands, which shelter them like a protecting reef. They drop

equally quickly, and thus it is not uncommon for the morning to be calm,

the midday raging in waves dashing resistlessly upon the beach, and the

evening still again. The Irish, who are accustomed to the salt ocean,

say, in the suddenness of its storms and the shifting winds, it is more

dangerous than the sea itself. But then there are almost always islands,

behind which a vessel can be sheltered.

Beneath the surface of the Lake there must be concealed very many

ancient towns and cities, of which the names are lost. Sometimes the

anchors bring up even now fragments of rusty iron and old metal, or

black beams of timber. It is said, and with probability, that when the

remnant of the ancients found the water gradually encroaching (for it

rose very slowly), as they were driven back year by year, they

considered that in time they would be all swept away and drowned. But

after extending to its present limits the Lake rose no farther, not even

in the wettest seasons, but always remains the same. From the position

of certain quays we know that it has thus remained for the last hundred

years at least.

Never, as I observed before, was there so beautiful an expanse of water.

How much must we sorrow that it has so often proved only the easiest

mode of bringing the miseries of war to the doors of the unoffending!

Yet men are never weary of sailing to and fro upon it, and most of the

cities of the present time are upon its shore. And in the evening we

walk by the beach, and from the rising grounds look over the waters, as

if to gaze upon their loveliness were reward to us for the labour of the

day.

Part II

WILD ENGLAND

CHAPTER I

SIR FELIX

On a bright May morning, the sunlight, at five o'clock, was pouring into

a room which face the east at the ancestral home of the Aquilas. In this

room Felix, the eldest of the three sons of the Baron, was sleeping. The

beams passed over his head, and lit up a square space on the opposite

whitewashed wall, where, in the midst of the brilliant light, hung an

ivory cross. There were only two panes of glass in the window, each no

more than two or three inches square, the rest of the window being

closed by strong oaken shutters, thick enough to withstand the stroke of

an arrow.

In the daytime one of these at least would have been thrown open to

admit air and light. They did not quite meet, and a streak of sunshine,

in addition to that which came through the tiny panes, entered at the

chink. Only one window in the house contained more than two such panes

(it was in the Baroness's sitting-room), and most of them had none at

all. The glass left by the ancients in their dwellings had long since

been used up or broken, and the fragments that remained were too

precious to be put in ordinary rooms. When larger pieces were

discovered, they were taken for the palaces of the princes, and even

these were but sparingly supplied, so that the saying "he has glass in

his window" was equivalent to "he belongs to the upper ranks".

On the recess of the window was an inkstand, which had been recently in

use, for a quill lay beside it, and a sheet of parchment partly covered

with writing. The ink was thick and very dark, made of powdered

charcoal, leaving a slightly raised writing, which could be perceived by

the finger on rubbing it lightly over. Beneath the window on the bare

floor was an open chest, in which were several similar parchments and

books, and from which the sheet on the recess had evidently been taken.

This chest, though small, was extremely heavy and strong, being dug out

with the chisel and gouge from a solid block of oak. Except a few

parallel grooves, there was no attempt at ornamentation upon it. The

lid, which had no hinges, but lifted completely off, was tilted against

the wall. It was, too, of oak some inches thick, and fitted upon the

chest by a kind of dovetailing at the edges.

Instead of a lock, the chest was fastened by a lengthy thong of oxhide,

which now lay in a coil on the floor. Bound round and round, twisted and

intertangled, and finally tied with a special and secret knot (the ends

being concealed), the thong of leather secured the contents of the chest

from prying eyes or thievish hands. With axe or knife, of course, the

knot might easily have been severed, but no one could obtain access to

the room except the retainers of the house, and which of them, even if

unfaithful, would dare to employ such means in view of the certain

punishment that must follow? It would occupy hours to undo the knot, and

then it could not be tied again in exactly the same fashion, so that the

real use of the thong was to assure the owner that his treasures had not

been interfered with in his absence. Such locks as were made were of the

clumsiest construction. They were not so difficult to pick as the thong

to untie, and their expense, or rather the difficulty of getting a

workman who could manufacture them, confined their use to the heads of

great houses. The Baron's chest was locked, and his alone, in the

dwelling.

Besides the parchments which were nearest the top, as most in use, there

were three books, much worn and decayed, which had been preserved, more

by accident than by care, from the libraries of the ancients. One was an

abridged history of Rome, the other a similar account of English

history, the third a primer of science or knowledge; all three, indeed,

being books which, among the ancients, were used for teaching children,

and which, by the men of those days, would have been cast aside with

contempt.

Exposed for years in decaying houses, rain and mildew had spotted and

stained their pages; the covers had rotted away these hundred years, and

were now supplied by a broad sheet of limp leather with wide margins far

overlapping the edges; many of the pages were quite gone, and others

torn by careless handling. The abridgment of Roman history had been

scorched by a forest fire, and the charred edges of the leaves had

dropped away in semicircular holes. Yet, by pondering over these, Felix

had, as it were, reconstructed much of the knowledge which was the

common (and therefore unvalued) possession of all when they were

printed.

The parchments contained his annotations, and the result of his thought;

they were also full of extracts from decaying volumes lying totally

neglected in the houses of other nobles. Most of these were of extreme

antiquity, for when the ancients departed, the modern books which they

had composed being left in the decaying houses at the mercy of the

weather, rotted, or were destroyed by the frequent grass fires. But

those that had been preserved by the ancients in museums escaped for a

while, and some of these yet remained in lumber-rooms and corners,

whence they were occasionally dragged forth by the servants for greater

convenience in lighting the fires. The young nobles, entirely devoted to

the chase, to love intrigues, and war, overwhelmed Felix Aquila with

ridicule when they found him poring over these relics, and being of a

proud and susceptible spirit, they so far succeeded that he abandoned

the open pursuit of such studies, and stole his knowledge by fitful

glances when there was no one near. As among the ancients learning was

esteemed above all things, so now, by a species of contrast, it was of

all things the most despised.

Under the books, in one corner of the chest, was a leather bag

containing four golden sovereigns, such as were used by the ancients,

and eighteen pieces of modern silver money, the debased shillings of the

day, not much more than half of which was silver and the rest alloy. The

gold coins had been found while digging holes for the posts of a new

stockade, and by the law should have been delivered to the prince's

treasury. All the gold discovered, whether in the form of coin or

jewellery, was the property of the Prince, who was supposed to pay for

its value in currency.

As the actual value of the currency was only half of its nominal value

(and sometimes less), the transaction was greatly in favour of the

treasury. Such was the scarcity of gold that the law was strictly

enforced, and had there been the least suspicion of the fact, the house

would have been ransacked from the cellars to the roof. Imprisonment and

fine would have been the inevitable fate of Felix, and the family would

very probably have suffered for the fault of one of its members. But

independent and determined to the last degree, Felix ran any risk rather

than surrender that which he had found, and which he deemed his own.

This unbending independence and pride of spirit, together with scarce

concealed contempt for others, had resulted in almost isolating him from

the youth of his own age, and had caused him to be regarded with dislike

by the elders. He was rarely, if ever, asked to join the chase, and

still more rarely invited to the festivities and amusements provided in

adjacent houses, or to the grander entertainments of the higher nobles.

Too quick to take offence where none was really intended, he fancied

that many bore him ill-will who had scarcely given him a passing

thought. He could not forgive the coarse jokes uttered upon his personal

appearance by men of heavier build, who despised so slender a stripling.

He would rather be alone than join their company, and would not compete

with them in any of their sports, so that, when his absence from the

arena was noticed, it was attributed to weakness or cowardice. These

imputations stung him deeply, driving him to brood within himself. He

was never seen in the courtyards or ante-rooms at the palace, nor

following in the train of the Prince, as was the custom with the

youthful nobles. The servility of the court angered and disgusted him;

the eagerness of strong men to carry a cushion or fetch a dog annoyed

him.

There were those who observed this absence from the crowd in the

ante-rooms. In the midst of so much intrigue and continual striving for

power, designing men, on the one hand, were ever on the alert for what

they imagined would prove willing instruments; and on the other, the

Prince's councillors kept a watchful eye on the dispositions of every

one of the least consequence; so that, although but twenty-five, Felix

was already down in two lists, the one, at the palace, of persons whose

views, if not treasonable, were doubtful, and the other, in the hands of

a possible pretender, as a discontented and therefore useful man. Felix

was entirely ignorant that he had attracted so much observation. He

supposed himself simply despised and ignored; he cherished no treason,

had not the slightest sympathy with any pretender, held totally aloof

from intrigue, and his reveries, if they were ambitious, concerned only

himself.

But the most precious of the treasures in the chest were eight or ten

small sheets of parchment, each daintily rolled and fastened with a

ribbon, letters from Aurora Thyma, who had also given him the ivory

cross on the wall. It was of ancient workmanship, a relic of the old

world. A compass, a few small tools (valuable because preserved for so

many years, and not now to be obtained for any consideration), and a

magnifying glass, a relic also of the ancients, completed the contents

of the chest.

Upon a low table by the bedstead were a flint and steel and tinder, and

an earthenware oil lamp, not intended to be carried about. There, too,

lay his knife, with a buckhorn hilt, worn by everyone in the belt, and

his forester's axe, a small tool, but extremely useful in the woods,

without which, indeed, progress was often impossible. These were in the

belt, which, as he undressed, he had cast upon the table, together with

his purse, in which were about a dozen copper coins, not very regular in

shape, and stamped on one side only. The table was formed of two short

hewn planks, scarcely smoothed, raised on similar planks (on edge) at

each end, in fact, a larger form.

From a peg driven into the wall hung a disc of brass by a thin leathern

lace; this disc, polished to the last degree, answered as a mirror. The

only other piece of furniture, if so it could be called, was a block of

wood at the side of the table, used as a chair. In the corner, between

the table and the window, stood a long yew bow, and a quiver full of

arrows ready for immediate use, besides which three or four sheaves lay

on the floor. A crossbow hung on a wooden peg; the bow was of wood, and,

therefore, not very powerful; bolts and square-headed quarrels were

scattered carelessly on the floor under it.

Six or seven slender darts used for casting with the hand, as javelins,

stood in another corner by the door, and two stouter boar spears. By the

wall a heap of nets lay in apparent confusion, some used for partridges,

some of coarse twine for bush-hens, another, lying a little apart, for

fishes. Near these the component parts of two turkey-traps were strewn

about, together with a small round shield or targe, such as are used by

swordsmen, snares of wire, and, in an open box, several chisels, gouges,

and other tools.

A blowtube was fastened to three pegs, so that it might not warp, a

hunter's horn hung from another, and on the floor were a number of

arrows in various stages of manufacture, some tied to the straightening

rod, some with the feathers already attached, and some hardly shaped

from the elder or aspen log. A heap of skins filled the third corner,

and beside them were numerous stag's horns, and two of the white cow,

but none yet of the much dreaded and much desired white bull. A few

peacock's feathers were there also, rare and difficult to get, and

intended for Aurora. Round one footpost of the bed was a long coil of

thin hide, a lasso, and on another was suspended an iron cap, or

visorless helmet.

There was no sword or lance. Indeed, of all these weapons and

implements, none seemed in use, to judge by the dust that had gathered

upon them, and the rusted edges, except the bow and crossbow and one of

the boar spears. The bed itself was very low, framed of wood, thick and

solid; the clothes were of the coarsest linen and wool; there were furs

for warmth in winter, but these were not required in May. There was no

carpet, nor any substitute for it; the walls were whitewashed, ceiling

there was none, the worm-eaten rafters were visible, and the roof tree.

But on the table was a large earthenware bowl, full of meadow orchids,

blue-bells, and a bunch of may in flower.

His hat, wide in the brim, lay on the floor; his doublet was on the

wooden block or seat, with the long tight-fitting trousers, which showed

every muscle of the limb, and by them high shoes of tanned but unblacked

leather. His short cloak hung on a wooden peg against the door, which

was fastened with a broad bolt of oak. The parchment in the recess of

the window at which he had been working just before retiring was covered

with rough sketches, evidently sections of a design for a ship or galley

propelled by oars.

The square spot of light upon the wall slowly moved as the sun rose

higher, till the ivory cross was left in shadow, but still the slumberer

slept on, heedless, too, of the twittering of the swallows under the

eaves, and the call of the cuckoo not far distant.