Read Ebook: The Pageant of British History by Parrott Edward

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F O R E W O R D .

IN COLOUR.

IN BLACK AND WHITE.

The First Invasion of Britain by Julius Caesar, The Invasion of the Emperor Claudius, The Emperor Hadrian visiting a Pottery in Britain, Columba preaching, A Great Viking, The Death of Harold, Hereward yielding to William, "God Wills It!" The First Prince of Wales, The Battle of Bannockburn, The Morning of Agincourt, The Coronation of Charles the Seventh at Rheims, Joan of Arc storming the "Bulwark" , Death of Warwick, Richard the Third at the Battle of Bosworth, Trial of Queen Catherine, Henry the Eighth, At Sea. "Farewell, France!" Escape of Mary Queen of Scots from Loch Leven Castle, Queen Elizabeth at Tilbury Fort, The Boyhood of Sir Walter Raleigh, Cromwell at Marston Moor, Jane Lane helping Prince Charles to escape, Rescued from the Plague, London, 1665, The Arrest of Alice Lisle, Bonnie Prince Charlie, After Culloden: Royalist Soldiers searching for Jacobite Fugitives, Clive at Bay, Death of Wolfe, Queen Victoria in her Coronation Robes, Queen Victoria at St. Paul's, Edward the Seventh,

THE PHOENICIANS.

THE procession advances. Who, you ask, are these swarthy, Jewish-looking men leading the way? They are Phoenicians, the first visitors from civilized shores to our island. These restless wanderers are keen traders, who have sped their barks from distant Tyre or Carthage in quest of merchandise. One of them, urging his ship northward towards this fabled happy land of the western ocean, has sighted through the clearing mists the distant line of an unknown shore. He has landed and come into touch with the natives. Spreading out his tempting treasures of purple cloth, glittering trinkets, and gleaming glass to the astonished gaze of the Britons, he has begun to barter his wares for the native products of the isle.

His keen eyes soon discover that the Britons possess something far more precious than the furs which they proffer. Tin, the most precious metal of the ancient world, abounds here. The Phoenician's eyes gleam as he makes the discovery; visions of untold wealth flash before him. Tin to him is the most desirable of all metals. In due proportion it will transform soft, yielding copper into bronze, which makes the best weapons of the age. The art of tempering iron is still unknown, and swords and spear-heads of bronze still decide the battles of the ancient world. Alike in peace or war, tin is sought and prized as gold is to-day. The statues of the temples, the urns that hold the ashes of the dead, the ornaments with which men and women delight to adorn themselves, owe their beauty and value to tin. All this the Phoenician knows full well; he has discovered a Klondyke which will make him rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

Again and again he visits this land of Britain, and every voyage he grows richer and richer. He takes infinite precautions lest his secret treasure-house should be discovered. He comes and goes mysteriously. Other traders, greedy for similar gains, follow in his wake and closely beset him; he even runs his ship on a foaming reef, and escapes by swimming, rather than betray the source of his wealth. But all in vain; his secret is discovered, and other barks in quick succession steer for the Tin Islands. An important trade springs up between Britain and Southern Europe. Thus, by means of those mineral treasures which have made Britain what she is, our land becomes known to the civilized world.

Some three hundred years before Christ, an explorer from Marseilles pays the island a visit, and on his return writes a brief account of what he has seen. He tells us of the Kentish farms, with their granaries piled high with golden grain; and he describes the mead of honey and wheat which the islanders drink. More than two long centuries pass away before another explorer arrives to lift the veil still further. He pushes into the interior and makes acquaintance with the rustic Britons, rough and uncouth, the hunters and graziers of the island. He visits the mines of Cornwall, and tells us that the tin is found in earthy veins in the rocks; that it is extracted, ground down, smelted and purified, and exported in knuckle-shaped slabs. Packed into wagons, it is carried during ebb-tide to a neighbouring island, which may be St. Michael's Mount or the Isle of Wight, and there sold and shipped to Gaul, whence it is carried overland on the backs of pack-horses to Marseilles.

Pass on, ye Phoenicians! We salute you as the fathers of that vast British commerce which has built up the mighty Empire in which we rejoice to-day. Our busy hives of industry with their great factories and roaring looms; our myriad ships that carry, over every sea to every land, the woven fabrics of our workshops, the coal of our mines, and the iron and steel of our furnaces and forges, all owe their beginnings to you who first set ajar for us the golden gates of trade.

THE ANCIENT BRITONS.

Here come your first Britons, tall, blue-eyed, fair-haired, long of limb, and ruddy of countenance. Some, from the dense forest interior, are clad in the skins of the bears and other wild animals which they have slain; others wear garments of the rough cloth which they have woven on their own rude looms, or have obtained by barter from traders of distant and more civilized lands. None of them are mere yelling savages, bedaubed with blue war-paint; they have long passed that stage. They are all warriors born and bred, fierce in fight but sociable and friendly in peace. They live in tribes under their "kings;" they graze their cattle, till the land, and search the gravels of the rivers for tin.

Let us visit a British "town" of Kent, a century or so before the coming of the Romans, and learn something of the old British mode of life. We plunge into the dark shades of the forest, and follow a narrow track that winds hither and thither through the dense undergrowth. We are armed, for in the thickets and in the caves of the rocky hillocks lurk the gray wolf, the fierce boar, the black bear, and the wild cat. Now and then a startled deer gazes at us for a moment, and bounds away into safety. In the stream which we ford herons are fishing and beavers are building. Overhead the hawks are sailing by, and from a neighbouring marsh comes the boom of a bittern.

On we go, and at length reach a great cleared space. The trees have been felled, and some of the land is under tillage. Horses, sheep, oxen, and swine are quietly feeding, and here and there are strips of grain and barley. Half a mile away is the town. All round it is a moat, with an earthen wall topped by a stockade of oak logs. As we approach the narrow entrance, we see the pointed roofs of many huts, from which thin lines of blue smoke are curling up into the summer air.

We enter the town by a zigzag road, and pass the homesteads, square or round in shape, and built of unhewn or roughly hewn trees placed on end, with roofs of interlaced boughs thatched with rushes or covered with turf. Each homestead consists of one room, large enough to contain the whole family. The floor is of earth, or perhaps covered with thin slates. In the middle of it is the family fire, which continues to burn night and day all the year round; when it dies out, the home is deserted. The smoke escapes by a hole in the roof. Round the fire, along the sides of the room, is a bed made of rushes and covered with hides or coarse rugs. On this the members of the family sit at meals, and sleep at night with their feet towards the fire. The rushes and green grass which are placed between the family fire and the family bed serve as a table, and on this at meal times are placed large platters containing oatmeal cakes, meat, and broth.

In front of the entrance to one of the homesteads a blue-eyed, fair-haired woman, in a tunic of dark-blue cloth, sits grinding corn with a quern or handmill. Little boys, clad in strips of bear-skin, engage in a wrestling match hard by. Sturdy little lads they are, for their rearing has been of a Spartan character; they were plunged into the water of the stream at birth, and they received their first taste of food on the point of their father's sword. Yonder old woman is boiling water by making pebbles red-hot in the fire and dropping them into an earthen water-pot.

Passing on, we reach a long, low dwelling, which by its size indicates the superior condition of its owner. It is, indeed, the home of the chieftain of the tribe. Big mastiffs and wolf-hounds growl over their bones at the door. Within, the walls are covered with skins. Round shields of hide with shining metal bosses and rims of iron, spears with bronze or iron heads, and bows with quivers of reed arrows tipped with flint adorn the walls. One sword in particular holds the place of honour as a rare prize; it is of iron, with a sheath of bronze studded with red coral.

His wife shares in the welcome. She is a robust, healthy matron, fit mother of her stalwart sons, who she prays may grow up as heroes, and do ere long some doughty deed which shall entitle them to the heroic names which they have yet to possess. When the day's work is done, she will gather them about her knees and recite the wild legends of their sires, whose mighty feats of war still inspire young Britons to the fray. She wears a tunic with a scarf of red-striped plaid fastened by a pin of bronze. A string of dusky pearls hangs about her neck, and spiral rings of silver adorn her fingers. The ivory bracelets and the amber beads which she proudly wears have been brought from afar by the traders who visit the town from time to time.

Let us continue our tour of the town. Here is a man cleverly weaving baskets of wicker-work; yonder is a fisherman returning from the river, his broad back bearing a coracle, such as you may see on the Dee at Llangollen or on the rivers of South Wales to-day. Not far away is the metal-worker's hut, where the craftsman is busy mixing his bronze, and moulding it into axes, lance-heads, and sword-blades. Another worker is busy chipping flints brought from the quarry in yonder chalk hills. The potter who labours close at hand kneads out his yellow clay and fashions his pots by hand, ornamenting them by pressing a notched stick or braid against the wet clay. Such is a British town in the most civilized part of the land a century or so before the coming of the Romans.

Room for the Druids! Their solemn progress, their patriarchal beards, their white robes of office, and the chaplets of oak leaves on their brows proclaim them at once. Priests, judges, magicians, and instructors of youth, they rule the Britons with a rod of iron. Their altars and idols are set deep in the gloomy shades of dense forests amidst the gnarled and twisted stems of aged oaks. The secrets of their cruel creed are close locked in their bosoms, and over all their words and works they cast a dread mystery that chills the heart of the boldest Briton in the land. Their word is law, their curse is death. Their richest treasures go unguarded save for the awe which they inspire. Deep in their forest shades they offer their mysterious sacrifices; sometimes human beings, imprisoned in huge wicker-work images, are burnt to death to appease the angry gods. The Druids claim to hold sway even over the spirits of the departed, and the Briton trembles as he hears the voices of tormented souls wailing in the night wind. Every shadow is a terror; every flying cloud is an omen of good or ill; every spring, river, and fountain has its guardian deity. Fire is the element which the Druids hold in the highest reverence; the sacred flame on their altars never dies.

Four times a year solemn festivals are held. On Midsummer Eve, New Year's Day, May Day, and Hallowe'en the great Beltane fires are lighted, and Britons from near and far assemble for worship. The mistletoe growing on an oak is held sacred in the highest degree, and on the sixth day of the moon a feast is prepared beneath the hallowed branches. White bulls are dragged to the tree, and their broad foreheads are bound to its stem, their loud bellowings mingling with the strain of the wild anthem which the worshippers raise. When the beasts have been slaughtered as sacrifices, the chief Druid, clad in his flowing white robes, his golden collar and bracelets, ascends the oak, treading on the backs and broad shoulders of blindfolded slaves. With a golden pruning-knife he severs the mistletoe, and beneath him attendant Druids receive it on a white linen cloth. It is then distributed to the awed and expectant multitude, who carry home and carefully preserve a sprig of the all-healing plant. The Christmas mistletoe beneath which youths and maidens now make merry at the most sacred season of the Christian year annually recalls this heathenish rite.

Much of the Druids' lore is imposture, but they have wrested from Nature some of her secrets. They know the stars in their courses; they are skilled in the lore of plants and the healing properties of herbs and simples. They practise the arts of public speaking and poesy. Their bards sing the songs of heroes, and inflame warriors with the lust of battle. But over all broods the cruel shadow of death, and men tremble as they pray.

Dread and mighty as these Druids are, the day of their doom is coming. Even now the Roman galleys are on the sea, and their prows are rising and falling as they furrow the heaving waters towards the white cliffs of Albion. Centuries will elapse before the gospel of love and mercy sweeps away the blood-stained rites of the Druids' creed. The gods of Rome will destroy the deities of the isle. Jupiter and Mars will dethrone them; and in their train, how or when we know not, the message of Christianity will be whispered, until at length the daystar rises, never to set, on the forests of Britain.

Gone are the Druids, but their name still survives in the mountains and valleys of Wales, where the ancient Britons found their refuge in a later age. Our modern Druids love letters and music, and the other beautiful arts which touch and kindle souls. Theirs it is to encourage men and women to build the lofty rhyme, to weave the golden strands of melody, and to limn the loveliness of earth and sea and sky. Thus transformed, the Druid is a prophet of sweetness and light, not an enslaver of souls.

THE COMING OF CAESAR.

He has subdued Gaul, and now he looks across the narrow strait towards the white, gleaming cliffs of Dover. A new arena opens before him, a land untrodden by Roman feet, an island of fabled wealth of pearl and tin, of waving cornfields and rich pastures, peopled by sturdy warriors worthy to cross swords even with him. He remembers the fiery charge of the British on many a Gaulish battlefield, and his wrath rekindles as he thinks of the havoc they have wrought amongst his legions, and of the welcome and shelter they have afforded his flying foes in their unconquered island only a few leagues away. Right well do they deserve to feel the weight of the Roman hand. He has received invitations, too. The tribes on yonder coveted island are ever at war with each other; ambitious chiefs are ever seeking to subdue their weaker neighbours. Refugees have fled to him beseeching his assistance against their enemies. Ambition, revenge, and the prospect of easy victory over a disunited foe, all urge him on to the new enterprise now shaping itself in his busy brain. "The die is cast." He will invade and conquer Britain, and add another laurel to his wreath of fame.

He consults the chief merchants of the Gallic coast, and endeavours to learn the military strength, the resources, the landing-places of the island; but they are dumb, and only find their tongues when they secretly and hurriedly send off messengers to warn the islanders of the threatened invasion. Envoys from Britain speedily arrive, eager to appease the wrath of great Caesar by humbly offering to submit. They are too late. "The die is cast."

With a favouring breeze and the tide in his favour, Caesar skirts the shore eastward, until a shelving strand somewhere near Romney Marsh promises him convenient landing. As his galleys move eastward, the British on the cliffs move eastward too. There is a long pause; the transports containing the cavalry are still miles away. They have not appeared at three in the afternoon; the day is wearing on, and Caesar determines to attempt a landing without them.

With difficulty his ships approach the shallow shore, only to find the full force of the island-army, with horsemen and chariots, drawn up in battle-array to receive him. The British horsemen spur their steeds into the waves; and many a half-naked footman, with sharp javelin, heavy club, or rough-hewn war-hatchet, presses on towards the galleys. For a few minutes the Roman soldiers are dismayed and dare not leap from their ships. Then Caesar orders up his warships and stations them on the flank of the enemy. Slings and catapults open fire, and the Britons, assailed as they have never been assailed before, draw back in confusion. Still the Romans hesitate, but the situation is saved by the standard-bearer of the famous Tenth Legion. "Leap, fellow-soldiers," he cries, "unless you wish to betray your Eagle to the enemy. I at least will do my duty to the Republic and to my general." Roused by his example, the Romans leap from their ships, and immediately a fierce fight rages in the water.

The waves are red with blood; mailed Roman and naked Briton hack and hew at each other in confused combat; and slowly but surely the invaders gain the beach. There they form into ranks, shoulder to shoulder, and against that solid wall of disciplined valour nothing can stand. The scythe-wheeled chariots thunder towards the Roman array, the evening sun glinting from their outstretched blades; but the fiery horses are impaled on the iron points of the Roman spears. Step by step the Britons are forced from the strand; fainter and fainter sound the voices of the Druids singing their frenzied war-chants; and ere darkness has settled down the islanders have retreated, and the Roman victors remain on the beach which they have so hardly won.

Next day come chiefs with offers of submission; but four days later, when Caesar's cavalry transports are nearing the coast, a great storm arises. The anchored galleys are wrecked; the newcomers are driven back to Gaul. Caesar is in perilous plight. He has no provisions for his soldiers, no materials with which to repair his shattered ships. The autumn storms have begun, and he is on a treacherous coast, harassed by a fierce, unrelenting foe.

These disasters give new hope to the Britons. They rapidly muster their men, and form an ambush in an uncut field of grain not far from the Roman camp. When the Seventh Legion comes out to reap the corn it is suddenly beset on all sides by a host of horsemen and charioteers. The cloud of dust raised by the chariot wheels betrays the fight to the sentinels of the camp. Caesar hurries to the spot, and just manages to save the reapers from utter destruction and convey them back to his stronghold. The Britons follow, and make the grievous mistake of attacking the Romans in their trenches. Beaten back time after time, they again retreat to their fastnesses in the woods, and once more offer submission.

Caesar is quite ready for peace. His troops are weary, for they have been seventeen or eighteen days on the island, and the struggle has never ceased. His twelve thousand men are all too few to overcome the obstinate Britons. He does not wait even to receive the promised hostages, but, taking advantage of the first fair wind that blows, he returns to Gaul, baffled and beaten, without a single token of conquest.

Next year he comes again. The warm spring days that bring the swallows bring the Roman galleys once more. This time he does not despise his enemy. Twenty-five thousand foot and two thousand horse, embarked on eight hundred ships, speed towards the threatened shore. He lands without striking a blow, and stray prisoners inform him that his advance is to be challenged at a ford on the Stour twelve miles away. He is determined not to lose an hour. Through the night his legions tramp over the unknown country, and in the cold gray of the early dawn they find themselves on the bank of a reedy river, with the foe drawn up on the opposite side.

The charge is sounded, and the Roman cavalry dash into the river with the utmost impetuosity. They break through and through the ranks of the British infantry, their bronze swords being no match for the tempered iron of the Roman brands and javelins. Again the Britons give way, and betake themselves to their woodland fortresses barricaded with the trunks of felled trees. Here Cassivellaunus, behind his stockade, holds out stoutly. But his fortifications are carried at last, and the four "kings" of Kent, who have failed in an attack on the Roman camp, come once more in humble guise to offer their submission. Caesar is again ready for peace. Forest fighting is too perilous for his taste. Amidst the mazes of the woodland the Roman formations are broken up, and in hand-to-hand combats the Britons are the equals of his best and most highly-trained soldiers. So he yields to the inevitable. He receives hostages and empty promises of annual tribute. Again he departs, leaving nothing to mark his so-called conquest but the earthworks of his deserted camps.

Once more he has failed. He may not describe his campaign as he does a later victory--"I came, I saw, I conquered." He is fain to confess that his usual good fortune has deserted the "eagles" in Britain. A few hostages, a girdle of British pearls for Venus, and a lordly triumph in Rome--these are the only fruits which Caesar reaps from his toils and perils on this side of the Channel. He vanishes from the pageant to win plentiful laurels on other fields. He has failed in Britain, but elsewhere he becomes unchallenged master of the Roman world. Ten years later, having attained the very summit of his ambition, he falls beneath the daggers of his erstwhile friends.

Caesar vanishes, and with his departure twilight once more settles down on the land. For nearly a hundred years no Roman soldier sets foot on the island. Nevertheless, Britain is nearer to the masterful city on the Tiber than she has been before. Roman gossips talk of the island in their streets. Adventurous Romans and equally adventurous Britons exchange visits. Trade increases between the far-off island and the heart of the world. Roman huntsmen prize their British hounds, and British slaves are fashionable in the patrician homes of Rome. Britain moves onward in the march of civilization, and ere the century of peace comes to an end she is a real prize of conquest--a laurel worthy of the imperial brow itself.

CARACTACUS.

Here Caractacus rallied the broken tribes for a last stand. He chose his ground with great skill in the centre of steep and difficult hills, and raised ramparts of massive stones where an ascent was possible, while between his army and the road by which the Romans must approach there flowed a river deep and wide. As the terrible Romans drew near Caractacus addressed his men, bidding them remember how their sires had driven back great Caesar himself, and encouraging them to strike for home and freedom. The Britons, however, were again conquered. Roman discipline, Roman armour, and Roman swords were too much for them. Caractacus escaped, and fled to the court of his step-mother, Cartismandua, who to her eternal shame basely betrayed him to the foe against whom he had waged an unceasing struggle for nine years. Roman chains fettered the limbs of the British champion, and his capture was a triumph. To Rome he must go, where his exploits were well known, and the citizens were agog to see him.

With his wife, brother, and child he "graced the chariot wheels" of the Roman general. Through the majestic city he strode, noble in his simple dignity, and still unconquered. While his companions in fear begged for mercy, he, proudly erect, and his eye, which had never quailed before a Roman brand, boldly bright, recked not of death, deeming honour a greater prize than life itself. As the triumphal procession passed along the Sacred Way he saw the stately temples, the massive arches, the beautiful statues, and the luxurious dwellings of the great city, and asked, "Why should these Romans, with all their grandeur, covet my poor hut at home?"

Brought before Claudius, he made a noble defence and a proud appeal for clemency. Claudius was moved. He bade his lictors strike off the Briton's chains and set him free. His after-career is unknown. In his noblest hour he vanishes from the pages of history.

A WARRIOR QUEEN.

Now move we on. Roman arms triumph in the field, but there is no peace in the land while the Druids, amidst the shadowy groves of Mona , cease not to stir the Britons to "mutiny and rage."

Suetonius Paulinus determines to extirpate them root and branch. He marches to the shores of Menai Strait, and at nightfall his men essay to cross in flat-bottomed boats. As they near the other side an awe-inspiring scene meets their eyes. The Britons are drawn up in dense array. To and fro run black-robed women, brandishing torches, "fierce as the Furies," their long hair streaming in the sea breeze. Behind them the assembled Druids are lifting their hands to high heaven and calling down terrible curses on the invaders. Huge fires crackle and blaze, as though impatient of their victims. The frantic women, the cursing priests, the flaming torches, the roaring flames paralyze the Romans. They shudder at the sight, and hesitate to land. But discipline prevails; they answer to the appeals of their general, and sweep forward in resistless attack. The carnage is dreadful; the sacred groves are fired; the Druids perish in their own flames; and the setting sun sinks on a scene of desolation and death. As the gray embers die out, Druidism perishes.

But elsewhere the flame of freedom still burns in many a British breast. While Suetonius is slaughtering the Druids, Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, is rousing her followers to fury by the tale of her terrible wrongs. Her dying husband, to appease his conquerors, bequeathed half his wealth to them, in the hope that his wife and daughters might enjoy the rest in peace. He reckoned without his hosts. They seize the whole of the treasure; they scourge Boadicea with rods; they shamefully wrong her children, and goad her to madness.

See her now in her war-chariot, her long yellow hair unbound, and falling below the golden girdle that encircles her waist, her eyes flashing vengeance as she pours forth burning words and pleads for revenge. Her men arm themselves, and almost every hut on the wide plain east of the Chilterns sends forth its warrior sworn to vengeance. They swoop upon the feebly garrisoned town of Camulodunum, and every Roman in it--man, woman, and helpless infant--is put to the sword. The Ninth Legion, coming to the rescue, is cut to pieces, and the whole East of England is in a blaze of rebellion. London falls before the conquering tribes, and seventy thousand Romans are butchered by the bloodthirsty victors. At last it seems that the yoke of Rome is broken, and Britain is once more free.

Boadicea, spear in hand, her daughters by her side, hurries from tribe to tribe in her chariot, exhorting her followers to conquer or die. "This," she cries, "is a woman's resolve; as for men, they may live to be slaves." Maddened by her words, the Britons charge the foe, only to be repulsed with awful slaughter. They recoil from the brazen wall, and the legions carve their way through the disordered ranks, while the masterless steeds of the chariots, dashing hither and thither, add to the slaughter. The Romans are pitiless; they spare not even the women.

The battle is over; Rome has triumphed, and Boadicea, heart-broken and hopeless, flies from the scene, and in shuddering horror at the fate which awaits her, ends her life and that of her children with poison. Cowper, in his well-known poem, represents a Druid in the hour of her death prophesying the fall of the Roman Empire and the far-off greatness of her stricken land,--

"Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due: Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you."

THE IRON HAND.

The next figure in our pageant to attract attention is again a Roman, but a man cast in a very different mould from the harsh and tyrannical Suetonius. In distant Rome the emperor has taken to heart the moral of the terrible rising led by Boadicea. He now knows that the Britons will never yield to severity. Consequently Agricola, the new governor, is a firm, just man, who strives by every means in his power to make the Roman yoke press as lightly as possible on British shoulders. He rules Britain much as a British Viceroy governs our Indian Empire to-day. He fosters the peaceful arts; he introduces the British nobles and their sons to the pastimes, the dress, the luxuries, and the manners of Rome. In course of time Britain sullenly submits to her bondage, though she is still held down by force of arms. The art and practice of war are now forbidden to the Britons, except to the flower of the youth, who are drafted into legions which garrison lands far from the call of home and kindred. The fiery Briton no longer wields the claymore; he becomes a skilled craftsman, a patient farmer, a delver in the mines.

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