albeit it is very likely that the Mercian kingdom
did in that year so begin, and that its
first king was Credda? How are we to
believe the charming story of Saint Augustine
and the little Angels in the Roman
slave-market—and of the conversion of King
Athelbert and his people to the true faith:—
a story all of us I think, would be sorry to
disbelieve, were it not for a terribly long
story—showing how Pope Gregory delivered
the soul of the Emperor Trajan from the
pains of hell, five hundred years and more
after his decease; Saint Peter himself
condescending to inform Gregory that in
consequence of Trajan's handsome conduct to a
certain widow during his lifetime, his soul
though placed in flames did not feel the
torments thereof.

But Roger is incorrigible. In 606, "Sabinian
sat in the Roman chair one year, five months,
and five days." Very plain, very credible,
very matter-of-fact this, but mark what
follows. At this time a certain poor man
asking alms of some sailors, and they
refusing, the master of the vessel alleging "We
have nothing here but stones," the poor
man then replied, "Let, then, all you have be
turned into stones." This was no sooner said
than whatever there was in the ship that was
eatable was turned into stones, retaining yet
its former colour and shape; but as uncookable
and innutritious as granite pavement.

I will skip two hundred and more
annals, filled with accounts of transactions
we have been taught to acknowledge and
recognize as authentic English history. I
come to that Saxon King, of whom every
man with English blood in his veins is so
proud—the King who has been glorified
in poetry and history and painting, by
thousands of voices and pens and pencils for
a thousand years. I come to Alfred the
Great. Roger tells us, without bombast or
exaggeration, of Alfred's wisdom, learning,
bravery, and benevolence; of how he heard
from his teacher, that an illiterate king is
no better than a crowned ass; and incited,
moreover, by the desire of giving pleasure
to his mother (ambition sweeter than any
longing for double first class or stony, thorny
Senior Wranglership), learnt, while at a
tender age, a book of Saxon poetry, quite
by heart. Of how he "set in order the
affairs of his kingdom, exercised every
sportsman-like art, instructed his goldsmiths and
artificers, his falconers and hawkers; by
his wisdom constructed buildings, venerable
and noble beyond anything that had been
attempted by his predecessors; was careful
to hear mass daily at stated hours, and loved
psalms, and prayers, and almsgiving." Of
how he waged fierce and laborious wars with
the Pagans; of how he was brought very
low indeed by Hinguar and Halden, took
refuge in a swineherd's cottage, lived in
disguise and poverty, burnt the cakes, and
was rated by the swineherd's wife  of how
he overcame his enemies, became a mighty
sovereign, invented the wax-candle horologes,
hung up golden bracelets in the highway,
founded monasteries, died on the 23rd day
of October in the fifth indiction, A.D. 900,
and was buried at Winchester;—"clad,"
says Roger, piously, "in a robe of blessed
immortality, and waiting to be crowned anew
at the general resurrection." These are
flowers, indeed: if Roger always wrote like
this, we should revere him as the most
conscientious of historians; but why will he
tell us an abominable fable, in the very
midst of King Alfred's life, of the Emperor
Charlemagne's having a clue tied to his
thumb, by which he was led into purgatory
by a shiny personage, supposed to be an angel;
"into deep and fiery valleys full of pits
burning with pitch and sulphur, lead, wax
and tallow;" of Charlemagne there seeing
the ghosts of his fathers and his uncles; and
of his convoking the bishops and nobles of
his kingdom in solemn conclave, and relating
this preposterous vision to them?  We begin
to entertain doubts about King Alfred, burnt
cakes, vanquished Danes, and golden bracelets
immediately. Two spirits would seem to
have sat beside Roger while he penned his
chronicles. One was the angel of truth,
the other the father of lies, and their
amalgamation is confusion.

From King Alfred to Cnute, King of
England and Denmark, whom we more
familiarly know in our English histories as
Canute the Great, we have the story of the
wars between King Cnute and the Saxon
King Eadmund, of their doughty conflict,
hand to hand, and of their ultimate compact
and division of the kingdom. We are told
King Cnute made a pilgrimage to Rome, and
promised the Pope that the tribute of Saint
Peter's penny, called in England "Romescot,"
together with the "chiriesat," or first-fruits of
sheaves should, in future, be faithfully paid.
Roger relates further, how Cnute overcame
Malcolm King of Scots, and rebuked his
(Cnute's) courtiers, on the occasion of the high
tide, and how he would never, through humility,
wear the crown afterwards. All this is very
pretty and very historical; nor do I see any
reason to doubt Earl Godwin's treason,
or Harold's coronation, or young Alfred's
death and burial, of which Roger tells us
subsequently.

Next we have Hardicanute crowned, and
Gunilda, his sister, married to Henry, the
Roman Emperor. "The same emperor,
in the lifetime of his father, Conrad, had
received from a certain clerk a silver pipe"
on condition that, when he became
emperor, he would confer on him a bishopric;
which Henry, on succeeding to the crown,
duly did. That falling in, afterwards, he was
beset by demons, who assailed him and shot
into his face flames of fire through this notable
pipe, burning his whole body inwardly and
outwardly.. "But, in the midst of these