Chapter I.

BRITAIN BEFORE THE ROMAN CONQUEST.

THE PHŒNICIANS.

“_The bond of commerce was designed_ _To associate all the branches of mankind;_ _And if a boundless plenty be the robe,_ _Trade is the golden girdle of the globe._”

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

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

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

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

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

THE ANCIENT BRITONS.

“_Where the maned bison and the wolf did roam,_ _The ancient Briton reared his wattled home;_ _Paddled his coracle across the mere;_ _In the dim forest chased the antlered deer;_ _Pastured his herds within the open glade;_ _Played with his ‘young barbarians’ in the shade;_ _And when the new moon o’er the high hills broke,_ _Worshipped his heathen gods beneath the sacred oak._”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The chieftain comes forward to welcome us—a tall, well-made man, blue of eye, with long, fair hair and a tawny moustache of which he is vastly proud. Over his flame-red blouse, which is belted at the waist, is a twisted _torque_ of gold, cunningly fashioned and adorned with beautiful tracery; across his blouse is thrown a tartan plaid fastened at the shoulder by a brooch of polished boar tusk. His trousers fit closely to the ankles, and are so characteristic an article of his attire that he is known as “wearer of breeches” in distant Rome. Where his skin is bare, we notice that it is painted with patterns of blue. He greets us heartily, and a slave at his direction hands us a great silver-rimmed horn filled with mead.

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

The wife is mistress of the home. She has the management not only of all household affairs, but, as she is the wife of a warrior, the care and direction of the whole concerns of the family both indoors and out. She and her sisters spin, knit, weave, dye, sow, cook, grind corn, and milk the cows—indeed do most of the hard work that is done. Her husband considers field-labour and farm-work entirely beneath his dignity. War and hunting are his work, and right well does he excel in both. Probably safely housed in a hut hard by is his precious scythe-wheeled chariot, in which he goes forth to war when the horn is sounded, the shield is struck, and the _cran-tara_—the “fiery cross”—is sent through the tribe as a call to arms. He and his fellow-warriors spend much time in their warlike exercises; the slaves, the weaklings, and the old men tend the flocks and herds and conduct the tillage.

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

“_Sage beneath a spreading oak_ _Sat the Druid, hoary chief._”

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

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

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

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

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

THE COMING OF CÆSAR.

“_The foremost man of all the world._”

A king amongst men now draws near. As he strides by, a proud and majestic figure, you know that you are in the presence of one of the world’s greatest men. He bears himself like a conqueror, yet he is far more than a mere victorious general. Scholar, statesman, writer, orator, and architect, he is the “noblest Roman of them all.” Look at his stern, powerful face, his eagle-like nose, his thin, firm-set lips, his lofty brow, and his massive head crowned with a wreath of laurel. “_Cæsar!_” you cry, and it is none other than he.

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

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

A Roman galley pushes out to survey the British coast and to fix upon a suitable landing-place. Meanwhile Cæsar masses his legions and hies him to _Portus Itius_, where his transports lie. The return of the scout is the signal for embarkation, and on the morning of August 26, in the year 55 B.C., anchors are weighed and the galleys stream out of the harbour. By ten o’clock they are under the cliffs of the British shore, and then they perceive that no easy victory awaits them. Heavy fighting must be done ere the legions form up on the British shore. The cliffs are black with warriors, chariots, and horsemen ready to oppose their landing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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