"Here ended his earthly joys, Edgar, England's king, and chose the light of another world, beauteous and happy. Here Edgar departed-the ruler of the Angles, the joy of the West Saxons, the defender of the Mercians that was known afar among many nations. Kings beyond the baths of the sea-fowl worshipped him far and wide. They bowed to the king as one of their own kin. There was no fleet so proud, there was no host so strong, as to seek food in England while this noble king ruled the kingdom. He reared up God's honour-he loved God's law-he preserved the people's peace, the best of all the kings that were before in the memory of man. And God was his helper, and kings and earls bowed to him and they obeyed his will; and, without battle, he ruled as he willed."* This happy reign ended, and the raven-the dark and dreaded emblem on the flag of the Danes-was again seen along the shores of England. For two hundred years were these fierce barbarians of the North the terror and the scourge of the Saxon; and ever when the Danish raven was seen above the waves that beat towards England, it was the sure omen of burning dwelling-houses, of pillaged monasteries, and of a fugitive or slaughtered people. And so the warfare was waged until at length, in the eleventh century, Saxon independence was given up to Canute that mighty Scandinavian monarch who was at once King of Denmark and Sweden and Norway and England; and, with some claim to Scotland and Cambria, it was his boast that he ruled over six nations. *Translated from the Saxon Chronicle, pp. 116, 122,-in a note to Lingard, vol. i. p. 271. His reign appears to have been a splendid and a prosperous one: he was called "Canute the Great," and "Canute the Rich;" and, though he lived only a little beyond the age of forty, he was called "Canute the Old;" for, in those turbulent times, the two-score years seem to have been regarded as an extraordinary duration for a king's life. It has been well said of him, that prosperity softened but did not corrupt him; and that he is one of the few conquerors whose greater and better qualities were developed in peace. A beautiful poetic light rests on the peaceful periods of his life: he was not only a conqueror and a lawgiver, but a royal minstrel; and there is still preserved from a ballad, which is said to have been long a favourite with the people of England, one stanza, which broke from him when, in his royal barge, he heard, over the waters of the river, the distant and solemn sound of the hymn that was chaunted in the minster of Ely.* There is that other beautiful and poetic story that is told of him,—so familiar that I need only allude to it,that admirable piece of symbolical teaching so appropriate to his times, by which, on the sea-side, he won from the waves of the ocean a voice of rebuke to the flattery of his courtiers. The fitting sequel of that story is less familiar. It tells how "Canute, (truth more worthy to be known,) From that time forth, did for his brows disown The ostentatious symbol of a crown,— Esteeming earthly royalty Contemptible and vain.”† This stanza will be found in a note to Campbell's Essay on English Poetry, p. 22. † Wordsworth's Canute and Alfred on the Sea-shore, p. 413. When the Saxon dynasty was restored in the person of Edward, surnamed the Confessor, the meek and gentle piety of that saintly monarch was like a placid evening to close the Saxon day. But, looking away from the sovereign's character, the political horizon of England was darkened by lowering clouds and a stormy sunset. The weapons with which Edward strove with his turbulent and tempestuous times were juridical wisdom and saintly piety. Feeble as he was in perpetuating Saxon independence, he was endeared to after times; and a high tribute was paid to his memory when, again and again, the nation demanded that there should be given back to them "the laws and customs of the good king Edward." It is only upon one historical point in English history that Shakspeare has touched in his tragedy of Macbeth, who was the Scottish contemporary of Edward the Confessor. There is a genuine poetic art in deepening the sense of the atrocities of Macbeth and the sufferings of Scotland under his usurpation and tyranny, by presenting the contrast of the Confessor's piety and virtues; and, most of all, the wondrous charity exerted by him on some of his subjects stricken by grievous malady. It was with Edward the Confessor that that remarkable practice began, of touching to cure the disease called the "king's evil,”—a practice which continued for nearly seven hundred years in England, for it did not cease until the accession of George the First. In France, it continued even later,—until 1776. The long duration and the universal faith in the virtues of the royal touch appear to us of the present day a most unaccountable delusion. It seems to have been attributed to some mysterious sanctity in the character or functions of an anointed king; and when we read of it in connection with a saintly sovereign like Edward the Confessor, and in a remote age, the distance of time and the character of the monarch seem to hallow it, and one hesitates to treat it contemptuously as an absurd medical superstition. But when we come down to times less than two hundred years ago, to the reign of an English king who certainly had nothing very sacred or sacerdotal in his character,I mean Charles the Second, it is amazing to read of a registry which shows that, in the space of twenty years, that merry monarch touched no less than ninety-two thousand one hundred and seven persons for the "king's evil,”—the malady having, I suppose, accumulated during the Commonwealth and the Protectorate, although Cromwell appears to have played the king by trying his hand at the cure. When Francis the First, of France, was a prisoner at Madrid, after the battle of Pavia, he touched a great number of the sick; and on one day, Easter Sunday, in 1686, Louis the Fourteenth touched no fewer than sixteen hundred persons. I mention these things to show how extensively this extraordinary usage prevailed. It is not, however, my business to attempt any solution of it-to choose between the miracle of the royal touch and the marvel of a credulity which endured for seven or eight centuries, and in the minds not only of many thousands, but, as far as evidence goes, in the minds of all. But in France and in England it was accompanied with stated and solemn service of prayer, and the cure was attributed to the mercy of God rather than to the hand of man; and, therefore, I will not speak of it with mockery or contempt. I think there is truer wisdom and better feeling in simply contemplating it as the sage imagination of Shakspeare has taught us to look on it through the vision of the characters in Macbeth. When Malcolm and Macduff have fled to England, it is in the palace of Edward the Confessor that Malcolm inquires of an English doctor "Comes the king forth, I pray you?" and the answer is— "Ay, sir: there are a crew of wretched souls When Macduff asks "What's the disease he means?" Malcolm answers "'Tis called the evil: A most miraculous work in this good king; Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy; And sundry blessings hang about his throne, That speak him full of grace."*· *Though entirely aside from the context, I am tempted to note, that in this same scene will be found lurking one of the most beautiful |