 | THE GOOD QUEEN. Water-drops |  |
41. THE GOOD QUEEN.
In food,—strong drink, or gaudy dress,
To every man doth come
Disturbance in his inward mind,
Imprudence, vengeance, anger blind,
And sorrows fierce, and ills that bind
In dark, and fearful doom.”
King Alfred.
A summer moonlight lay on the sleeping Seine. It
touched with trembling lustre the thick, waving trees,
and promiscuous roofs of Paris, as it was, thirteen centuries
since. The elegance and beauty that now mark its
lofty edifices,—elysian gardens, and statued, sparkling
fountains, could scarcely have been imagined in its simple
and rude aspect, under the sway of the Merovingian
princes.
Still, it was not without gleamings of those elements
of taste and majesty, which in modern times attract and
charm the lingering traveller from every clime. The
fortifications erected under its Roman masters, gave it
an appearance of strength and grandeur, which awed
the neighboring tribes of barbarians; while here and
there, the towers of a church, or abbey, showed how
early the heathen temples in the Gallic clime, had been
consecrated to the worship of Jehovah.
The Frank monarchs, who, from the time of Clovis,
had yielded to the softening sway of the Christian
religion, displayed in their modes of life and appendages
of royalty, a comparative refinement. The midnight
moon was now silvering the palace, where Charibert
wielded the sceptre of France. He might have been
seen, with rapid steps, traversing its intricate passages,
and seeking a remote apartment. A fair young creature,
with a form and movement of grace, sprang forward to
meet him. He lightly touched her forehead with his
lips, and as he seated her beside him, the smile on her
glowing features seemed to pass under the shadow of
some saddening thought.
“Art weary, Bertha? I myself nearly slumbered
amid the long audience I was compelled to give those
Saxon strangers. I spoke heavily to the courtiers, for
my heart turned towards the expecting sweet one in her
lonely chamber.”
He paused, but there was no reply.
“Thou knowest why I sought this interview, and on
what errand I came.”
The gentle girl drooped her head, till the clustering
raven curls veiled her face like a curtain. Passing his
arm tenderly around her, he said, in a lower voice,—
“Hast thou considered the proposal of Ethelbert, the
King of Kent?”
“Yes, father.”
“Not simply King of Kent, but Bretwalda, or ruler of
not of a separate province, but of the realm of Britain.
Art thou insensible of the honor thus offered thee?”
“No, father.”
“Yes, father! and no, father! Laconic enough, and
indifferent withal. But why this troubled brow, my
daughter? To be the chosen ladye-love of a gallant
and powerful monarch, need not, one would think, be
quite a hopeless sorrow.”
“Not a sorrow, sayest thou? to leave all that I love,—
thee, and my mother, and the young brothers and sisters,
with whom I have been always so happy? Not a sorrow,
father, to make my home among a strange, wild
people, of a foreign tongue?”
“Bertha, it is woman's lot, to leave the shelter of
childhood, and go forth into the field of duty; where
thorns may indeed spring, but where the blessed sunbeam
shines on the true-hearted. Knowest thou not
this?”
“Yet, dearest father, I am so young,—scarcely more
than a child.”
“Thy years are indeed few, but heavenly wisdom has
given a ripeness to thy soul, that age sometimes fails to
bring. Judge not in this matter as self-indulgence dictates.
Think of the disinterestedness of parental love.
Wherefore doth it nurture and train the flowrets that
spring around it?—Expecting them always to grow by
its side, and cheer it by their expanding beauties? Nay,
their fragrance, and in rearing their own young blossoms,
fulfil a higher destiny.”
With an earnest, yet tremulous voice, the maiden
answered,—
“Ah! let me still linger under the shade of the blessed
parent tree. Bid me not to leave thee. I will obey
thine every word. I will study thine unspoken wishes.”
Falling on her knees, she raised her clasped hands,
and imploring eyes, in which large drops, like pearls,
were glistening.
“Tears, my Bertha! Flow they not from a deeper
source than thy words have revealed? Confess: lovest
thou not already?”
The clear depths of the moistened eye disclosed a guileless
spirit, as she assured him that her heart was free.
“Yet these fierce Saxon people, so long known as
pirates, and sea-kings, strike me with terror.”
“A father's heart weighed every objection, ere it listened
to this embassy. Remember they are no longer
marauders, and adventurers, but settled in the fair island
which they have won, under separate governments and
advancing in civilization. The stream as it runs, refines.
Ethelbert, the fourth in descent from Hengist, is called
the Magnificent, as well as the brave. Consent to see
him, and then decide for thyself. I promise, that no
force shall be used with thy young affections; for thy
happiness is my own.”
“Father! I love the faith that our dear Saviour has
taught. How can I wed an idolater! Can I smother
within my soul the breath of eternal life, and be guiltless?
Or will God give me strength, for persecution
and martyrdom?”
“Beloved, thou hast now told me all thine heart. I
see it in the repose that steals again over thy troubled
brow. Thou shrinkest back from a home among idolaters.
Who knoweth but for this great purpose thou
hast been called thither, to lead a Pagan prince, and his
realm, to the cross of the Redeemer? Who can say,
that this honor was not intended thee by God, and that
holy angels are not now gazing into thy weak woman's
heart, to see what it will answer.”
The beautiful girl fixed a wondering, half-credulous
gaze, upon the face of the king. Then a tide of great
thoughts swept over her. Her dark, deep-set eyes, radiated
with an unearthly light, as the mission-purpose
entered into her soul.
She rose involuntarily. Her slight, graceful form, in
the dim ray of the night-lamp, seemed to gather majesty.
She pressed the hand of her father, fondly and firmly
between her own. She spoke no word, but he comprehended
her. He embraced her, and departed. Long
she knelt in her heart-breathed prayer, and then on her
pillow settled in that unbroken slumber, which God sends
the beloved ones who early repose on Him.
Ethelbert, with a fitting retinue, soon arrived at the
which Bertha appeared before him, added new charms to
her loveliness. Every succeeding interview deepened
the love of the royal suitor, and his desire to secure her
preference.
Nor did she, in his company, experience the horror she
had anticipated. Legends of piratical invaders, and
visions of blood-stained Jutes, which had disturbed her
childish dreams, and darkened her youthful reveries,
faded into thin air. In their place was a noble prince,
of commanding person, and elegant costume, revealing
in every action the respect and tenderness that win their
way to the female heart. She could not be insensible to
the devotion of a lofty spirit, or the fervor of its utterance.
Her reluctance to leave her native realm vanished,
and Charibert and his queen saw their beloved daughter
filled with those blessed sentiments that form the happiness
of a new home.
In those comparatively dark ages, the Anglo Saxons
surpassed not only the surrounding tribes, but the more
polished nations of the East, in their chivalrous treatment
of woman. Her rank in society, her position amid the
household, and at the festive board,—her permitted
presence at the witena-gemote, or incipient parliament,
all testified their appreciation of her value, and of the
influence she might exercise for good or for evil. Their
earliest written laws recognized her right to inherit and
transmit property, and threw a protection over her person,
rude state of partial civilization, they evinced the elements
of that feeling, which a poet of modern Germany warmly
expresses: “Honor to the women! they twine and weave
heavenly roses with the web of this earthly life.”
Seldom is a court, encumbered, as it is wont to be,
with ceremony and heartless expediency, favorable to the
growth of affection. Yet Ethelbert and Bertha, both
ardent, and unembarrassed by previous intrigue or disappointment,
were soon ready to inshrine each other's
image in their heart of hearts. At his departure she
wore the ring of the betrothed, and it was understood
that his next visit was to win a queen for the throne of
Kent.
When the ships of the royal lover again danced over
the foaming sea that separated their native strands, the
affianced bride was ready to meet him, with the perfect
trust of a pure and affectionate heart. Before them
stretched the fair region of hope, like a newly-created
Eden, whose flowery haunts no tempter had ever dared
to invade.
“Sometimes, my heart misgives me, Bertha, lest thy
new home, compared with this beautiful Paris, may not
content thee. When thou shalt walk by my side on the
white cliffs of Dover—thine own cliffs—and see the huge
billows heave and break far beneath the feet of their
queen,—if thou shalt mark beyond them, as a faint cloud,
the pleasant land of France, will thy heart still cling
brow?”
“The transplanted flower must soon take root, fostered
by tenderness like thine. The love that I plight thee at
the altar, shall be the same in all lands, through weal or
woe, while life is mine.”
“Ah, that altar!” he murmured, for nurtured as he
was, in paganism, he had an undefined dread of the nuptial
ritual that her religion imposed. “That altar, of
which thou speakest, will not its appalling forms blanch
thy fresh cheek with paleness? In my own land, there
is a saying, that tears at a bridal, blight the buds of happiness.
Bertha,—my own love,—I pray thee, let our
bridal drink no pearl-drop from thine eye. Should I see
but one glittering there, it would blast my joy. Forgive
me this superstition.”
Bertha held sacred this wish of Etherlbert. Neither the
thrilling marriage responses, nor the impressive benediction
of the venerable bishop who had shed the baptismal
dew on her infancy; nor the parting from those who
fondly cherished her earliest affections, were suffered to
draw forth a tear. Around the neck of the queen, her
beloved mother, she almost convulsively threw her arms,
burying her face deep in the bosom where she had so
often found rest. But when she raised her eyes, the long
raven fringes of their lids were dry. Those who from her
childhood had known her impulsive sensibility, and that
she could never part from favorite playmates, even for a
They wondered that the new love should so supersede
the old, as to wash away all the tender traces of memory.
But they knew not that a higher purpose than the glowing
hopes of personal happiness, swelled the bosom of
that gentle, delicate bride, gleaming before them like a
fairy vision, her rose-leaf lip slightly blanched with emotion,
yet wearing the smile of an angel. They penetrated
not the heaven-born motive, that, combining with the
germs of conjugal affection, suddenly ripened and sublimated
her whole nature.
Soon after the arrival of the nuptial cavalcade at the
palace, in Canterbury, the ceremony of coronation was
performed. It had been an early custom of the Anglo-Saxons,
to place with pomp and rejoicing, the crown on
the head of the consorts of their sovereign. Ethelbert
was anxious that nothing should be omitted, that could
render this honor to his queen imposing and memorable
to their people; and the pageantry of the scene seemed
to justify the epithet of “most glorious,” which was bestowed
upon him, either by the justice or the flattery of
his own times.
It was at the coronation dinner, that the young queen
first saw the dignitaries of her new realm. At an immense
oval table, loaded with a plenty, prodigal almost
to rudeness, were seated, each a lady at his side, the principal
earls, ealdermen, and thanes. Their flowing robes,
richly bordered, were of strong and opposing colors, while
made an array of barbaric splendor. She, the observed
of all observers, was admired for her tasteful dress and
graceful dignity of deportment. She also regarded with
pleased attention, the athletic forms and fair complexions
of those by whom she was surrounded, and thought the
hair of the bearded chieftains becomingly adapted to
their large features, parted as it was at the crown, and
falling low on each side, in full floating curls.
At a separate festive board, the young nobles were
entertained. At its head was Prince Sobert, the heir-apparent
to the throne of Essex; whose mother, being
the sister of Ethelbert, had caused him to be placed
under the care of his uncle, that he might be trained by
his superior wisdom to the polity of kingly government.
He was conspicuous by his lofty stature, and the profusion
of his yellow hair, whose heavy curls rested upon his
broad shoulders; as well as by his zeal in promoting
conviviality, both by word and example.
His rich tunic gleamed with the hues of the rainbow;
as frequently rising from his seat, to pledge those around
him, he raised to his lips an immense drinking-horn
tipped with ivory, and wrought at the golden brim with
leaves and clusters of the grape. This he seemed always
to drain to the bottom. His fine complexion began to assume
a blood-red tinge, and his blue eyes to radiate like
orbs of flame. At length, his voice issued in huge bursts
of sound, slightly modified by articulation, and still less
calling upon his compeers to drink nobly to the fair, new
queen, he emptied the massy goblet, and fell senseless
on the floor. As he was borne from the hall,—his head
resting helplessly on one shoulder, and his gigantic limbs
spasmodically resisting, — Bertha involuntarily turned
away her eyes, with a feeling of humiliation and disgust.
Yet she could not but observe that the scene attracted
little attention from her Anglo-Saxon subjects, who were
accustomed to think the extreme of conviviality, on high
occasions, by no means an indelible blemish.
The royal bridegroom became daily more and more
fascinated by the graces and virtues of his beautiful
spouse. Her sweetness of spirit, the attractions of her
conversation, the identification of her sympathies with
his own,—the playfulness of her unclouded spirit, the
dignity of her queenly bearing, the refinement that she
strove to diffuse over his court; above all, the patience
with which she sustained trials, or resigned her own
wishes, were more forcible arguments to his mind than
all the pungency of polemics.
“Thou art so lovely, my wife, so like a sunbeam on
my path and heart! How can I ever repay thee for the
happiness thou hast brought me?”
“By tasting the fountain from whence it flows.”
“The fountain! What meanest thou? thy faith? Ah!
if I could be indeed convinced that was the source of thy
virtues. But no, I deem it not so; they are the spontaneous
still be goodness itself, without thy creed.”
“Nay, Ethelbert, thy too partial love perceives not, or
forgets, how oft I am wayward. Before the life-giving
Spirit breathed into my heart, it was sad, and in darkness.
Even now, at the close of every day, have I need
to humble myself for its doings, or not-doings.”
“So kind, and forbearing to all beside, how is it that
thou ever judgest thyself severely? Doth not our life
already overflow with joy? I have always a fulness of
bliss, if thou art near. What more could thy faith add?”
“To the joys of this life, the hopes of another. Oh!
beloved of my soul, ere the death-angel, that must divide
us, cometh; I would fain see thee rejoicing in the promise
that we shall dwell together forever.”
The monarch was more moved by these appeals, than
his words admitted. Had they been too frequent, or
strongly reiterated, or attended by that gloom of manner
which he had supposed an element of piety, they might
have failed of all salutary effect. But the exquisite tact
that accompanied them, gave them a pleasant home, and
an echo like music, in his memory.
“Would that the God of Bertha were my God!” was
sometimes his ejaculation in solitude. Had she imagined
how often, it would have inspired her with new courage.
Before her departure from France, he had promised her
parents that she should be neither opposed nor impeded,
in the exercise of her religion; and even invited the venerab'e
her new home, and reside under his jurisdiction. With
the generosity of a noble nature, he not only faithfully
regarded, but transcended his engagements. Her retirements
in her oratory, at morn and eventide, though they
might, perchance, seem to him protracted, were never
disturbed, and he protected her in the sacredness of
those Sabbath devotions, on which she so much rested
for spiritual strength and joy. For her use, he prepared
the first temple that Christianity wrested from paganism
in England. The traveller who now muses within the
consecrated walls of St. Martin's, or beneath the gorgeous
dome of St. Paul's, hears the tread of the people, like the
sound of many waters, looks back reverentially, through
the dimness of more than twelve centuries, to the conjugal
love of their founder, Ethelbert, and the faithful
heaven-rewarded piety of his queen.
The pure fountains of maternal affection were unsealed
for Bertha, and infant souls, like unfolding rose-buds,
laid on her bosom. Supplications for their eternal welfare
were mingled with the orisons which had long been
duly offered for that of her beloved husband. But years
sped, and there seemed no nearer approach to the accomplishment
of her desires for him. Yet still her sacred
fervor failed not, while patience wrought out its
perfect work.
At length tidings came, that strangers from a foreign
coast had landed on the isle of Thanet, the very spot
and Horsa had debarked, with their ferocious followers.
Yet these peaceful people bore no resemblance, in character
or purpose, to the fierce adventurers whom the unfortunate
Britons at first invited as allies, and afterwards
strove with in vain, as usurpers and conquerors. They
were no Scandinavian marauders, led on by piratical sea-kings
to savage conflict; but Christians from Italy and
Gaul, under the auspices of the missionary Augustine.
That Being, who educeth great events from causes that
blind mortals account as trifles, had made the blue eyes
and fair brows of some English children, exposed for sale
in the slave-markets at Rome, and even the alliterative
phrase on the lips of Gregory, “non Angles, sed angeli,”
instrumental in the conversion of that glorious island,
which now plants in almost every pagan clime, the cross
of her Redeemer.
This peaceful embassy sought an audience of Ethelbert.
His lords and counsellors were dissatisfied at his
compliance.
“If you are determined,” said they, “to grant an interview
to these believers in strange gods, let it not be
in the royal city, or within your palace walls. Meet
them on the extremity of your shores, where they now
are, and listen to their words only under yon vast vaulted
canopy. For they are dealers in spells and incantations,
whose force the free, open air, somewhat dispels. Our
this protection.”
The king, with his retinue, accompanied to the isle of
Thanet, the deputation that had been sent to implore an
audience. When he came in sight of the tents of the
strangers, sprinkled like snow upon the rich summer-turf,
he paused, and a seat was erected for him beneath
the spreading branches of lofty trees. Around him
ranged the nobles and pagan priests, darkly frowning,
while beyond, a vast concourse of people, filled with intense
curiosity, covered dale and hillock in breathless
silence.
Ere long, a solemn procession was seen slowly to advance.
At its head came Augustine, afterwards honored
with the title of the Apostle of England. A massy cross
of silver was borne before him. A long train of ecclesiastics
followed, walking two and two, displaying on a
painted banner the effigy of the Saviour of man, and
chanting hymns antiphonally, in deep, melodious tones.
Ethelbert, rising from his seat, came forward to meet
this singular embassy. On his mind was a soothing consciousness
that the prayers of his angel wife were ascending
for him. The consultation that ensued was earnest
and momentous. It was observed that the monarch listened
with more and more absorbed attention; and that
gradually the lofty forehead of the missionary cleared
itself from traces of anxious thought, and that his piercing
eye gathered brightness.
“We offer you,” said he, “oh king! everlasting joys,
a throne that hath no end. Our religion cometh not to
you with the sword, or garments rolled in blood. It
boweth its knee to teach the humblest among your people.
It bringeth gifts of peace and love to all, from His
blessed hand who died for man's salvation.”
Ethelbert answered, with a calm tone and steadfast
countenance,—
“Your words and promises are fair. But they are
new to our ears, and uncertain. We are not prepared to
change the gods of our nation, or to abandon the rites
which have been common to all our tribes from the
beginning. Yet you have come from afar, and borne
hardships, to bring us what you believe to be good and
true. We will, therefore, hospitably receive you, and
supply your wants while you remain among us. We
will forbid none of our subjects to listen to your words,
nor permit any to be molested who may decide to become
your disciples.”
Delighted with the frankness and liberality of the
monarch, and overjoyed at a reception so much more
favorable than they had anticipated; they departed,
singing anthems of praise, whose sweetly solemn echoes,
softened in the hush of twilight, thrilled the hearts of
the unaccustomed hearers, like mysterious melodies from
the skies.
Lodging and entertainment for the strangers were
provided within the precincts of Canterbury, by order
arrangements connected with their fitting accommodation.
She zealously executed her commission, with
heightened love to him, and fervent gratitude to God,
who had thus opened a door for the entrance of the life-giving
Gospel.
The shades of a night, dark with storms, were gathering
over the palace. One by one the courtiers withdrew,
when, with little semblance of respect, Prince Sobert
burst into the royal presence. In a tone unbefitting his
youth, and with evident marks of high exasperation, he
began to upbraid the king for what he called abandoning
the gods of his fathers. His language became intemperate
in the extreme, and his gestures those of an infuriated
inebriate. Ethelbert was at first disposed to pay
slight heed to the madman, but then fixing on him a
stern eye, exclaimed in a voice of thunder,—
“Rash young man, will there never be an end of
these follies? Slave to your ungoverned passions, and
to this beastly intemperance, hence! Leave the society
of men, for which you are unfit.”
Motioning to his guards he bade them remove him,
and keep him under arrest, until he should regain a
better mind. Agitated and harassed with the cares of
royalty, Ethelbert retired to the apartment of the queen.
He imparted to her his recent cause of perplexity, and
the anxiety he had long felt for the courses pursued
by the young prince, his nephew. He represented him
by the growing habit of intemperance, against which
every admonition was in vain. He besought her aid
to extirpate this vice, to soften his waywardness, and
render the son of his favorite sister, and the heir of a
powerful realm, more worthy of his high destination.
The perfect sympathy with which Bertha entered into
his trouble, the fervent promise of whatever assistance
it might be in her power to bestow, and the cheerful
hope with which she spoke of His sustaining strength,
who loved to seek and to save the lost, calmed his perturbed
spirit, and lightened the load that had long lain
heavy there. Afterwards, he often beheld, with ineffable
gratitude, the wayward young prince seeking the
society of the queen, half-reclining at her feet as a childlike
listener, or fondling her little ones fondly in his
arms. He felt how imperative was the influence of female
loveliness and piety, that could thus soothe the savage
and tame the lion,—
Oft put the lion's rage to shame.”
Multitudes of the Kentish Saxons were induced by
curiosity to visit the stranger-teachers at Canterbury,
who now assumed, in some measure, the importance of
royal guests. Many were moved by the warmth of their
appeals, and the sanctity of their example. Animated
by an attention and success that surpassed their expectations,
despised and humbled remnant of the Britons, who soon
after their subjugation to the Roman yoke, had nominally
embraced Christianity. But the lapse of nearly six centuries,
with the agony of an almost exterminating struggle
against their present idolatrous lords, had quenched both
the hope of earth, and the light from heaven. The lives
of even their clergy were so debased by ignorance and
vice, that there remained scarcely a fragment of right
example, or correct discipline, among the people.
At length, Augustine obtained from their principal
priests, a promise to meet him in Worcestershire, and
confer on the subject which he proposed for their investigation.
Thither they came, few in number, men of sad
countenances, and a bitter spirit. He earnestly strove to
convince them of error, both in doctrine and observance,
and to lead them to reformation. But, suspicious and
vacillating, they neither yielded to his arguments, nor
were able to establish their own. A second consultation
was appointed, and ere its arrival they had decided to
seek the advice of an aged hermit, long renowned in
that region for austere wisdom.
The shades of night had gathered, and a chill rain fell
like hail-drops upon the leafless trees, as, through tangled
and precipitous paths, they wound their way to the cave
of the recluse. With difficulty they obtained admittance.
It was not until after prolonged parley, that the stone
which secured the entrance, was rolled away. The glare
height, and a man with a forbidding aspect, apparently of
great strength, but wasted by abstinence and seclusion.
His long, lean limbs, protruded from a mantle of skins,
in which he was scantily wrapped. Through the thick,
grizzled hair and beard, that formed an almost continuous
mesh, only the prominent points of his features
were visible, and his cold gray eyes looked luridly forth,
as if to petrify the beholder.
“Wherefore come ye hither?” he cried, in a startling
discordant tone.
His visitants recounted their troubles, their doubts,
their need of counsel, and their reverence for his reputed
wisdom. Without movement of muscle, or eyelid, like
one fashioned from the rock that surrounded him, he
regarded their words.
“More strangers, say ye? Has not the coming of
strangers, and their laws, already been our destruction?
Brought not Cæsar, and his legions, a new faith, upon
their swords' points? Did not your Saxon lords, with
the battle-axe, hew it away? And now, there come
other strange men, to talk about the soul. Are there no
souls in their own country, that they thus traverse sea
and land to find them?”
Moving his lips for a while, inarticulately, as if marshalling
bitter thoughts, he exclaimed with added violence,—
“The soul! what know they, or what know ye, of that
blind and foolish as ye are. The soul! whence cometh
it? And when with the death-cry, it teareth a passage
through the clay, whither goeth it? Ha! answer me!
Whither?”
Alarmed at his excitement of feeling, they hasted to
lay before him the gifts they had brought. Without
deigning a glance at them, he raised his harsh voice to a
shout,—
“New religions! Another god! Our fathers worshipped
the blue Woden, and the Druids cut the sacred
misletoe, with a knife of gold, and the bards sang to the
harp the praise of heroes; and from the stateliest oak, to
the smallest moss-blade,—from every grove and fountain,
came the whisper of in-dwelling, and friendly spirits.
Hath it ever been better with us, than with them—freely
launching their wattled boats upon their own peaceful
waters? Better! with British blood in your veins,—
clinging to some shadow of deity, to some vile flapping
bat, that nestles in the mind of your tyrannous lords?
Better! rooted out, and trampled down, and finding
beasts of prey more merciful than men?”
And he laughed, a bitter and scornful laugh. Then,
drawing himself up to his full gigantic height, till his head
touched the roof of the cavern,—his eyes reddening in
the torch-light with a baleful glare,—he continued to
murmur in hollow whispers, and hoarse recitative, as if
holding converse with demons. The Britons, inly shuddering,
heavy wings, mixed with unearthly shrieks. It was the
swell of the tempest. After a long interval, he added
in a more subdued tone,—
“Ye have asked me for a sign. A sign! What is it to
me, with whom ye collude, or whom ye choose for your
masters,—slaves as ye are, and hypocrites,—professing to
believe in Christ, yet crouching under the mace of Thor,
the thunderer? For a sign ye ask me! Go your way
unto this stranger-priest. If he rise to receive you, listen
to his words, and obey them. If he rise not, refuse a
faith that is not able to abase his pride. This is all the
sign I give you. And now, go your ways, for the day
breaketh.”
The British prelates, superstitiously yielding to the
ascetic, were content to stake on a mere accident, on the
whim of a maddening brain, a negotiation so momentous.
At the appointed time, they repaired to Worcestershire.
Augustine, sitting under the broad shadow of an oak,
chanced not to rise as they approached. Therefore, to
all his arguments, they were immovable, and met every
conciliatory proposal with a negative. The ravings of a
semi-savage in his cavern, prevailed to neutralize the eloquence
of the missionary; even though assuming somewhat
of prescience, it depicted the impending evils of contumacy.
Yet this disappointment was effaced by the success
that awaited him amid his Saxon hearers, throngs of
the faithful wife, and lovely queen, was reserved an exquisite
joy,—her royal husband's avowal of his belief in
the Christian religion. This event, which makes memorable
in the annals of England, the year 597, was followed
by the conversion of ten thousand of his subjects, who, in
one day, abjured idolatry, and received the rite of baptism.
Rapidly the knowledge of the truth overspread
the kingdoms of Kent and Essex, until gradually the whole
Saxon octarchy drank of the light that cometh down from
heaven.
The influence and earnest efforts of Bertha, were blessed
in the reformation of the young Prince Sobert. Instilling
into his mind noble sentiments, and generous plans
of action, he was led to despise the animal appetites in
which he once gloried, and to break the chains of the
vice that had so long held him in bondage. “Clothed
and in his right mind,” he became assiduous to acquire
that knowledge which should enable him to advance the
welfare of his future realm. His faithful and gentle
monitor rested not until she had led him to the foot of
the cross, and seen him fortify all his good resolutions by
humbly trusting in the Friend, “strong to suffer, and
mighty to save.”
The reign of Ethelbert was long and prosperous. To
the other cares of royalty which accumulated with years,
and were deepened by his own sense of responsibility as
a Christian, he added the devotion of much time and labor
crude and discordant ideas of justice that prevailed among
the people. To the influence of the Gospel, we probably
owe this earliest specimen of Saxon jurisprudence. In
retracing its various provisions, we fancy that we perceive
in the double penalty which he inflicted on all crimes
committed in a state of inebriation, the intense anxiety
that had long preyed upon his mind for the nephew, whose
training had been committed to his care, and by whose intemperance
he had been so often fearfully disgraced.
His gratitude for the change wrought in the young
Prince Sobert, was without bounds. Next to the life-giving
Spirit, whose breath renovates the sinful heart, he
recognized in this blessed result, the agency of his beloved
wife.
When the being once so reckless, strove wisely to wield
the sceptre, and to become the benefactor of his people,
Ethelbert, regarding him with paternal pride, yet remembering
his former horrible slavery to the most debasing
of all vices, would say affectionately to Bertha, “See
your own work.”
But the crown of her reward, and that for which she
most fervently gave thanks to the Giver of every good
and perfect gift, was his tremulous whisper in retirement,
“Thy hand, my wife, hath led me to the cross—thy
pure example, the beauty of holiness.”
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