long black cloaks girt about the waist; very unlike the wild inland men with blue tattooing on their naked limbs, from whom the popular notion of an ancient Briton is taken.

In that dim old time the British Islands were peopled mainly by Celts, who formed the foremost wave of that Aryan tide of population which set steadily westward from the plains of Asia.* Sweeping along the Mediterranean shore, it spread northward through the west of Europe, until met by a slower and stronger wave-that of the German or Teutonic nationswhich had pressed right on from the Black Sea through the centre of the continent; and by this it was beaten further and further west, till at last only in the mountain lands on the very margin of the Atlantic could the Celts find a safe home. There they have lingered till the present day. Settled in the centre of the southern shore of Britain-in the district between the English and the Bristol Channels corresponding to the modern shires of Hants, Wilts, and Somerset--were the Belga, a fierce and warlike tribe, who are thought to have been an offshoot from the Belgic Gauls (between the Seine and the Rhine). But the mass of the original population was Celtic of an earlier and ruder type. In Ireland, as might be expected from its being the extreme western outpost of Europe, the Celtic element was even then, as it still remains, purer and stronger than in the sister island. But all the Celts who inhabited ancient Britain were not of the same kind. One branch, called the Cymri (Cimbri or Cimmerii), corresponding to the modern Welsh, held sway not only in Wales,† but also in the kingdom of Reged or Strathclyde (between the Clyde and the Wyre). Another branch, the Erse or Gaelic, is represented by the Irish and the Highlanders of Scotland. Gaulish tribes, too, lived in

* The Lapps and Finns in the north, and the Basques in the south, represent earlier waves of population, but they belong to a different family-the Turanian.

+ Wales, from a Saxon word Weallas, meaning "strangers," was otherwise called Cambria. The Welsh call themselves Cymri, a name which appears to connect them with the Cimbri.

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eastern Britain.

And there may have been, besides these various Celtic peoples, a sprinkling of Saxons or Frisians, who had settled even before the landing of Cæsar on the eastern coasts.

The early legendary story of Britain rests chiefly on the Latin chronicle of Geoffrey of Monmouth,* who professed to have translated an old manuscript brought over from Bretagne (Armorica). These wild and misty legends are interesting chiefly from their influence on English literature. Brutus, the grandson of Trojan Æneas, lands among the giants, and mows them down with ease. A famous wrestler of his train hurls headlong from Dover Cliff the fierce Gogmagog, whose twelve cubits of stature could not save him from the deadly fall. Bladud reigns--one of a line of many kings-and bathes in the hot wells of Caerbad, whence modern Bath has sprung. Here and there, amid a crowd of flying phantoms, names with which we have grown familiar gleam out from the shadows. Lear alone is almost real, for the magic hand of Shakespeare has touched him, and clothed him with imperishable light.

CHAPTER II.

THE TWO FAILURES OF JULIUS CESAR.

Bent on conquest-Anchor weighed-The landing-The fight among the corn-Return to Gaul-Second expedition-Casswallon-British tactics-Repulse of the Britons-Passage of the Thames-Abandonment of Britain-Caesar's story.

IN

N the summer of the year 55 B.C., Julius Cæsar, one of the greatest soldiers the world has known, having fought his way through Gaul, looked over a narrow belt of sea upon the chalky shore of Britain. No Roman had ever landed there; but there were few who had not then heard of the mysterious island, richly stored with pearls and tin, and peopled by a race of men who were no mean foes on the battle-field. The sight of that gleaming coast-line the fabled wealth of British rivers and rocks the angry remembrance of those stalwart islanders, who, shoulder to shoulder with their Gaulish kinsmen, had rushed on his marshalled legions, and of others who across the sea had given welcome and shelter to his flying foes-these things combined to kindle Cæsar's ambition to conquer Britain. There may have been another motive at work, stronger than all-the desire to achieve some brilliant exploit, grander than his Gallic triumphs, now grown somewhat stale,- -some exploit that should cast his rival, Pompey, completely into the shade, and crown his own sword with a laurel-wreath such as no Roman had ever worn before.

The old campaigner wished to fling the shadow of his sword

before him. Calling together, therefore, the chief merchants of the Gallic coast, he cross-examined them about the people and the harbours of the opposite land. He got no information from these cautious men; but, as he had no doubt intended them to do, the moment they left his presence they sent the alarming news of a threatened invasion across to their island friends. Speedily there came back envoys from several of the tribes, who deprecated the wrath of the great soldier by humble offers of submission. But this did not stay the scheme. Despatching a cruiser to survey the coast and mark its vulnerable points, he brought two legions (about 8,000 men), many auxiliaries, and a picked body of cavalry down to Portus Itius,* where eighty transports lay to receive them. The return of the reconnoitring galley was the signal for the start. Before dawn on an August morning, the fleet weighed anchor and stood out from the harbour across the strait. By ten o'clock they were close to the white cliffs of the British shore, on which there swarmed, thick as bees, dark clouds of fighting-men, ready to oppose the landing. The Roman cavalry had not yet arrived; and as the day wore on, and three o'clock came, Cæsar resolved on action without them. With a favouring breeze and tide he sailed eastward to a shelving strand, seven miles off, where it would be easier and safer to land. And as the darting galleys cut the sea, the British horsemen and charioteers dashed along the land abreast of them, keeping pace with the sweeping oars, so that when the landing-place --probably near Deal †- was reached at last, and the galleys were driven prow foremost on the beach, the islanders pre

Aug. 26,

55

B.C.

* Witsand or Wissant, half-way between Calais and Boulogne, is now generally identified with Cæsar's Portus Itius. Wright supposed it to be the place afterwards called Gessoriacum, which lay on or near the site of modern Boulogne. Cæsar's army had mustered in the country of the Morini (the Pas-de-Calais).

The shore between Walmer and Sandwich appears the likeliest place for Cæsar's landing. Pevensey, Folkestone, Dover, have been also named. But nineteen hundred winters have so altered the landmarks and outline of the coast that it is impossible to fix the spot with any certainty.

on.

sented a front as bold and threatening as when first the Romans saw their array of war upon the white rocks. For some shameful moments the veterans of Cæsar hung back dismayed. Sounding trumpets and waving standards were of no avail. The shaggy-locked giants on the shore rode into the waves with wheeling spears, and dared them hoarsely to come Still their laggard feet clung to the decks, until an officer, who has won glory by the single act, the standard-bearer of the Tenth Legion, leaped into the water with his eagle, crying, "Follow me!" The effect was electric. The next moment saw the whole army of brass-mailed men floundering breast-high in the surf, and struggling toward the shore against a forest of spears, and amid a ceaseless rain of darts and stones. The fight was hard and long; but Cæsar's men were used to conquer; and the beaten islanders soon saw with sorrowful eyes their dreaded foe digging trenches for a camp upon the blood-stained shore. Sadly the sun sank and the August evening fell.

Next morning brought offers of submission from most of the neighbouring chiefs; and the acceptance of these brought to the Roman camp the chiefs themselves, who flocked in to pay a hollow homage, and watch for a chance of retrieving their loss. The chance soon came. When, four days later, the ships which bore the much-desired cavalry hove in sight of the Roman camp, a storm arose that drove them back to Gaul and shattered terribly the entire fleet. Quietly the British chiefs slunk away and mustered their men. It was the end of the harvest-time, and one field of corn still stood uncut, not far from the Roman camp. The Seventh Legion, sent out to reap it-supplies were very scanty in the Roman tents--were beset by a host of horsemen and charioteers who had stolen on them under cover of the woods. A cloud of dust, rising from the trodden ground, told the sentinels at the camp that something more than harvesting was going on. Cæsar hurried to the spot with fresh troops: it took all his generalship to save from utter