himself, and think himself above all other men! May Almighty God show mercy to his soul, and grant him forgiveness of his sins.” There are other contemporary Anglo-Saxon annalists, and there are the rhyming chroniclers of Norman blood, who put a better color upon the qualities of King William; but I think there is no one of them, who even in moments of rhetorical exaltation, thinks of putting William’s sense of justice, or his kindness of heart, before his greed or his self-love. _Harold the Saxon._ The late Lord Lytton (Bulwer) gave to this period and to the closing years of Harold one of the most elaborate of his Historic Studies. He availed himself shrewdly of all the most picturesque aspects (and they were very many) in the career of Harold, and found startling historic facts enough to supply to the full his passion for exaggerated melodrama. There are brilliant passages in his book,[12] and a great wealth of archæologic material; he shows us the remnants of old Roman villas--the crude homeliness of Saxon house surroundings--the assemblage of old Palace Councils. Danish battle-axes, and long-bearded Saxon thanes, and fiery-headed Welshmen contrast with the polished and insidious Normans. Nor is there lacking a heavy and much over-weighted quota of love-making and misfortune, and joy and death. Tennyson has taken the same subject, using the same skeleton of story for his play of Harold. It would seem that he has depended on the romance of Bulwer for his archæology; and indeed the book is dedicated to the younger Lord Lytton (better known in the literary world as “Owen Meredith”). As a working play, it is counted, like all of Tennyson’s--a failure; but there are passages of exceeding beauty. He pictures the King Harold--the hero that he is--but with a veil of true Saxon gloom lowering over him: he tells the story of his brother Tostig’s jealous wrath,--always in arms against Harold: he tells of the hasty oath, which the king in young days had sworn to William in Normandy, never to claim England’s throne: and this oath hangs like a cloud over the current of Harold’s story. The grief, and noble devotion of poor Edith, the betrothed bride of the king, whom he is compelled by a devilish diplomacy to discard--is woven like a golden thread into the woof of the tale: and Aldwyth, the queen, whom Harold did not and can never love, is set off against Edith--in Tennyson’s own unmatchable way in the last scenes of the tragedy. We are in the camp at Hastings: the battle waits; a vision of Norman saints, on whose bones Harold had sworn that dreadful oath, comes to him in his trance:--They say--(these wraiths of saints)-- O hapless Harold! king but for an hour! Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones, We give our voice against thee out of Heaven! And warn him against the fatal _arrow_. And Harold--waking--says-- Away! My battle-axe against your voices!