“Yes,” said he, “almost every word is simply a translation from one or other of them, but the greater part is taken from the Chronicle of Asser, who was a contemporary and intimate friend of Alfred, and a very learned and pious ecclesiastic.” “I suppose they were; mostly priests and monks who wrote the Chronicles then, Sir, for they don’t read at all like our modern histories. They seem a much more religious sort of books.” “Don’t call them religious books,” said he, “it puts one in mind of religious newspapers,--the greatest curse of our times. Yes, people sneer at the old English chroniclers now-a-days, and prefer the Edda, and all sorts of heathen stuff, to them; but they are great books, Sir, for those who have eyes for them; godly books is the name for them, written by God-fearing men, who were not ashamed of the faith which was in them;--men who believed, Sir, that a living God was ruling in England, and that in his name one of them might defy a thousand. Your historians, now-a-days, Sir, believe that Providence (for they dare not talk of God) is on the side of the strongest battalion. There’s some difference, when you come to think of it, between the two creeds, Sir.” The old gentleman looked at me quite fierce, so I made all the haste I could to change the subject. “Don’t you think it very curious, Sir, that the figure should have lasted all this time?” said I; “because you see, Sir, if you or I were to cut a trench, two feet or so deep, up here, on the side of the hill, and stamp down the chalk ever so hard, it would be all filled up and grown over in a few years.” “You are not the first person who has made that remark,” said he. “In the year 1738, an antiquary, of the name of Francis Wise, who lived at Oxford, visited the hill, and wrote a letter on the subject to Dr. Mead, the most learned antiquary of that day. First he speaks of the figure of the horse as ‘being described in so masterly a manner that it may defy the painter’s skill to give a more exact description of the animal.’” “How could he talk like that, Sir?” said I; “why the figure isn’t a bit like----” “You are as bad as Camden,” said he, “who talks of I know not what shape of a horse fancied on the side of a whitish hill; but the truth is, it is a copy of the Saxon standard, which, of course, was a rude affair. However, Wise, whom I was telling you of, goes on:--