Edward Parrott - The Pageant of British History

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Henry the Eighth and Cardinal Wolsey.
( From the picture by Sir John Gilbert, R.A., in the Guildhall Art Gallery, London. )

FOREWORD.

The Master of the Pageant spurs into the arena; he waves his baton, and the trumpets sound. In the distance you see a long procession begin to wind its way across the greensward, and as it draws nearer and nearer you recognize the form and fashion of men and women whose names are writ large in the annals of our land. Here they comeking and queen, statesman and priest, warrior and merchant, poet and man of law, shipman and craftsman, yeoman and peasanta motley throng, all sorts and conditions of men and women, high and low, rich and poor, gentle and simple, noble and base, hero and craven; yet each in his or her several degree a maker of history. These are the counterfeit presentments of the men and women who through twice a thousand years have made us what we are, and our glorious land what it is.

As they troop by, let a humble chroniclerwho prays that he may not be considered intrusiverecall the story of their heroisms, their trials, their sufferings, their glories, or, it may be, their failures, their treacheries, and their shames. Perchance twill be a twice-told tale, familiar as household words yet it is a recital that can never lack hearers while men love the land that bore them, and would fain find example and warning, inspiration and guidance, from the story of the past. The chronicler pretends to no philosophy save thisthat since we have, under Providence, been created a noble and puissant nation and entrusted with a heritage without peer in the history of the world, we should be false to our sires, false to ourselves, and false to our destiny were we, by selfishness, sloth, or ignorance, to neglect to be great through craven fears of being great. And since the best and only true foundation of patriotism is knowledge, he would fain hope that these sketches may stimulate in some who are growing towards manhood and womanhood a humble pride in the greatness of their land and a fervent desire so to play their part that Britain may be what she was meant to bethe Vicegerent of the Almighty in the uplifting and ennoblement of the world. In this belief he echoes the prayer of the poet:

THE procession advances. Who, you ask, are these swarthy, Jewish-looking men leading the way? They are Phnicians, the first visitors from civilized shores to our island. These restless wanderers are keen traders, who have sped their barks from distant Tyre or Carthage in quest of merchandise. One of them, urging his ship northward towards this fabled happy land of the western ocean, has sighted through the clearing mists the distant line of an unknown shore. He has landed and come into touch with the natives. Spreading out his tempting treasures of purple cloth, glittering trinkets, and gleaming glass to the astonished gaze of the Britons, he has begun to barter his wares for the native products of the isle.