Harold | Page 3

subject-matter of the book, or refresh his memory
on incidental details not without a national interest. In the mere
references to authorities I do not pretend to arrogate to a fiction the
proper character of a history; the references are chiefly used either
where wishing pointedly to distinguish from invention what was
borrowed from a chronicle, or when differing from some popular
historian to whom the reader might be likely to refer, it seemed well to
state the authority upon which the difference was founded. [4]
In fact, my main object has been one that compelled me to admit graver
matter than is common in romance, but which I would fain hope may
be saved from the charge of dulness by some national sympathy
between author and reader; my object is attained, and attained only, if,
in closing the last page of this work, the reader shall find that, in spite
of the fictitious materials admitted, he has formed a clearer and more
intimate acquaintance with a time, heroic though remote, and characters
which ought to have a household interest to Englishmen, than the
succinct accounts of the mere historian could possibly afford him.
Thus, my dear D'Eyncourt, under cover of an address to yourself, have
I made to the Public those explanations which authors in general (and I
not the least so) are often overanxious to render.
This task done, my thoughts naturally fly back to the associations I
connected with your name when I placed it at the head of this epistle.
Again I seem to find myself under your friendly roof; again to greet my
provident host entering that gothic chamber in which I had been
permitted to establish my unsocial study, heralding the advent of

majestic folios, and heaping libraries round the unworthy work. Again,
pausing from my labour, I look through that castle casement, and
beyond that feudal moat, over the broad landscapes which, if I err not,
took their name from the proud brother of the Conqueror himself; or
when, in those winter nights, the grim old tapestry waved in the dim
recesses, I hear again the Saxon thegn winding his horn at the turret
door, and demanding admittance to the halls from which the prelate of
Bayeux had so unrighteously expelled him [5]--what marvel, that I
lived in the times of which I wrote, Saxon with the Saxon, Norman
with the Norman--that I entered into no gossip less venerable than that
current at the Court of the Confessor, or startled my fellow-guests
(when I deigned to meet them) with the last news which Harold's spies
had brought over from the Camp at St. Valery? With all those folios,
giants of the gone world, rising around me daily, more and more,
higher and higher--Ossa upon Pelion--on chair and table, hearth and
floor; invasive as Normans, indomitable as Saxons, and tall as the
tallest Danes (ruthless host, I behold them still!)--with all those
disburied spectres rampant in the chamber, all the armour rusting in thy
galleries, all those mutilated statues of early English kings (including St.
Edward himself)--niched into thy grey, ivied walls--say in thy
conscience, O host, (if indeed that conscience be not wholly callous!)
shall I ever return to the nineteenth century again?
But far beyond these recent associations of a single winter (for which
heaven assoil thee!) goes the memory of a friendship of many winters,
and proof to the storms of all. Often have I come for advice to your
wisdom, and sympathy to your heart, bearing back with me, in all such
seasons, new increase to that pleasurable gratitude which is, perhaps,
the rarest, nor the least happy sentiment, that experience leaves to man.
Some differences, it may be,--whether on those public questions which
we see, every day, alienating friendships that should have been beyond
the reach of laws and kings;--or on the more scholastic controversies
which as keenly interest the minds of educated men,--may at times
deny to us the idem velle, atque idem nolle; but the firma amicitia
needs not those common links; the sunshine does not leave the wave
for the slight ripple which the casual stone brings a moment to the
surface.

Accept, in this dedication of a work which has lain so long on my mind,
and been endeared to me from many causes, the token of an affection
for you and yours, strong as the ties of kindred, and lasting as the belief
in truth. E. B. L.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION.
The author of an able and learned article on MABILLON [6] in the
"Edinburgh Review," has accurately described my aim in this work;
although, with that generous courtesy which characterises the true
scholar, in referring to the labours of a contemporary, he has overrated
my success. It was indeed my aim "to