ved to me an interesting story.

It chanced that in that far back time she was in correspondence on
certain scientific and literary subjects with a gentleman who was a
native of this part of Hampshire in which we were staying, and that they
got into a discussion about Freeman, the historian, during which he told
her of an incident of his undergraduate days when Freeman was professor
at Oxford. He attended a lecture by that man on the Mythical and
Romantic Elements in Early English History, in which he stated for the
guidance of all who study the past, that they must always bear in mind
the inevitable passion for romance in men, especially the uneducated,
and that when the student comes upon a romantic incident in early
history, even when it accords with the known character of the person it
relates to, he must reject it as false. Then, to rub the lesson in, he
gave an account of the most flagrant of the romantic lies contained in
the history of the Saxon kings. This was the story of King Edgar, and
how his favourite, Earl Athelwold, deceived him as to the reputed beauty
of Elfrida, and how Edgar in revenge slew Athelwold with his own hand
when hunting. Then--to show how false it all was!--Edgar, the chronicles
state, was at Salisbury and rode in one day to Harewood Forest and there
slew Athelwold. Now, said Freeman, as Harewood Forest is in Yorkshire,
Edgar could not have ridden there from Salisbury in one day, nor in two,
nor in three, which was enough to show that the whole story was a
fabrication.

The undergraduate, listening to the lecturer, thought the Professor was
wrong owing to his ignorance of the fact that the Harewood Forest in
which the deed was done was in Hampshire, within a day's ride from
Salisbury, and that local tradition points to the very spot in the
forest where Athelwold was slain. Accordingly he wrote to the Professor
and gave him these facts. His letter was not answered; and the poor
youth felt hurt, as he thought he was doing Professor Freeman a service
by telling him something he didn't know. _He_ didn't know his Professor
Freeman.

This story about Freeman tickled me, because I dislike him, but if any
one were to ask me why I dislike him I should probably have to answer
like a woman: Because I do. Or if stretched on the rack until I could
find or invent a better reason I should perhaps say it was because he
was so infernally cock-sure, so convinced that he and he alone had the
power of dist