s some day a wolf's skull
will be dug up there, with a stone axe sticking in it. But the history of
it has gone for ever, had gone, probably, long centuries before King
Kynegils found it a strong site for his castle.

It was at Wolvesey that King Alfred himself is said to have penned some
part of the Saxon Chronicle now treasured in the library of Corpus
Christi College, Cambridge. He was a true book-lover, this great English
king, and it is to the school of illuminators which arose later in the
'new minster' by St. Swithun's that we are indebted for some of the most
beautiful examples of mediaeval art that have come down to us. The Golden
Book of Edgar, Bede's 'Ecclesiastical History'--in the Cathedral
library--and the exquisitely illuminated 'benedictional' of St. AEthelwold
possessed by the Duke of Devonshire, all these were produced before the
end of the tenth century by the artists who laboured so patiently in the
Scriptorium beside those peaceful meadows. For two centuries the
Winchester school of illuminators was renowned throughout the western
world.

It is a pleasant spot, this ancient city of Camelot, and I like to read
that among the aldermen who assembled at the Tun Moot in bygone days were
a pinder, a mole-catcher, and an ale-conner. A stout fellow, this last,
for without his permission not a single barrel of beer could be broached.
The business transacted at the Moot, we are told, was little more than to
receive taxes, provide for the defence of the city, and settle disputes.
After which the aldermen (with the permission of the ale-conner, it is to
be presumed) proceeded to consume the ale allowed to them by custom
immemorial at the rate of two gallons a man at each sitting. _O tempora,
O mores!_

At one time, however, that kill-joy Edgar came near to causing an
insurrection, for he ordained that all drinking-horns should have pegs
set in them at regular intervals and that no man might drink below his
peg. Thus were practically abolished those friendly drinking-bouts
between Danes and English that did so much to rid the town of its
northern intruders. _Floreat Wintonia_, and may it stand for ever to
book-lovers and lovers of romance as the ideal of all that is knightly
and kingly and romantic--and hospitable.

It is to be feared, however, that the Spirit of Romance is now
moribund--if, indeed, it has not already passed away; and with it we are
losing one of the most ennobling qualities in our nature. W