He met it, _not_ alone, St. Benedict being with him now, when he had
no longer the strength of man to trust in.

The Normans, as they approached him, threw themselves on their
knees,--covered themselves with dust, and implored his pardon and his
blessing.

There's a bit of poetry--if you like,--but a piece of steel-clad fact
also, compared to which the battle of Hastings and Waterloo both, were
mere boys' squabbles.

You don't suppose, you British schoolboys, that _you_ overthrew
Napoleon--_you?_ Your prime Minister folded up the map of Europe at
the thought of him. Not you, but the snows of Heaven, and the hand of
Him who dasheth in pieces with a rod of iron. He casteth forth His ice
like morsels,--who can stand before His cold?

But, so far as you have indeed the right to trust in the courage of
your own hearts, remember also--it is not in Norman nor Saxon, but in
Celtic race that your real strength lies. The battles both of Waterloo
and Alma were won by Irish and Scots--by the terrible Scots Greys, and
by Sir Colin's Highlanders. Your 'thin red line,' was kept steady at
Alma only by Colonel Yea's swearing at them.

But the old Pope, alone against a Norman army, wanted nobody to swear
at him. Steady enough he, having somebody to bless him, instead of
swear at him. St. Benedict, namely; whose (memory shall we say?)
helped him now at his pinch in a singular manner,--for the Normans,
having got the old man's forgiveness, vowed themselves his feudal