e us slaves. On
the contrary, he gave us a representative Constitution, which has
lasted a thousand years. We might call him our Manx King Alfred, if the
indirections of history did not rather tempt us to christen him our Manx
King Lear. His Saga has never been written, or else it is lost. Would
that we could recover it! Oh, that imagination had the authority of
history to vitalise the old man and his times! I seem to see him as he
lived. There are hints of his character in his laws, that are as stage
directions, telling of the entrances and exits of his people, though the
drama of their day is gone. For example, in that preliminary warning
of the coroner at Tynwald, there is a clause which says that none shall
"bawl or quarrel or lye or lounge or sit." Do you not see what that
implies? Again, there is another clause which forbids any man, "on paine
of life and lyme," to make disturbance or stir in the time of Tynwald,
or any murmur or rising in the king's presence. Can you not read between
the lines of that edict? Once more, no inquest of a deemster, no judge
or jury, was necessary to the death-sentence of a man who rose against
the king or his governor on his seat on Tynwald. Nobody can miss the
meaning of that. Once again, it was a common right of the people to
present petitions at Tynwald, a common privilege of persons unjustly
punished to appeal against judgment, and a common prerogative of outlaws
to ask at the foot of the Tynwald Mount on Tynwald Day for the removal
of their outlawry. All these old rights and regulations came from
Iceland, and by the help of the Sagas it needs no special imagination
to make the scenes of their action live again. I seem to see King Orry
sitting on his chair on the Tynwald with his face towards the east. He
has long given up sea-roving.

His long red hair is become grey or white. But the old lion has the
muscles and fiery eye of the warrior still. His deemsters and barons
are about him, and his people are on the sward below. They are free
men; they mean to have their rights, both from him and from each other.
Disputes run high, there are loud voices, mighty oaths, sometimes blows,
fights, and terrific hurly-burlies. Then old Orry comes down with a
great voice and a sword, and ploughs a way through the fighters and
scatters them. No man dare lift his hand on the king. Peace is restored,
and the king goes back to his seat.

Then up from the valley comes a woe-begone man in tatters,