{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53723/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53723","id":"gutenberg_53723","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53723","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Folklore -- Great Britain","Heroes"],"text":"THROUGH\n GOLDEN DOORS\n TO\n ENGLISH LITERATURE\n\n\n\n\n THROUGH GOLDEN DOORS\n TO\n ENGLISH LITERATURE\n\n A NEW SERIES\n BY JEANNETTE MARKS\n _Lecturer at Mt. Holyoke College_\n\n\nThe master-stories of English literature told for young readers. The\nauthor, who has been professor of English Literature at Mt. Holyoke\nand the author of several successful books for both younger and older\nreaders, has been occupied for a long time in making a selection of the\nbest stories from the greatest English writers beginning with \"Beowulf\"\nand the dawn of English letters.\n\nThe present volume offers masterpieces chosen from the earliest English\nliterature from the seventh to the fourteenth century, stories which\nare not readily accessible.\n\nThe second volume will offer hero tales of the Middle English period,\nfrom Chaucer and others.\n\nIn later volumes selections will be made from the masters of modern\nEnglish literature.\n\n\n EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES\n From 600 to 1340\n Other books in preparation\n _Each illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, 50 cents net_\n HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS\n\n\n[Illustration: MEDIEVAL LONDON\n_From Manuscript 16 F. ii in the British Museum_]\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n EARLY\n ENGLISH\n HERO TALES\n\n TOLD BY\n JEANNETTE MARKS\n WELLESLEY M.A.\n LECTURER AT MT. HOLYOKE COLLEGE\n\n ILLUSTRATED\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n HARPER & BROTHERS\n NEW YORK & LONDON\n\n\n\n\n COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HARPER & BROTHERS\n\n\n\n PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n PUBLISHED APRIL, 1915\n\n\n\n\n TO\n H. M. C.\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS\n\n\n CHAP. PAGE\n\n INTRODUCTION vii\n\n I. THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO 1\n\n II. WELSH MAGIC 9\n\n III. THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 18\n\n IV. C\u00c6DMON THE COWHERD 30\n\n V. THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE 41\n\n VI. THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 48\n\n VII. A FISHERMAN'S BOY 57\n\n VIII. THE WEREWOLF 68\n\n IX. AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 75\n\n X. A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 85\n\n CHRONOLOGY 101\n\n\n\n\n ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n MEDIEVAL LONDON _Frontispiece_\n (From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)\n\n KINGS IN ARMOR _Page_ 27\n (From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)\n\n HENRY III. SAILING HOME FROM GASCONY, 1243 \" 61\n (From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)\n\n KNIGHT IN ARMOR \" 87\n (From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)\n\n\n\n\n INTRODUCTION\n\n\nSupposing you were asked to enter a Great Palace? And within that\npalace, you were told, were more than a thousand golden doors? And\nthose doors opened into rooms and upon gardens and balconies, all of\nwhich were the most beautiful of palace rooms and gardens? And some\nwere more beautiful than anything the world had ever known before? Do\nyou think you would go through the gate to that palace?\n\nAnd if you were told that in the palace were lamps so bright that they\nlighted not only the palace, but cast a glow over the whole world?\nAnd that these lamps hung from chains the ends of which you could\nnot see, just as Pryderi was not able to see the ends of the hanging\ngolden chains in the palace which he entered? And once within the Great\nPalace you were not only better for being there, but also happier and\nstronger and more beautiful, and never any more could you be lonely?\nIt sounds like an Aladdin's lamp, does it not, which, once seen and\ntouched, could bring so much beauty and power into our lives! Indeed,\nit is Aladdin's lamp--the lamp of men's minds and souls. And the Great\nPalace is the Palace of English Literature.\n\nOver those doors are many names written--names never to be forgotten\nwhile the English tongue is spoken. And in that palace there is\nfairyland; there are giants and monsters; there are warrior heroes\nlike Beowulf, and saintly heroes like Cuthbert; there are noble boys\nlike Alfred; there are poets, princes, lovely ladies, little children,\nspirited horses, faithful dogs; there are heard the sound of singing,\nthe playing of the harp, the beat of feet dancing, cries of gladness,\ncries of sorrow, the rolling of the organ, the fluting of birds, the\nlaughter of water, and the whisper of every wind that has blown upon\nthe fields of the world; there are seen flowers of every marvelous and\nstarlike shape, of every rainbow hue, and jewels as shining as the\nlamps hanging in the Great Palace, and fruits rare and strange filling\nthe Great Palace with sweet fragrance and color; there are rooms unlike\nany rooms we have ever seen before; and the years are there--nearly\ntwo thousand--numbered and made beautiful; there, too, are Wisdom and\nKindness and Courage and Faith and Modesty and Love and Self-Control,\ncoming and going hither and yon through the wide hallways or on service\nbent up and down the narrow corridors.\n\nIt is a Palace of Enchantment, is it not? Yes, it is a Palace of\nEnchantment, and I can think of no greater happiness, no stronger\nassurance that we shall learn how to be our best selves and to rule\nourselves, no greater inspiration to be wise and kind while we are\nboys and girls, and when we grow up no fuller promise of a good time\nand many kinds of happiness and pleasure, than just to take the gate\ninto that palace, listen to its songs and poems and stories, taste of\nits fruits, hold some of its flowers in our hands, grow warm in its\nsunshine, dream in its moonlight, and watch the fairies dance with the\nfeet that dance there, play with its jewels, listen to the whisper of\nthe winds that blow around the world, lay our hands in the brave hands\nof Love and Courage, Wisdom and Kindness, who dwell there; knock on\nthose golden doors where we would go in and be alone; and come out\nagain, knowing that we have won the great enchantment, which is the\ncompanionship of beautiful and imperishable story and poem, song and\nplay.\n\nIt is a wonderful Palace of English Literature in which we shall see\nmany marvels: the first English hero, Beowulf, and the monster Grendel;\nall the fortunes and misfortunes of the little, radiant-browed Welsh\nboy called Taliesin, the battle of the friends Cuchulain and Ferdiad,\nwho were betrayed by the false Irish Queen Maeve; how song came to our\nfirst great English poet, C\u00e6dmon, in the cow-stall at the Monastery\nof Whitby (670); of the courage of a shepherd lad who had became a\nsaint, and of even the seals who loved St. Cuthbert (seventh century);\nof the young Prince Alfred who won a book as a prize (849-900); of\nHavelok, the son of the King of Denmark, who lived with Fisherman Grim\nat Grimsby; of a man who was under enchantment as a wolf part of the\nweek and whom Marie de France called a Werewolf; of all the marvels\nthat Geoffrey of Monmouth (1147) saw from his window; and especially of\nthe wonders which King Arthur's magician, Merlin, worked; and of the\nred and white dragons that came out of a drained pond; and of a famous\nkitchen-boy who became a great knight, and about whom Sir Thomas Malory\ntells one exciting adventure in the _Morte d'Arthur_ (1469).\n\nWhat boys and girls will enter the gate with me? Shall we go into the\nGreat Palace to-day? And on what golden door shall we rap first that we\nmay be admitted?\n\n J. M.\n SOUTH HADLEY, MASS., _January, 1915_.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES\n\n\n\n\n\n EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES\n\n\n\n\n I\n\n THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nThe first golden door we open in the Great Palace shows us a hero, and\nthat is as it should be, for the English have always been brave. Yet\nprobably the poem about this first English hero is not the first poem.\nThe first is a poem by the name of the \"Far Traveller.\" \"Many men and\nrulers have I known,\" says this traveler; \"through many strange lands\nI have fared throughout the spacious earth.\" This poem may not be of\ngreat value, but it is a wonderful experience to open this door and\nsee back, back, back, thousands of years to the very cradle in which\nEnglish literature was born. This first Englishman was a wanderer, as\nall Englishmen, despite their love of home, have been, or else they\nwould not hold so many great dominions as they do to-day. Then, too,\nthere was \"Deor's Lament,\" with its sad refrain,\n\n _Thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg_\n (That was overcome, so may this be)\n\nand its grave thought that \"The All-wise Lord of the world worketh\nmany changes.\" One more poem, or, better, fragment, is spoken of\nin _Beowulf_. \"The Fight at Finnesburg\" is full of the savagery\nand fierceness of warfare; it is even more wild and barbarous than\n\"Beowulf.\"\n\nNow let us open the door over which is written _Beowulf_. It is one\nof the oldest and rudest of the golden doors in the Great Palace of\nEnglish Poetry, but also one of the most precious. The pictures we are\nto see are beautiful sometimes. More often they are cruel and pitiless.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the air was as\nsweet-smelling as if it rose from fields of lilies, and it was the very\nspringtime of the world some two thousand years ago.\n\nBy song little Widsith has seen his master bind all men and all beasts.\nNot only the fish and worms forgot their tasks, but even the cattle\nstopped grazing, and, where they passed, men and children paused to\nlisten. They were on their way to the Great Hall to have a sight of\nthe hero, Beowulf.\n\nBehind them lay the sea and the coast-guard pacing up and down. Before\nthem, landward, rose a long, high-roofed hall. It had gable ends from\nwhich towered up huge stag-horns. And the roof shone only less brightly\nthan the sun, for it was covered with metal.\n\nAbout the Great Hall toward which little Widsith and the master were\ntraveling was the village made up of tiny houses, each in its own\npatch of tilled ground and apple-trees, and with fields in which sheep\nand oxen and horses were pastured. Narrow paths wound in and out\neverywhere. In front of the Hall was a broad meadow across which the\nking and queen and their lords and ladies were used to walk.\n\nThere was much going on that day in Heorot. Flocks of children were\nplaying about the pretty paths. Mothers and aunts and older sisters sat\nspinning in the open doorways. Beyond the wide meadow young men and\nboys were leading or riding spirited horses up and down to exercise\nthem.\n\nAnd all--men, women, and children alike--were talking about Beowulf,\nwho had come to kill the monster Grendel and free the people of Heorot.\n\nBeowulf had not much more than entered the Hall when the sc\u00f4p, or\nsinger, as little Widsith's master was called, entered too. In those\ndays singers were welcome everywhere. They saw Beowulf stride mightily\nacross the many-colored floor of Heorot and go up to the old King. And\nthey heard his voice, which sounded like the rumble of a heavy sea on\ntheir rock-bound coast.\n\n\"Hrothgar!\" he said to the old King, \"across the sea's way have I come\nto help thee.\"\n\n\"Of thee, Beowulf, have we need,\" replied the old King in tears, \"for\nHeorot has suffered much from the monster.\"\n\n\"I will deliver thee, Hrothgar,\" said Beowulf, in his great voice;\n\"thee and all who dwell in Heorot.\"\n\n\"Steep and stony are the sea cliffs, joyless our woods and\nwolf-haunted, robbed is our Heorot, for to Grendel can no man do aught.\nHe breaks the bones of my people. And those of my people he cannot eat\nin Heorot he drags away on to the moor and devours alive.\"\n\nAnd the old, bald-headed King, seated on his high seat in the Hall\nbetween his pretty daughter and his tired Queen, sighed as he thought\nof the approaching night. Yet, now that Beowulf had come, he hoped.\n\nTogether they gathered about the banquet. Beowulf sat among the sons\nof the old King. The walls inside were as bright as the roof, and\ngold-gilded, and the great fires from which smoke poured out through\nopenings in the roof were cheerful and warm.\n\nThen little Widsith's master was called up, and Widsith placed the harp\nfor him. Clear rose the song from the sc\u00f4p's lips, and all the company\nwas still. For a while they forgot the monster which, even now with\nthe falling dusk, was striding up from the sea, perhaps by the same\npath Beowulf and Widsith and the sc\u00f4p had come. Already it had grown\ndark under heaven and darker in the Hall, and the place was filled with\nshadowy shapes.\n\nAnd now came Grendel stalking from the cloudy cliffs toward the Gold\nHall. It would have been hard for four men to have carried his huge\nhead, so big it was. The nails of his hands were like iron, and large\nas the monstrous claws of a wild beast. And, since there was a spell\nupon him, no sword or spear could harm him.\n\nWhile others slept--even frightened little Widsith, who had thought he\ncould never sleep--Beowulf lay awake, ready with his naked hands to\nfight Grendel.\n\nSuddenly the monster smote the door of Heorot, and it cracked asunder.\nIn he strode, flame in his eyes, and before Beowulf could spring upon\nhim or any one awake, he snatched a sleeping warrior and tore him to\npieces.\n\nBeowulf, who had the strength of thirty men in his body, gripped him,\nand the dreadful battle and noise began. The benches were overturned,\nthe walls cracked, the fires were scattered, and dust rose in clouds\nfrom the many-colored floor as Beowulf wrestled with Grendel.\n\nThe sc\u00f4p had seized his harp and was playing a great battle song, but\nmusic has no power over such evil as Grendel's. Beowulf himself, who\nwas struggling to break the bone-house of the monster in the din of the\nmighty battle, did not hear it, either. And the song was lost in the\nnoise and dust which rose together in Heorot.\n\nEven the warriors, who struck Grendel with their swords, could not help\nBeowulf, for neither sword nor spear could injure the monster. Only the\nmight of the hero, himself, could do aught.\n\nAt last, with the strength of thirty men, Beowulf gripped the monster.\nAnd Grendel, with rent sinews and bleeding body, fled away to the\nocean cave where he had lived. And there in the cave, with the sea\nblood-stained and boiling above him, he died, outlawed for evil.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the second part of this poem Beowulf was living as king in his own\nland, and ruling like the great and brave king he was. But a huge old\ndragon who was guarding a treasure was robbed. So angry was the dragon\nthat he left his heap of treasure and came down upon the land of King\nBeowulf, burning it and terrifying the people. Then Beowulf, who had\nbecome an old man, felt that he must fight to save his people. He went\nout and slew the dragon, but was himself scorched to death by the fiery\nbreath of the dragon.\n\n\"Beowulf\" is the epic of our old English period. An epic is an\nheroic poem. In \"Beowulf\" the story of Beowulf's great deeds--such\nas his struggle with Grendel and Grendel's mother--and of his death\nis told. Probably it was sung before the fifth century, when the\nEnglish conquered Britain, for England itself is not mentioned in this\nwonderful poem. Indeed, the country described is that of the Goths of\nSweden and of the Danes. Your geography will show you where Sweden and\nDenmark are. When the English forefathers came to England they brought\nthis poem with them, perhaps in the form of short poems which were\nwoven together by a Christian Northumbrian poet in the eighth century\nor thereabouts.\n\nIt will be interesting to see how this wild moorland, over which\nGrendel stalked and over which the dreadful dragon dragged his length,\nbecame, with the cultivation of the land and advancing civilization,\nthe gentle and beautiful dwelling of the fairies. The fairies will not\nlive where it is too wild.\n\nMuch is to be learned from this epic of the customs and the manners of\nthe men who came to Britain and conquered it. We can see these people\nas they lived in their sea-circled settlements, the ships they used to\nsail upon the sea, how their villages looked, and the boys and girls\nand grown-ups in them; the rocks and hills and ocean waves that made\nup their out-of-door world; the good times they had; their games and\namusements. We come to know the respect that was given to their women;\nwe see the bravery of the men in facing death, and we hear the songs\nthey sang.\n\n\"Beowulf\" is a great poem--English literature knows no poem that is\nmore sacred to it--but it is a sorrowful poem, too. These people\nbelieved in Fate, for Christ had not yet been brought to them with His\nmessage of love and peace and joy. English poetry to-day is much more\njoyous--because it is Christian poetry--than it ever could have been if\nEngland had remained a heathen land. Yet English poetry still has much\nin common with \"Beowulf,\" in love of the sea and worship of nature, and\na strange sense of Fate.\n\nBut we must close this door over which is written _Beowulf_, for the\nGreat Palace is full of many doors and many stories, and we have only\njust begun our journey from golden door to golden door.\n\n\n\n\n II\n\n WELSH MAGIC\n\n\nOn the other side of most of the golden doors through which we shall\npass, our own tongue, English, is spoken. Yet in this wonderful palace,\nfull of beautiful thoughts and beautiful expression, there are two\ndoors which when thrown open we may enter, but where our English\nwould not be understood. They both admit us to the poems and prose of\nfamilies of the same race--a race called Celtic. Over one door of this\nfamily, however, is written _Cymric_, and all that is Cymric is written\nand spoken in Welsh. On the other door is _Gaelic_, and all that is\nGaelic is Irish and Scotch. And the Great Palace of English Literature,\nwith its innumerable golden doors, would not be at all the same palace\nif it were not for these two little doors, for out of them has come\nmuch that is best in poetry and prose.\n\nThe Welsh were already in Britain when the so-called \"English\" landed\non the island, and these English, after one hundred and fifty years,\nsucceeded in driving the Welsh, or Cymru, back to the mountains and\ncoast on the west of the island. There they lived among the mountains,\nholding fast to their customs and to their songs and poetry. And by\nand by, when it was time for this miracle to happen, the little golden\ndoor over which was written _Cymric_, or _Welsh_, opened, and out of it\nthere passed one of the most beautiful story-cycles the world has ever\nknown, the tales about King Arthur. But of this great story we shall\nhear later.\n\nThis little golden door may be the oldest in all the palace, for long\nbefore the Arthur story was born there were other tales which the Cymru\nloved. There is a word \"prehistoric\" which accurately describes some\nof these stories known as _Mabinogion_, which means, literally, Tales\nfor the Children, or Little Ones. This famous book was translated from\nWelsh into English by Lady Charlotte Guest in 1838. Among the oldest of\nthese tales is \"Taliesin,\" which has behind it a prehistoric singer, a\nmythic singer.\n\nAnd now let us open that door over which is written _Cymric_, or\n_Welsh_, and look in.\n\n * * * * *\n\nLong ago, at the beginning of King Arthur's time and the famous Round\nTable, there lived a man whose name was Tegid Voel. His wife was called\nCaridwen. And there was born to them a son, Avagddu, who was the\nugliest boy in all the world.\n\nWhen Caridwen looked at Avagddu, and knew beyond any doubt that he was\nthe ugliest boy in all the world, she was much troubled. Therefore she\ndecided to boil a caldron of Inspiration and Science for her son, so\nthat Avagddu might hold an honorable position because of his knowledge.\n\nCaridwen filled the caldron and began to boil it, and all knew that it\nmust not cease boiling for one year and a day--that is, until three\ndrops of Inspiration had been distilled from it. Gwion Bach she put to\nstirring the caldron, and Morda, a blind man, was to keep the caldron\nboiling day and night for the whole year. And every day Caridwen\ngathered charm-bearing herbs and put them in to boil.\n\nAnd it was one day toward the close of the year that three drops of the\nliquid in the caldron flew out upon the finger of Gwion Bach, who was\nstirring the liquid. It burnt him, and he put his finger in his mouth.\nBecause of the magic of those drops he knew all that was going to\nhappen. And he was afraid of the wiles of Caridwen, and in fear he ran\naway.\n\nAll the liquor in the caldron, except the three charm-bearing drops\nthat had fallen upon the finger of Gwion Bach, was poisonous, and\ntherefore the caldron burst. When Caridwen saw the work of her whole\nyear lost, she was angry and seized a stick of wood. With the stick she\nstruck Morda on the head.\n\n\"Thou hast disfigured me wrongfully,\" he said, \"for I am innocent.\"\n\n\"Thou speakest truth,\" she replied; \"it was Gwion Bach robbed me.\"\n\nAnd Caridwen went forth after Gwion Bach, running.\n\nWhen little Gwion saw her coming, because of the magic drops that had\ntouched his finger, he was able to change himself into a hare. But\nthereupon Caridwen changed herself into a greyhound, and there was a\nrace fleeter almost than the wind. Caridwen was nearly upon him when\nlittle Gwion turned toward the river and became a fish. Then Caridwen\nchanged herself from a greyhound into an otter, and chased little Gwion\nunder the water. So close was the chase that he had to turn himself\ninto a bird of the air. Whereupon Caridwen became a hawk and followed\nhim and gave him no rest in the sky. She was just swooping down upon\nhim, and little Gwion thought that the hour of his death had come,\nwhen he saw a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of the barn, and\nhe dropped into the wheat and turned himself into one of the grains.\nAnd then what do you think happened? Caridwen changed herself into a\nhigh-crested black hen, hopped into the wheat, scratching it with her\nfeet, found poor little Gwion Bach, who had once been a boy, then in\nturn became a rabbit, a fish, a bird of the air, and was now a grain of\nwheat.\n\nCaridwen swallowed him! But so powerful was the magic of those three\ndrops of Inspiration which had touched his finger, that little Gwion\nappeared in the world again, entering it as a beautiful child. And even\nCaridwen, because of his beauty, could not bear to kill him, so she\nwrapped him in a leathern bag and cast him into the sea. That was on\nthe twenty-ninth day of April.\n\nWhere Caridwen threw little Gwion into the sea was near the\nfishing-weir of Gwyddno by Aberstwyth. And even as Caridwen had the\nugliest son in all the world, so had Gwyddno the most unlucky, and his\nname was Elphin. This year Gwyddno had told Elphin that he might have\nthe drawing of the weir on May Eve. Usually the fish they drew from the\nweir were worth about one hundred pounds in good English silver. His\nfather thought that if luck were ever going to come to Elphin, it would\ncome with the drawing of the weir on May Eve.\n\nBut on the next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the\nweir except a leathern bag hanging on a pole.\n\nOne of the men by the weir said to Elphin: \"Now hast thou destroyed the\nvirtue of the weir. There is nothing in it but this worthless bag.\"\n\n\"How now,\" said Elphin, \"there may be in this bag the value of an\nhundred pounds.\"\n\nThey took the bag down from the pole, and Elphin opened it, and as he\nopened it he saw the forehead of a beautiful boy.\n\n\"Behold a radiant brow!\" cried Elphin. \"Taliesin shall he be called.\"\n\nAlthough Elphin lamented his bad luck at the weir, yet he carried the\nchild home gently on his ambling horse. Suddenly the little boy began\nto sing a song in which he told Elphin that the day would come when he\nwould be of more service to him than the value of three hundred salmon.\n\nAnd this song of comfort was the first poem the little, radiant-browed\nTaliesin ever sang. But when Gwyddno, the father of Elphin, asked him\nwhat he was, he sang again and told the story of how he had fled in\nmany shapes from Caridwen; as a frog, as a crow, as a chain, as a rose\nentangled in a thicket, as a wolf cub, as a thrush, as a fox, as a\nmartin, as a squirrel, as a stag's antler, as iron in glowing fire, as\na spear-head from the hand of one who fights, as a fierce bull, as a\nbristly boar, and in many other forms, only to be gobbled up in the end\nas a grain of wheat by a black hen.\n\n\"What is this?\" said Gwyddno to his son Elphin.\n\n\"It is a bard--a poet,\" the son answered.\n\n\"Alas! what will he profit thee?\"\n\n\"I shall profit Elphin more than the weir has ever profited thee,\"\nanswered Taliesin.\n\nAnd the little, radiant-browed boy began to sing another song:\n\n\n \"Wherefore should a stone be hard;\n Why should a thorn be sharp-pointed;\n Who is hard like flint;\n Who is salt like brine;\n Who is sweet like honey;\n Who rides in the gale?\"\n\n\nThen bade he Elphin wager the King that he had a horse better and\nswifter than any of the King's horses. Thus Elphin did, and the King\nset the day and the time for the race at the place called the Marsh of\nRhiannedd. And thither every one followed the King, who took with him\nfour-and-twenty of his swiftest horses.\n\nThe course was marked and the horses were placed for running. Then\nin came Taliesin with four-and-twenty twigs of holly, which he had\nburned black, and he put them in the belt of the youth who was to ride\nElphin's horse. He told this youth to let all the King's horses get\nahead of him; but as he overtook one horse after the other he was to\ntake one of the burnt twigs of holly and strike the horse over the\ncrupper, then let the twig fall. This the youth who rode Elphin's horse\nwas to do to each of the King's horses as he overtook it, and he was\nto watch where his own horse should stumble, and throw down his cap on\nthat spot.\n\nThereupon the youth who rode Elphin's horse, and all the King's riders,\npricked forth upon their steeds, their horses with bridles of linked\ngold on their heads, and gold saddles upon their backs. And the racing\nhorses with their shell-formed hoofs cast up sods, so swiftly did they\nrun, like swallows in the air. Blades of grass bent not beneath the\nfleet, light hoofs of the coursers.\n\nElphin's horse won the race. Taliesin brought Elphin, when the race was\nover, to the place where the horse had stumbled and where the youth had\nthrown down his cap as he had been told. Elphin did as Taliesin bade\nhim and put workmen to dig a hole in this spot. And when they had dug\nthe ground deep enough, there was found a large caldron full of gold.\n\nThen said Taliesin: \"Elphin, behold! See what I give thee for having\ntaken me out of the weir and the leathern bag! Is this not worth more\nto thee than three hundred salmon?\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the _Mabinogion_ stories, first collected and set down some time in\nthe twelfth century, we live in a world of enchantment and fairies.\nThose tales are full of gold--the gold of a wondrous imagination.\nIt would be nice if we could keep this door, over which is written\n_Welsh_, open long enough so that I might tell you the story of\nPryderi, too, and how Pryderi found a castle where no castle had ever\nbeen, how he entered it and saw \"In the center of the castle floor\n... a fountain with marble-work around it, and on the margin of the\nfountain a golden bowl on a marble slab, and chains hanging from the\nair, to which he saw no end.\" What happened to him when he seized\nthis cup, how the castle faded away, how the heroes of the story were\nchanged to mice--for none of this can we hold open the golden door any\nlonger. The ends of the golden chains of many a story are not to be\nseen by us.\n\n\n\n\n III\n\n THE BATTLE AT THE FORD\n\n\nIt is interesting to think, is it not, that if it had not been for\nthose two little Celtic doors of gold over one of which was written\n_Cymric_, or _Welsh_, and over the other, _Gaelic_, or _Irish_, our\nGreat Palace of English Literature could not have been the same palace,\nnor half so beautiful. It is not only that there would not have been so\nmany wonderful golden doors leading into story-land, but the stories\nthemselves would not have been told in the same way. The Scotch, too,\nwho belong to the Celtic family, are almost as great story-tellers as\nthe Welsh and Irish.\n\nWhen the Roman Tacitus wrote about the Welsh and Irish he said, \"Their\nlanguage differs little.\" And even their buildings, C\u00e6sar said, were\n\"almost similar.\" What was true of their speech and their buildings\nwas more true of the gifts they have left in the Great Palace. They\nhave the same delightful way of telling a story; what they have to say\nnaturally falls into conversations, and they are quick as a wink in the\nwit and fun and beauty and sadness of what they do say.\n\nThis little golden door and the wonderful room beyond it were, perhaps,\nlonger in being built than the Welsh. These stories and poems of the\nIrish were composed at the time of C\u00e6sar and the Christian era. The\nepic cycle of Conchubar and Cuchulain is the first group of tales in\nIrish literature. They are made up of prose with occasional verses here\nand there. The Irish are very clever at invention, and these stories\nare among the most wonderful ever written or sung. Among the best of\nthese stories is one we shall open a door to listen to--the story of\nFerdiad and Cuchulain in \"The Battle at the Ford.\"\n\nThe dialogue in \"The Battle at the Ford\" shows us plainly how great the\nIrish dramatic gift has always been. They were born makers of plays.\nJust see how the Irish genius makes Ferdiad and Cuchulain talk, and how\nlifelike they are! The story is there, not much changed from what it\nwas two thousand years ago, and shows all the Irish sense of form. By\nsense of form is meant simply the story's way of expressing itself. You\nsee, a story or poem is like a human being. It has not only thoughts,\nbut also a body to hold these thoughts. It is because of these two\ngolden doors, over which are written the words, _Welsh_, _Irish_, that\nEnglish Literature is likely to produce most of the great plays which\nwill be acted, and most of the great novels.\n\nEvery Christian and Jewish boy and girl knows the Bible story of David\nand Jonathan--that Jonathan who loved David as his soul, and David\nwho loved Jonathan more than a brother can love. This friendship of a\nking's son with the son of a shepherd was very beautiful and tender and\npure. \"The Battle at the Ford\" is not so gentle a story, but it is,\nnevertheless, and despite the treachery of the Queen and the sad end of\nFerdiad, the David and Jonathan story of Irish Literature.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe men of Ireland settled it that Ferdiad and Cuchulain should fight\nthe next day. But when they sent messengers to fetch Ferdiad he would\nnot come, for he learned that they wanted him to fight against his\nfriend Cuchulain.\n\nThen Maeve, the Queen, sent the Druids after him, who by their hurtful\npoems about Ferdiad should raise three blisters on his face--the\nblisters of Shame, Blemish, and Reproach.\n\nSo Ferdiad had to come to answer the Queen, Maeve. She offered him\ngreat riches if he would fight against his friend Cuchulain--speckled\nsatins and silver and gold, with lands, horses, and bridles.\n\nBut to Maeve Ferdiad replied, \"If you offered me land and sea I would\nnot take them without the sun and moon.\"\n\nFor he loved his friend Cuchulain so that there was no wealth which\ncould tempt Ferdiad to go out against him to wound him.\n\n\"But,\" said Maeve, \"you shall have your fill of the jewels of the\nearth. Here is my brooch with its hooked pin and my daughter,\nFindabair.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Ferdiad, \"these things and all things like unto them\nshall remain yours, for there is nothing I would take to go into battle\nagainst my friend Cuchulain. Nothing shall come between him and me--he\nwho is the half of my heart without fault, and I the half of his own\nheart. By my spear, were Cuchulain killed, I would be buried in his\ngrave--the one grave for the two of us! Misfortune on you, Maeve,\nmisfortune on you for trying to put your face between us!\"\n\nThen Maeve considered how she should stir him up and thus get her own\nends.\n\nAloud she said to her people, \"Is it a true word Cuchulain spoke?\"\n\n\"What word was that?\" asked Ferdiad, sharply.\n\n\"He said,\" answered Maeve, \"that there would be no wonder in it did you\nfall in the first trial of arms against him.\"\n\nThen was Ferdiad angry. \"That had Cuchulain no right to say! If it be\ntrue he said this thing, then will I fight with him to-morrow!\"\n\nAt that Fergus left Ferdiad and Maeve, and went out in his chariot to\ntell Cuchulain what had happened.\n\n\"I give my word,\" exclaimed Cuchulain, \"for my friend to come against\nme is not my wish!\"\n\n\"Ferdiad's anger is stirred up,\" said Fergus, \"and he has no fear of\nyou.\"\n\n\"Be quiet,\" replied Cuchulain, \"for I can stand against him anywhere!\"\n\n\"It will go hard with you getting the better of him,\" answered Fergus,\n\"for he has the strength of a hundred.\"\n\n\"My word and oath,\" said Cuchulain, \"it is I who will be victorious\nover Ferdiad.\"\n\nThen went Fergus joyfully back to the encampment. But Ferdiad, gloomy\nand heavy-hearted, slept only through the early part of the night.\nToward the end of night he told his driver to harness his horses.\n\n\"Ferdiad,\" said the driver, \"it would be better for you to stop here,\nfor grief will come of that meeting with Cuchulain.\"\n\nYet the chariot was yoked and they went forward to the ford, and day\nand its full light came upon them there. Then Ferdiad slept while he\nwaited for the coming of Cuchulain.\n\nWith the full light of day Cuchulain himself rose up, and said to his\ndriver, \"Laeg, yoke the chariot, for the man who comes to meet us\nto-day is an early riser.\"\n\n\"The horses are harnessed,\" answered Laeg.\n\nWith that Cuchulain leaped into the chariot, and about him shouted the\npeople of the gods of Dana, and the witches and the fairies.\n\nThen Ferdiad's driver heard them coming, the straining of the harness,\nthe creaking of the chariot, the ringing of the armor and the shields,\nand the thunder of the horses' hoofs.\n\n\"Good Ferdiad,\" said the driver, laying his hand upon his master, \"rise\nup. Cuchulain comes, and he is coming not slowly, but quick as the wind\nor as water from a high cliff or like swift thunder.\"\n\nAnd they saw Cuchulain coming, swooping down on them like a hawk from a\ncliff on a day of hard wind. Cuchulain drew up on the north side of the\nford.\n\n\"I am happy at your coming,\" said Ferdiad.\n\n\"Till this day would I have been glad to hear that welcome,\" answered\nCuchulain; \"but now it is no longer the welcome of a friend.\"\n\nThen each spoke unfriendly words and each began to boast.\n\n\"Before the setting of the sun to-night,\" said Ferdiad, \"you will be\nfighting as with a mountain, and it is not white that battle will be.\"\n\n\"You are fallen into a gap of danger,\" answered Cuchulain, \"and the end\nof your life has come.\"\n\n\"Leave off your boasting,\" shouted Ferdiad, \"you heart of a bird in a\ncage, you giggling fellow.\"\n\nBut to this Cuchulain replied, \"You were my heart companion, you were\nmy people, you were my family--I never found one who was dearer.\"\n\n\"What is the use of this talk?\" asked Ferdiad.\n\n\"Good Ferdiad,\" answered Cuchulain, \"it is not right for you to come\nout against me through the meddling of Maeve. Do not break your\noath not to fight with me. Do not break friendship. We were heart\ncompanions, comrades, and sharing one bed.\"\n\nAnd Ferdiad answered: \"Do not be remembering our companionship, for it\nwill not protect you this day. It is I will give you your first wounds.\"\n\nThen began they with their casting weapons--their round-handled spears\nand their little quill spears and their ivory-hilted knives and their\nivory-hafted spears, and these weapons were flying to and fro like\nbees on the wing on a summer's day. Yet good as the throwing was, the\ndefense was better, and neither hurt the other. There was no cast that\ndid not hit the protecting shields, and by noon their weapons were all\nblunted against the faces and bosses of the shields.\n\nSo they left these weapons and took to their straight spears. And from\nthe middle of midday till the fall of evening each threw spears at the\nother. But good as the defense was, in that time each wounded the other.\n\n\"Let us leave this, now,\" said Ferdiad.\n\nThen each came to the other and put his hands around the neck of the\nother and gave him three kisses. And that night one inclosure held\ntheir horses and at one fire sat their chariot-drivers. And of every\nhealing herb that was put on Cuchulain's wounds Cuchulain sent an equal\nshare westward across the ford for the wounds of Ferdiad. And of food\nand drink Ferdiad sent a fair share northward to Cuchulain and his men.\n\nAnd in the morning they rose up and came to the ford of battle.\n\n\"What weapons shall we use to-day?\" asked Cuchulain.\n\n\"To-day is your choice, for I made the choice yesterday,\" answered\nFerdiad.\n\n\"Then let us take our great broad spears, for so by the end of evening\nshall we be nearer the end of the fight.\"\n\nFrom the twilight of the early morning till the fall of evening each\ncut at and wounded the other, till, were it the custom of birds in\ntheir flight to pass through the bodies of men, they might have done so\non this day.\n\n\"Let us stop from this, now,\" said Cuchulain, \"for our horses and men\nare tired and down-hearted. Let us put the quarrel away for a while.\"\n\nSo they threw their spears into the hands of their chariot-drivers,\nand each put his hand around the neck of the other and gave him three\nkisses. And that night they slept on wounded men's pillows their\nchariot-drivers had made for them. A full share of every charm and\nspell used to cure the wounds of Cuchulain was sent to Ferdiad. And of\nfood Ferdiad sent a share.\n\nAgain early on the morrow they came to the ford of battle, and there\nwas a dark look on Ferdiad that day.\n\n\"It is bad you are looking to-day,\" said Cuchulain.\n\n\"It is not from fear or dread of you I am looking this way,\" answered\nFerdiad.\n\n\"No one has ever put food to his lips, Ferdiad, and no one has ever\nbeen born for whose sake I would have hurt you.\"\n\n\"Cuchulain,\" cried Ferdiad, \"it was not you, but Maeve, who has\nbetrayed us, and now my word and my name will be worth nothing if I go\nback without doing battle with you.\"\n\nAnd that day they fought with their swords, and each hacked at the\nother from dawn till evening. When they threw their swords from them\ninto the hands of their chariot-drivers, their parting that night was\nsad and down-hearted.\n\nEarly the next morning Ferdiad rose up and went by himself to the ford,\nand there clad himself in his shirt of striped silk with its border\nof speckled gold, over that a coat of brown leather, and on his head\na crested helmet of battle. Taking his strong spear in his right hand\nand sword in his left, he began to show off very cunningly, wonderful\nfeats that were made up that day by himself against Cuchulain.\n\n[Illustration: KINGS IN ARMOR\n_MS. Camb. Univ. Libr. Ee. iii. 59_ C. A.D. 1245]\n\nBut when Cuchulain came to the ford, it was his turn to choose the\nweapons for the day. And they fought all the morning. By midday the\nanger of each was hot upon him, and Cuchulain leaped up onto the bosses\nof Ferdiad's shield, but Ferdiad tossed him from him like a bird on\nthe brink of the ford, or as foam is thrown from a wave. Then did\nCuchulain leap with the quickness of the wind and the lightness of a\nswallow, and lit on the boss of Ferdiad's shield. But Ferdiad shook his\nshield and cast Cuchulain from him. Cuchulain's anger came on him like\nflame; and so close was the fight that their shields were broken and\nloosened, that their spears were bent from their points to their hilts;\nand so close was the fight that they drove the river from its bed, and\nthat their horses broke away in fear and madness.\n\nThen Ferdiad gave Cuchulain a stroke of the sword and hid it in his\nbody. And Cuchulain took his spear, Gae Bulg, cast it at Ferdiad, and\nit passed through his body so that the point could be seen.\n\n\"O Cuchulain,\" cried Ferdiad, when Gae Bulg pierced him, \"it was not\nright that I should fall by your hand! My end is come, my ribs will not\nhold my heart. I have not done well in the battle.\"\n\nThen Cuchulain ran toward him and put his two arms about him, and laid\nhim by the ford northward. And he began to keen and lament: \"What are\njoy and shouting to me now? It is to madness I am driven after the\nthing I have done. O Ferdiad, there will never be born among the men of\nConnaught who will do deeds equal to yours!\n\n\"O Ferdiad, you were betrayed to your death! You to die, I to be\nliving. Our parting for ever is a grief for ever! We gave our word\nthat to the end of time we would not go against each other.\n\n\"Dear to me was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to me your comely form,\ndear to me your clear gray eye, dear your wisdom and your talk, and\ndear to me our friendship!\n\n\"It was not right you to fall by my hand; it was not a friendly ending.\nMy grief! I loved the friend to whom I have given a drink of red blood.\nO Ferdiad, this thing will hang over me for ever! Yesterday you were\nstrong as a mountain. And now there is nothing but a shadow!\"\n\n\n\n\n IV\n\n C\u00c6DMON THE COWHERD\n\n\nA very great modern poet, Coleridge, who wrote \"The Ancient Mariner,\"\nsaid that prose was words in their best order, but that _poetry was the\nbest words in their best order_. This is a simple and good definition\nof poetry. Yet there is even more than best words in their best order\nin the room beyond the door over which is written _Poetry_. Perhaps,\nhowever, beautiful words in their best order would always teach us to\nfind what is beautiful and to love the good. I do not know. Do you?\n\nC\u00e6dmon's poem, written about 670, marks the beginning of English\npoetry in Great Britain, for \"Beowulf\" was first sung in another\nland--the land of the conquerors of England--before it was brought\nto British soil. The verses of C\u00e6dmon's poetry are as stormy as the\nsea which beats at the bottom of the cliffs of Whitby, on which rose\nthe monastery of Streoneshalh. C\u00e6dmon was at first a servant in this\nmonastery, but when the power to sing came to him it lifted not only\nC\u00e6dmon himself to something better than he had been; it has also lifted\nmen and women ever since to better ways of thinking and feeling and to\ngreater happiness than they would ever have had without English poetry.\nBede, who wrote about C\u00e6dmon, said, \"He did not learn the art of poetry\nfrom men, nor of men, but from God.\" C\u00e6dmon sang many songs, chiefly\nsongs about stories in the Bible. Our first poetry was religious. \"Dark\nand true and tender is the north,\" and true and tender is all great\nEnglish poetry since that most precious of all the golden doors was\nthrown open in the Great Palace of English Literature.\n\nAlmost more interesting than the stories which C\u00e6dmon resung for the\nworld is the story of the way the gift of song came to C\u00e6dmon.\n\n * * * * *\n\nOne day a little boy stood by a fishing-boat from which he had just\nleaped. He dug his toe in the sand and looked up to the edge of the\nrocky cliff above him.\n\n\"What dost see, lad?\" said his uncle, who was tossing his catch of fish\nto the sand; \"creatures of the mist in the clouds yonder?\"\n\n\"Nay, uncle,\" answered Finan, \"there is no Grendel in the clouds.\nLast night at the Hall a man sang to the harp that Grendel was a\nmoor-treader. Also he told of the deeds of the hero Beowulf, and he\nsaid that Beowulf had killed Grendel.\"\n\nFinan's eyes were on the distant moor, which was the color of flame in\nthe evening light. Already twinkling above were little stars bright as\nthe sheen of elves. There, he knew, for everybody said so, lived elf\nand giant and monster. There in the moor pools lived the water-elves.\nAcross its flame of heather strode mighty march-gangers like Grendel,\nand in the dark places of the mountains lived a dragon, crouched above\nhis pile of gold and treasure.\n\nThere stood the miraculous tree, of great size, on which were carved\nthe figures of beasts and birds and strange letters which told what\ngods the heathen worshiped before the gentle religion of Christ was\nbrought to England. There lived the Wolf-Man, too, so friendless and\nwild that he became the comrade of the wolves which howled in those\ndark places. There lived a bear, old and terrible, and the wild boar\nrooting up acorns with his huge curved tusks.\n\nNearer the village was the wolf's-head tree--more terrible tree than\nany in the mysteries of forest and fen-land. This was the gallows on\nwhich the village folk hung those who did evil. Finan could see the\ntree where it stood alone in the sunset light. And he heard the rough\ncawing of ravens as they settled down into its dark branches to roost.\n\n\"Caw, caw,\" croaked one raven, \"ba-a-d man, ba-ad man.\"\n\n\"Caw, caw,\" sang another raven, \"ba-ad.\"\n\nThen they flapped their wings and settled to their sleep.\n\n\"Uncle,\" Finan said, \"I will go up the cliffside.\"\n\nThe fisherman looked up. He heard the chanting from the church, and saw\nan immense white cross upright on the cliff's edge. But he knew not of\nwhat adventure little Finan was thinking.\n\n\"Aye,\" he said, \"go. Perhaps you will see the blessed Hild.\"\n\nSo it came about that little Finan climbed the cliff on that evening\nwhich was to prove a night wonderful in its miracle. There was born\nthat night that which, like the love of Christ, has made children's\nlives better and happier.\n\nFinan reached the top of the cliff by those steps which were cut into\nit, and then took the main road, paved and straight, which led toward\nthe Great Hall. He went along slowly under the apple-trees. He saw a\nblack-haired Welsh woman draw water. Little children not so big as\nFinan were sitting on the steps by their mothers, who were spinning\nin their doorways. He passed a dog gnawing a bone flung to it for its\nsupper.\n\nA cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, saw Finan and greeted\nhim. A jeweler was fixing ornaments on a huge horn he had polished.\nCarpenters were leaving a little cottage which they were building.\nThe road was full of men--swineherds and cowherds, plowboys and\nwood-choppers from the forests beyond, gardeners and shepherds--all on\ntheir way to the Great Hall. Some men there were in armor, too, their\nlong hair floating over their shoulders.\n\nInside the windows, which in those days contained no window-glass,\ntorches and firelight would soon begin to flame, and mead would be\npassed. Already a loud horn was calling all who would to come.\n\nSuddenly something sharp stabbed Finan, and he cried out.\n\nA man, a woman, and a little child came rushing from one of the\nhousehold yards, flapping their garments and screaming: \"The bees! The\nbees!\"\n\nThey had just found their precious hive empty. The bees had swarmed,\nand unless they could find them there would be no more sweet-smelling\nmead made from honey in that household that year.\n\nAnother bee stung Finan. And there they were clinging to a low apple\nbough just above his head. They hung in a great cluster, like a bunch\nof dark grapes.\n\n\"Dame,\" said a cowherd, who was in the road, to the people who were\ncrying out for their bees, \"yonder lad knows where the bees are.\"\n\nFinan rubbed his head and looked up at the angry, humming swarm.\n\n\"Aye,\" he said, and laughed.\n\n\"Throw gravel on the swarming bees,\" called the cowherd, C\u00e6dmon.\n\nThe man and woman and Finan took handfuls of gravel from the roadside\nand flung them over the bees, and sang again and again, \"Never to the\nwood, fly ye wildly more!\"\n\nThen they laughed, and the bees swarmed.\n\n\"Now,\" said C\u00e6dmon, who was a wise cowherd, \"hang veneria on the hive,\nand if ye would have them safe lay on the hive a plant of madder. Then\ncan naught lure them away.\"\n\nWhen they reached the Hall folk were already eating inside. Little\nFinan saw C\u00e6dmon go in quietly, for C\u00e6dmon was attached to the Abbess\nHild's monastery and had a right to go in and eat. Inside they were\nsinging for the sake of mirth, and the torches and firelight were\nflaming.\n\nThrough the open window--for windows were always open then, and the\nword window meant literally \"wind-eye\"--Finan saw the harp being passed\nfrom one to another.\n\nThey sang many songs as the harp passed from hand to hand, songs of war\nand songs of home.\n\nBut when the harp was passed to C\u00e6dmon, who had charmed the bees, he\nshook his head sorrowfully, saying that he could not sing, and got up\nsad and ashamed and went out.\n\nLittle Finan wanted to shout through the window to him to sing about\nthe bees. He did not dare, for he was afraid of being discovered.\nInstead he followed behind C\u00e6dmon. He wished to ask him why he could\nnot sing. This he did not dare to do, either, but he went on to the\nfold where the cowherd had gone to care for the cattle. And there\non the edge of the fold the little boy, unseen by the cowherd, fell\nasleep. Shortly afterward C\u00e6dmon, too, fell asleep.\n\nIt must have been near the middle of the night when the stars one and\nall were shining and dancing with the sheen of millions and millions of\nelves, and the sea down below the cliff was singing a mighty lullabye,\nthat little Finan started wide awake, hearing a voice speak.\n\n\"C\u00e6dmon,\" spoke a man who stood beside the sleeping cowherd, \"sing me\nsomething.\"\n\nC\u00e6dmon drowsily answered: \"I cannot sing anything. Therefore went I\naway from the mirth and came here, for I know not how to sing.\"\n\nAgain the mysterious stranger spoke. \"Yet you could sing.\"\n\nAnd Finan heard the sleep-bound voice of C\u00e6dmon ask, \"What shall I\nsing?\"\n\n\"Sing to me,\" said the stranger, \"the beginning of all things.\"\n\nAnd at once C\u00e6dmon began to sing in a strong voice, and very\nbeautifully, the praise of God who made this world. And his song had\nall the beat of sea waves in it--sometimes little waves that lapped\ngently on the shore and bore in beautiful shells and jeweled seaweed.\nBut more often its rhythm was as mighty as ocean waves that tossed big\nships.\n\nThen the wandering stranger, hearing the beauty of the song, vanished.\nC\u00e6dmon awoke from his sleep, and he remembered all that he had sung and\nthe vision that had come to him. And he was glad. He arose and went to\nthe Abbess Hild to tell her what had happened to him, the least of her\nservants.\n\nIn the presence of many wise men did Hild bid C\u00e6dmon tell his dream and\nsing his verses. And he did as he was told, and it was plain to all\nthat an angel had visited C\u00e6dmon. The Abbess Hild took him into the\nmonastery, and she ordered that everything be done for him. And C\u00e6dmon\nbecame the first and one of the greatest of English poets. And even as\nChrist was born in a manger in Bethlehem, English poetry was born in a\ncattle-fold in a town which was called Streoneshalh, which means \"Bay\nof the Beacon.\" And to mankind since C\u00e6dmon, the first English poet,\nEnglish song has been a beacon to all the world.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIf you open a book written in the English of to-day, it is easy to read\nit--just as easy as to understand the speech we use among one another.\nBut the English of fifteen or sixteen hundred years ago would be\ndifficult to read. There is an illustration of this English in a line\nfrom \"Deor's Lament\":\n\n\n Thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg.\n\n\nIt is easy to pick this out word for word, and see that it means, \"That\nwas overcome (or overpassed), so may this be.\" The English in that\nGreat Palace, some of whose doors are more than twelve hundred years\nold, is the same English, just as the oak-tree two hundred years old is\nthe same oak-tree, though different, that it was when planted. But you\nwould find it difficult to read the English in which C\u00e6dmon wrote his\ngreat poems.\n\nOld English poetry, too, seems as different from the poetry of to-day\nas the language we speak seems different from the language they used to\nspeak. For one thing, old English poetry did not have rhymes.\n\n\n Little lamb, who made thee?\n Dost thou know who made thee,\n Gave thee life and bade thee feed\n By the stream and o'er the mead;\n Gave thee clothing of delight,\n Softest clothing, woolly, bright;\n Gave thee such a tender voice,\n Making all the vales rejoice?\n Little lamb, who made thee?\n Dost thou know who made thee?\n\n\nThis poem was written somewhat over a hundred years ago by William\nBlake, but it is modern and part of that brightest and most beautiful\nroom of all English poetry--Nineteenth Century Poetry. What is a rhyme?\nYou can tell if you will study this stanza from \"The Lamb.\" You will\nsee that \"thee\" of the first line rhymes with \"thee\" of the second,\nthat \"feed\" and \"mead\" rhyme, and that \"delight\" and \"bright\" rhyme\njust as \"voice\" and \"rejoice.\" Old English poetry was different, too,\nin that it did not count the syllables in a line of poetry. If you drum\non the table and count the syllables of the first and second lines,\nyou will see that each has six, and the following six lines have seven\nsyllables each, and the last two six each. Then if you drum a little\nmore you will see that each of the first two lines has three accents or\nstresses, and the following six four accents or stresses each.\n\nThen, you ask, what was this old English poetry like? Even if the\nsyllables were not counted and there was no rhyme, it had accents just\nas our modern poetry has. Every line was divided into half verses by a\npause, as, for example:\n\n\n Warriors of winters young with words spake.\n\n\nThere are two accented syllables in the first half of this line, and\none in the second. And now, instead of rhyme, what do you think the old\nEnglish poetry had? Alliteration. That is a big word, but it is not\nnearly so difficult as it seems, for it means simply the repetition of\nthe same letter at the beginning of two or more words. Here it is, the\nletter \"w\" that is repeated. It was poetry with alliteration and stress\nwhich little Finan heard on that night so long ago when the angel came\nto C\u00e6dmon and commanded him to sing.\n\n\n\n\n V\n\n THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE\n\n\nAfter C\u00e6dmon's day there were more and more religious poets. Very often\nthe men who wrote the poetry and prose during the time of C\u00e6dmon and\nof Cuthbert lived in monasteries, where the life was a religious life.\nIn the Great Palace of English Literature there is a pretty story told\nabout Ealdhelm, who was a young man when C\u00e6dmon died. This young man\nlater became the Abbot of Malmesbury. He was not only a religious poet,\nbut he also made songs and could sing them to music. He traveled from\ntown to town, and, finding that the men at the fairs did not come to\nchurch as they should, he would stand on the bridge and sing songs to\nthem in the English tongue, persuading them thus to come to hear the\nword of God. Living at this same time--that is, during the latter half\nof the seventh century--was St. Cuthbert, not so great a scholar as\nEaldhelm, but as great a wanderer.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere is a little valley between England and Scotland called\nLauderdale--a little valley watered by a river which flows into the\nTweed. There Cuthbert did not keep the flocks of his father as did\nDavid, yet, like David, he was a warrior lad. Day and night Cuthbert\nlived in the open, shepherding the sheep of many masters.\n\nThere was not among the lads of that time a boy more active, more\ndaring than Cuthbert. He could walk on his hands, turn somersaults,\nfight boldly, and become a victor in almost every race. There was no\nother boy so active but that Cuthbert was better at games and sports.\nAnd when all the others were tired he would ask whether there was not\nsome one who could go on playing. Then suddenly a swelling came on\nhis knee and the poor little boy could play no longer, and had to be\ncarried in and out, up and down, by attendants. This continued until\none day a horseman, clothed in white garments and riding a horse of\nincomparable beauty, appeared before the sick boy and cured his knee.\nLittle Cuthbert was now able to walk about once more, but never again\ndid he play the games he used to play.\n\nNot far from where Cuthbert lived was the monastery of Tiningham, by\nthe mouth of the river Tyne. Some of the monks were bringing down on\nrafts wood which they had spent a long time felling and sawing up. They\nwere almost opposite the monastery and were just about to draw the wood\nto the shore, when a great wind came up from the west and drove the\nrafts out toward the sea. There were five of them, and so quickly did\nthey drift away that it was not more than a few minutes before they\nbegan to look in the distance as small as five little birds. Those\nupon the rafts were in much danger of losing their lives. Those in the\nmonastery came out and prayed upon the shore for them. But the five\nrafts that now looked like the tiniest of birds went on drifting out to\nsea. And the populace, which had been heathens very lately, began to\njest at the monks because their prayers were in vain.\n\nThen said Cuthbert: \"Friends, you do wrong to speak evil of those you\nsee hurried away to death. Would it not be better to pray for their\nsafety?\"\n\n\"No!\" shouted the people, angrily. \"They took away our old worship, and\nyou can see that nothing comes of the new.\"\n\nAt this the young Cuthbert began to pray, bowing his head to the\nground. And the winds were turned around and brought the rafts in\nsafety to the shore of the monastery.\n\nLike David, this boy Cuthbert was very near to God, and one night,\nwhile keeping the sheep of his masters, he saw angels descending from\nheaven. Cuthbert was on a remote mountain with other shepherds, and\nkeeping not only his sheep, but also the vigil of prayer, when a light\nstreamed down from heaven and broke the thick darkness. Then Cuthbert\nmade up his mind to serve God by entering a monastery.\n\nOne day he was on a journey on horseback when he was not quite fifteen\nyears old. He turned aside to the farmstead which he saw at some\ndistance, and entered the house of a very good woman. He wanted to rest\nhimself. But even more he wanted to get food for his horse. The woman\nurged him to let her prepare dinner for him. But Cuthbert would not\neat, for it was a fast-day.\n\n\"Consider,\" said the woman, \"that on your journey you will find no\nvillage nor habitation of man; for indeed a long journey is before you,\nnor can you possibly accomplish it before sunset. Wherefore, I beg of\nyou to take some food before setting out, lest you be obliged to fast\nall day, or perhaps even until to-morrow.\"\n\nBut Cuthbert would not break his fast. Night came on and he saw that he\ncould not finish his journey, and there was no house anywhere in which\nto take shelter. As he went on, however, he noticed some shepherds'\nhuts which had been roughly thrown together in the summer. He entered\none of these to pass the night there, tied his horse to the wall, and\nset before the horse a bundle of hay to eat. Suddenly Cuthbert noticed\nthat his horse was raising his head and pulling at the thatching of\nthe hut. And as the horse drew the thatch down there fell out also a\nfolded napkin. In the napkin was wrapped the half of a loaf of bread,\nyet warm, and a piece of meat--enough for Cuthbert's supper.\n\nAt last, followed by his squire, and with his lance in hand, the\nyouthful shepherd-warrior, then but fifteen years old, appeared before\nthe gates of the monastery of Melrose. For Cuthbert had decided to\nserve God in a religious life rather than upon the battle-field.\n\nThere was not a village so far away, or a mountain so steep, or a\ncottage so poverty-stricken, but that the boy Cuthbert, strong and\nenergetic, visited it. Most often he traveled on horseback; but there\nwere places so rough and wild they were not to be reached on horseback.\nThese places along the coast he visited in a boat. Cuthbert thought\nnothing of hunger and thirst and cold. From the Solway to the Forth\nhe covered Scotland with his pilgrimages. This, of course, was in the\nseventh century--a long time ago--yet stories are still told there of\nthe wonderful work of Cuthbert.\n\nWhile he was young in the life of the monastery it was Cuthbert's\ngood fortune to entertain an angel unawares, as, perhaps, we all do\nsometimes. At the monastery Cuthbert, so pleasant and winning were\nhis manners, was appointed guest-master. Going out one morning from\nthe inner buildings of the monastery to the guest-chamber, he found\na young man seated there. He welcomed him with the usual forms of\nkindness, gave him water to wash his hands, himself bathed his feet and\nwiped them with a towel and warmed them. He begged the young man not\nto go forward on his journey until the third hour, when he might have\nbreakfast. He thought the stranger must have been wearied by the night\njourney and the snow. But the stranger was very unwilling to stay until\nCuthbert urged him in the Divine Name. Immediately after the prayers\nof tierce--or the third hour--were said, Cuthbert laid the table and\noffered the stranger food.\n\n\"Refresh thyself, master, until I return with some new bread, for I\nexpect it is ready baked by this time.\"\n\nBut when he returned the guest whom he had left at the table had gone.\nAlthough a recent snowfall had covered the ground, and Cuthbert looked\nfor his footprints, none were to be found. On entering the room again,\nthere came to him a very sweet odor, and he saw lying beside him three\nloaves of bread, warm and of unwonted whiteness and beauty.\n\n\"Lo,\" said Cuthbert, \"this was an angel of God who came to feed and not\nto be fed. These are such loaves as the earth cannot produce, for they\nsurpass lilies in whiteness, roses in smell, and honey in flavor.\"\n\nBy all human beings and creatures was Cuthbert beloved. He usually\nspent the greater part of the night in prayer. One night one of the\nbrothers of the monastery followed him to find out where he went when\nhe left the monastery. St. Cuthbert went out to the shore and entered\nthe cold water of the sea till it was up to his arms and neck. And\nthere in praises, with the sound of the waves in his ears, he spent the\nnight. When dawn was drawing near he came out of the water and finished\nhis prayer upon the shore. While he was doing this two seals came from\nout of the depths of the sea, warmed his feet with their breath and\ndried them with their hair. And when Cuthbert's feet were warm and dry\nhe stood up and blessed the seals and sent them back into the sea,\nwherein these humble creatures swam about praising God.\n\n\n\n\n VI\n\n THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE\n\n\nYou know what sort of stories Bede was fond of telling--of course in\nLatin. If you should be asked with whom English prose began, I think it\nwould be safe to say, \"With Bede, who wrote the life of St. Cuthbert\nand the Ecclesiastical History.\" But that is not why you should say\nthat Bede began English prose, but because at his death he was busy\nfinishing a book written in English and called _Translation of the\nGospel of St. John_.\n\nWhen his last day came the good old man called all his scholars about\nhim.\n\n\"There is still a chapter wanting,\" said the youth who always took down\nall of Bede's dictation, \"and it is hard for thee to question thyself\nlonger.\"\n\n\"It is easily done,\" answered Bede; \"take thy pen and write quickly.\"\n\nAnd all day long they wrote.\n\nWhen twilight came the boy cried out, \"There is still one sentence\nunwritten, dear master.\"\n\n\"Write it quickly,\" answered the master.\n\n\"It is finished now,\" said the boy.\n\n\"Thou sayest truth,\" came the answer, \"all is finished now.\"\n\nSinging the praise of God, his scholars and the boy scribe about him,\nhe died. Alas that this English book that he bravely finished has been\nlost!\n\nBede was born about 673 and lived most of his life in the monastery\nat Jarrow in Northumbria in the north of England. With Bede's death\nthe home of English prose literature was changed from the north to the\nsouth, from Northumbria to Wessex, where there lived a noble boy called\nAlfred. Asser, the man who was his secretary after the boy grew up, has\nwritten a life of Alfred.\n\n * * * * *\n\nFrom the very first this little boy was full of promise and very\nattractive. This fact is rather hard on some of us, is it not, who find\nit difficult to be good and to win the confidence of grown-up people.\nBut the confidence of others is precisely what the boy Alfred did win,\nand it was not because he was a molly-coddle, for no young prince ever\nswung a battle-ax more lustily than did Alfred.\n\nWhen he was a little bit of a chap only five years old, he was taken to\nRome to see the Pope. Alfred was born in 849 at the town of Wantage, so\nyou know what year it was when he went to Rome. The Pope took a great\nfancy to him and hallowed him as his \"bishop's son.\" Just how old this\ncharming boy was when he began to read we do not know. At that time,\nof course, all boys read Latin, for there were no English books to\nread. But there is an old English couplet--a couplet is two lines of\nverse with a rhyme at the end of each line--which may tell the story of\nAlfred's reading:\n\n\n At writing he was good enough, and yet as he telleth me,\n He was more than ten years old ere he knew his A B C.\n\n\nAlfred may have been younger or older than this. We don't know, and the\nprobability is that we never shall know. This little boy was much loved\nby his father, King Ethelwulf, and his mother, Queen Osburh. He had\nmany brothers and sisters, and was himself the fifth child. But he was\na finer-looking boy than the others, and more graceful in his way of\nspeaking and in his manners.\n\nFrom the time that he was a tiny child he loved to know things. And yet\nhis parents and nurses allowed him to remain untaught in reading and\nwriting until he was quite a big boy. But at night, when the gleemen\nsang songs to the harp in the royal villa, Alfred listened attentively.\nHe had memorized very early some splendid old English songs, such as\n\"Beowulf.\" He knew all about Grendel, and all about the death of the\nwarrior Beowulf after his battle with the dragon. And he had listened\nto gentler songs, like the one of the cowherd, C\u00e6dmon. He listened\nto the singing of poems which were full of the sea and full of war.\nSaints, warriors, and pirates were the chief heroes. A Roman poet,\nthinking of the warriors and pirates, called the English people \"sea\nwolves.\" All their poetry was full of the sea, and it is still true\nthat the English love the sea.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBut you must not think of these people, in the midst of whom Alfred\nwas born, as just warriors. They loved their homes, and their poetry\nis full of love for their families and for the dear old home-place,\nwherever it happened to be. Besides home-loving poetry, the gleemen\nsang many religious poems to which the little Alfred listened. Among\nthem was the story of C\u00e6dmon, as I have said. We hear, too, of warrior\nsaints, good men who did not go out to slay a fire-spewing dragon lying\non a heap of gold, as did Beowulf, but who taught them how to fight the\ndragon of evil which lurks somewhere near or within us all the time.\n\nIt is this sort of golden and every-day victory that not only C\u00e6dmon,\nthe cowherd, sings, but also Cynewulf, who lived during the last half\nof the eighth century. Cynewulf was a minstrel at the court of one\nof the Northumbrian kings--just such a minstrel or gleeman as Alfred\nsometimes listened to on many a night when he was committing to memory\nsome stirring or beautiful Anglo-Saxon poem. This poet-singer loved\nthe sea with all his heart, and his poetry is full of this love. And\nin our own day, eleven centuries later, Tennyson wrote poems in their\nspirit not unlike Old English poems. There is one called \"The Sailor\nBoy\" which resembles an Anglo-Saxon poem called \"The Seafarer.\" It is a\nspirited little poem and begins:\n\n\n He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,\n Shot o'er the sultry harbour-bar,\n And reached the ship and caught the rope,\n And whistled to the morning star.\n\n God help me! save I take my part\n Of danger on the roaring sea,\n A devil rises in my heart,\n Far worse than any death to me.\n\n\nThat devil is, of course, the devil of idleness, of uselessness.\nThese stanzas are worth memorizing. You can see the spirit of a poet\nsometimes has a very long life. Here is one of the Old English riddles:\n\n\n On the sand I stayed, by the sea-wall near,\n All beside the surge-inflowing! Firm I sojourned there,\n Where I first was fastened. Only few of men\n Watched among the waste where I wonned on the earth.\n But the brown-backed billow, at each break of day,\n With its water-arms enwrapt me! Little weened I then,\n That I e'er should speak, in the after-days,\n Mouthless o'er the mead-bench....\n\n\nWhat do you think that meant? A reed flute--a little flute on which one\nplayed a song.\n\nWhen Christianity came to England, as it did in 597 with St. Augustine,\nalmost three hundred years before little Alfred was born, it made men\ncare less for warfare and more for Christ. It is difficult to do what\nChrist told us to do--love one another, and at the same time fight one\nanother. And that we should love one another was the great new message\nof Christianity. Christ was in men's minds, however, in those olden\ndays, not only our gentle Saviour, but also a hero who went forth to\nwar.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAlfred knew all about warfare, but it was not for warfare that this\ngentle boy and brave man cared most. One day his noble mother, Osburh,\nshowed him and his brothers a book of poetry written in English.\n\n\"Whichever of you,\" she said, \"shall the soonest learn this volume\nshall have it for his own.\"\n\nThis book was a very beautiful book with an illuminated letter at the\nbeginning of the volume. An illuminated letter is usually bright with\ngold as well as with other colors. Of course the boy Alfred wanted this\nwonderful book.\n\nHe said before all his brothers, who were older than he, \"Will you\nreally give that book to one of us, that is to say to him who can first\nunderstand and repeat it to you?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered his mother, smiling, and assuring him that it was so.\n\nAlfred thereupon took the book from her hand and went to his master to\nread it. And it was not so very long before he had it all by heart.\nThen one day he brought the book to his mother and recited it. And so\nwell did he do that he received the gift as his mother had promised him\nhe should.\n\nWe have taken a look through the golden door over which is written _Old\nEnglish Poetry_. We know something of what the boy Alfred learned from\nthe book his mother gave him.\n\nBy that time he had grown to be a large boy. When he was still a little\nboy he had been taken from his nurses and taught the use of arms and\nhow to ride. All his training was teaching him how to be a soldier. Yet\nthere was something for which Alfred cared even more. All about them in\nthose days were the Danes, the fiercest of fighting-men. Government,\nthe gentle religion of Christ, peace, had been almost dislodged by\nthese fierce, heathen Danes. Yet in the midst of the war-filled years\nof his boyhood and young manhood Alfred was dreaming of what English\nbooks, of what education in their own tongue, might do for his people.\n\nAnd even in war times they were very busy just getting things together\nin order to live. They had to have food, they had to be warm, they had\nto have houses and clothes. In the woods they had pigs--wild-looking\nswine with tusks. In the fields they had cattle and sheep and chickens.\nFrom the sea they took fish. They made butter and cheese, ale and mead,\ncandles, leather from skins, and they wove cloth and silk. They kept\nbees, too, as you know from what happened to little Finan in the story\nof C\u00e6dmon. Besides all these things they had their carpenter's work,\ntheir blacksmith's, their baker's, hunting, woodcutting, the making of\nweapons, and a hundred and one other employments.\n\nStill, despite all the warfare and the work, Alfred, when he became\nking in 871, had time to do a great deal for the education of the boys\nand girls of those stirring days. The young king wrote in English and\ntranslated from Latin into English so that the people might have books\nin their own tongue. And since Bede's translation of the Gospel of\nSt. John was lost, Alfred must be called the true \"father of English\nprose.\" Just as Whitby and the stall in which C\u00e6dmon saw the vision and\nlearned how to sing was the cradle of English poetry, so was Winchester\nthe cradle of English prose. To accomplish this work the good king\nbrought scholars from all over the world. Asser, his secretary and\nbiographer, has compared Alfred to a most productive bee which flew\nhere and there asking questions as he went. He made it possible for\nevery free-born youth to learn to read and write English perfectly.\nIndeed, this wonderful king made himself into a schoolmaster and took\non the direction of a school in his own court. He translated from\nwell-known books into English, among others Bede's _History_ and Pope\nGregory's _Pastoral Care_. Although he freed his people from the fierce\nDanes, through his love for a book he did more for his own times and\nfor all times--more, almost, than any other English boy has ever grown\nup to do.\n\n\n\n\n VII\n\n A FISHERMAN'S BOY\n\n\nWhen we say that we are English-speaking, it seems as if it were not\nnecessary to say more than that. But the more we wander about in the\nGreat Palace of English Literature opening golden doors, the more do we\nrealize that we cannot say that this palace was built by English hands\nalone. No, the men who built it were not only English, they were, as\nyou know already, Welsh, Irish, Scotch. Indeed, the very word \"English\"\nwas brought to England by an invader, just as the word \"America\" was\nbrought to the North American continent by a discoverer. Not only was\nthis Palace of English Literature built by those who were Welsh, Irish,\nand Scotch, as well as English, but also by Danes and Normans.\n\nThe English came to Britain in 449. About three hundred and fifty years\nlater (790) the Danes began to ravage Northumbria, which you have come\nto know through the story of C\u00e6dmon the cowherd. But the Danes were of\nEnglish stock, so to speak, and they neither changed the language nor\naltered things in the life of boys and girls and men and women. After\nall it was much the same life after they came as it was before. They\nbrought with them some stories--just as the English \"Beowulf.\" Among\nthe Danish-English stories were \"Havelok the Dane\" and \"King Horn,\"\nboth written down about 1280, but told and sung much before that time.\n\nIn her early days before she became a great world power, England had\nmany conquerors. Not only the English and the Danes, but also the\nNormans were her conquerors in 1066 under William the Conqueror.\nEnglish story-telling, as, for example, Malory's \"Morte d'Arthur,\"\ncould never have been the same without the Norman or French influence.\nIf we pick up a handful of so-called English words, we shall see that\nsome of these words are English, others are French, and still others\nLatin in their origin. But the Norman spoke French only for a while in\nEngland. He soon left the speaking and writing of French for that of\nEnglish. However, there are many beautiful words, many strong words,\nmany words of customs and manners which we should not find in the Great\nPalace of English Literature but for the conquerors who came to England.\n\nThere are several manuscripts in which the story of Havelok is found.\nBut the one which is written in an English dialect shows best how old\nthe story is.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere was a King whose name was Aethelwold, whose only heir was a tiny\nlittle girl. And the little girl's name was Goldborough. Alas, the King\nfound he must die and leave his little girl fatherless! So he called to\nhim the wisest and mightiest of his earls. The name of this Earl was\nGodrich. And the King made the Earl promise that he would guard his\nlittle girl until she was twenty years old, and that then he would give\nher in marriage to the fairest and strongest man alive.\n\nBut when the Earl Godrich saw how lovely little Goldborough was going\nto be, and knew that he would have to give up the kingdom to her before\nlong, he was angry, and took her from Winchester to Dover on the\nEnglish seacoast and shut little Goldborough up in a castle so that she\ncould not get out.\n\nIn Denmark, just about this time, there lived a King whose name was\nBirkabeyn who had one boy and two sweet little girls. He, too, realized\nthat he had to die. So he called to him his wisest Earl, a man by the\nname of Godard, and charged him to care for his children until Havelok,\nthe boy, was old enough to rule the land. But this wicked Earl shut\nlittle Swanborow and Helfled up in a castle and had them killed.\n\nAnd Godard was just about to kill Havelok, too, when he bethought him\nhe would have somebody else do this terrible deed. The wicked Earl sent\nfor a fisherman who would, he knew, do his will.\n\n\"Grim,\" said the wicked Earl, \"to-morrow I will make thee rich if thou\nwilt take this child and throw him into the sea to-night.\"\n\nGrim took the boy Havelok and bound him and gagged him and took him\nhome in a black bag. When Grim carried the sack into his cottage, Dame\nLeve, his wife, was so frightened that she dropped the sack her husband\nhad handed to her, and cracked poor little Havelok's head against a\nstone.\n\nThey let the boy lie this way until midnight, when it would be dark\nenough for Grim to drown Havelok in the sea. Leve was just bringing\nGrim some clothes that he might put on to go out and drown the King's\nson, when they saw a light shining about the child.\n\n\"What is this light?\" cried Dame Leve. \"Rise up, Grim.\"\n\nIn haste the fisherman rose and they went over to the child, about\nwhose head shone a clear light, from whose mouth came rays of light\nlike sunbeams. It was as if many candles were burning in that tiny\nfisherman's hut. They unbound the boy and they found on his right\nshoulder a king's mark, bright and fair like the lights.\n\nThey were overcome by what Godard had done and had almost led them to\ndo. They fell upon their knees before the little boy and promised to\nfeed and clothe him. And so they did, and they were very good to him\nand kept him from all harm. But Grim and his wife became frightened,\nfor fear that Godard would discover that they had not drowned the\nchild and would hang them. Thereupon Grim sold all that he had, sheep,\ncow, horse, pigs, goat, geese, hens--everything, in short, that was\nhis. Taking his money, he put his wife, his three little sons, and two\npretty little girls and Havelok into his fishing-boat and they set sail\nfor England.\n\n\n[Illustration: HENRY III. SAILING HOME FROM GASCONY,\n1243 Drawn by Matthew Paris _MS. Roy. 14 C. vii_]\n\n\nThe north wind blew and drove them down upon the coast of England near\nthe river Humber, and there Grim landed, and the place is called\nGrimsby to this day. Then Grim set himself to his old occupation of\nfishing, and he caught sturgeon, whale, turbot, salmon, seal, porpoise,\nmackerel, flounder, plaice, and thornback. And he and his sons carried\nthe fish about in baskets and sold them.\n\nYet while Grim fed his family well, Havelok lay at home and did naught.\nAnd when Havelok stopped to think about that, he was ashamed, for he\nwas a fine, strong boy.\n\n\"Work is no shame,\" said the King's son to himself.\n\nAnd the next day he carried to market as much fish as four men could.\nAnd every bit of fish did he sell and brought back the money, keeping\nnot a farthing for himself. Alas! there came a famine about this time,\nand Grim had great fear on Havelok's account lest the boy starve.\n\n\"Havelok,\" said Grim, \"our meat is long since gone. For myself it does\nnot matter, but I fear for thee. Thou knowest how to get to Lincoln,\nand there they will give thee a chance to earn thy food. Since thou art\nnaked, I will make thee a coat from my sail.\"\n\nThis he did, and with the coat on and barefoot the King's son found his\nway to Lincoln. For two days the lad had no food. On the third day he\nheard some one crying, \"Bearing-men, bearing-men, come here!\" Havelok\nleaped forward to the Earl's cook and bore the food to the castle.\nAnother time he lifted a whole cart-load of fish and bore it to the\ncastle.\n\nThe cook looked him over and said: \"Wilt thou work for me? I will feed\nthee gladly.\"\n\n\"Feed me,\" answered Havelok, \"and I will make thy fire burn and wash\nthy dishes.\"\n\nAnd because Havelok was a strong lad and a good boy, as all kings' sons\nare not, he worked hard from that day forth. He bore all the food in\nand carried all the wood and the water, and worked as hard as if he\nwere a beast. And he was a merry lad, too, for he knew how to hide his\ngriefs. And the old story says that all who saw him loved him, for he\nwas meek and strong and fair. But still he had nothing but the wretched\ncoat to wear. So the cook took pity on him and bought him span-new\nclothes and gave him stockings and shoes. And when he had put them on\nhe looked the King's son he was. At the Lincoln games he was \"like a\nmast,\" taller and straighter than any youth there. In wrestling he\novercame every one. Yet he was known for his gentleness. Never before\nhad Havelok seen stone-putting, but when his master told him to try,\nHavelok threw the stone twelve feet beyond what any one else could do.\n\nThe story of the stone-putting was being told in castle and hall when\nEarl Godrich heard it, and said to himself that here was the tallest,\nstrongest, and fairest man alive, and he would fulfil his promise and\nget rid of Goldborough, the King's daughter, by giving her to Havelok,\nwhom he thought to be just a cook's boy. Now Havelok did not wish to\nmarry any more than did Goldborough, but they were forced to. And when\nthey were married Havelok knew not whither they could go, for he saw\nthat Godrich hated them and that their lives were not safe.\n\nTherefore they went on foot to Grimsby, and royal was their welcome.\nGrim, the fisherman, had died.\n\nBut his five children fell on their knees and said: \"Welcome, dear\nlord. Stay here and all is thine.\"\n\nAnd that night as they lay on their bed in the fisherman's hut,\nGoldborough discovered, because of the bright light which came from the\nmouth of Havelok, that he was a King's son. And it was not long after\nthis they all set sail for Denmark, so that Havelok, with the help of\nGrim's sons and many others, might win back the kingdom of Denmark.\n\nIt was in the house of Bernard Brown, the magistrate of the Danish\ntown, that sixty strong thieves, clad in wide sleeves and closed capes,\nattacked him. Bernard Brown seized an ax and leaped to the door to\ndefend his home.\n\nOne of the thieves shouted at him, \"We will go in at this door despite\nthee.\"\n\nAnd he broke the door asunder with a boulder. Whereupon Havelok took\nthe great bar from across the door. And with the bar he slew several,\nyet the thieves had wounded him in many places, when Grim's sons came\nupon the scene to defend their lord and saw the thieves treating\nHavelok as a smith does his anvil. Like madmen the three sons of Grim\nleaped into the fight, and they fought until not one of the thieves was\nleft alive.\n\nWhen Earl Ubbe heard of this he rode down to Bernard Brown's. Then he\nheard the story of Havelok's bravery and of the terrible wounds he had\nreceived, so that Bernard Brown feared he might die because of them.\n\n\"Fetch Havelok quickly,\" commanded Ubbe. \"If he can be healed, I myself\nwill dub him knight.\"\n\nWhen a leech saw the wounds of Havelok he told Ubbe that they could be\ncured.\n\n\"Come forth now,\" said Ubbe to Havelok, \"thou and Goldborough and thy\nthree servants.\"\n\nAnd with rejoicing did Ubbe bring them to his city. And about the\nmiddle of the night Ubbe saw a great light in the tower where Havelok\nwas sleeping. He peered through a crack and he saw that the \"sunny\ngleam\" came from Havelok's mouth. It was as if a hundred and seven\ncandles were burning, and on Havelok's shoulder was a clear, shining\ncross.\n\n\"He is Birkabeyn's heir,\" said Ubbe, \"for never in Denmark was brother\nso like to brother as this fair man is like the dead King.\"\n\nAnd Earl Ubbe and his men fell at Havelok's feet and awoke him. And\nvery happy was Havelok, and thankful to God. And then came barons and\nwarriors and thanes and knights and common men, and all swore fealty to\nHavelok. With a bright sword Ubbe dubbed Havelok knight and made him\nKing. And the three sons of Grim were also made knights. Thereat were\nall men happy, and they wrestled and played, played the harp and the\npipe, read romances from a book, and sang old tales. There was every\nsort of sport and plenty of food.\n\nFinally they all, a thousand knights and five thousand men, set forth\nthat Havelok might take vengeance on the wicked Earl Godard. There was\na hard fight, but at last they caught and bound Earl Godard. And he\nwas hung on the gallows and died there. Such was the end of one who\nbetrayed his trust.\n\nThe wicked Earl Godrich in England, who had robbed Goldborough of her\nkingdom, heard that Havelok was become King of Denmark and also that\nhe was come to Grimsby. So he gathered all his army together and there\nwas a great battle. And the battle was going against Havelok, when the\nwicked hand of Godrich was struck off. After that Havelok and his men\nwere victorious. Then did they condemn the Earl Godrich to death. And\nhe was bound to an ass and led through London and burned at the stake.\nSuch was the end of one who betrayed his trust.\n\nAnd after that Havelok and Goldborough reigned in England for sixty\nyears. So great was the love of the King and Queen for each other that\nall marveled at it. Neither was happy away from the other. And never\nwere they angry, for their love for each other was always new.\n\n\n\n\n VIII\n\n THE WEREWOLF\n\n\nIn the Great Palace of English Literature over one of the golden doors\nhangs a horn of ivory, and a sword of which the name is Durendal.\nAbove that door is written _Chanson de Roland_, which means the Song\nof Roland. Often in the stillness of the early morning or at dusk the\nGreat Palace rings faintly with the music from that ivory horn which\nbelonged to Roland, and which he sounded for the last time in the Pass\nof Roncevaux. Or there is heard the clinking of Durendal against the\nstone of the palace walls--no doubt the wind stirring it where it hangs\nbeside the door it guards.\n\n\"Chanson de Roland!\" You see the story is French. The Normans brought\nit with them when they came to conquer Britain in 1066 under William of\nNormandy. Before the soldiers of William, the minstrel, Taillefer, rode\nsinging of \"Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Oliver, and the vassals\nwho fell at Roncevaux.\"\n\n\"Roland, comrade,\" said Oliver, \"blow thy horn of ivory, and Charles\nshall hear it and bring hither again his army, and ... succor us.\"\n\n\"Nay, first will I lay on with Durendal, the good sword girded at my\nside.\"\n\n\"Roland, comrade,\" urged Oliver, \"blow thy horn of ivory, that Charles\nmay hear it.\"\n\n\"God forbid that they should say I sounded my horn for dread of the\nheathen.\"\n\n\"Prithee look!\" begged Oliver. \"They are close upon us. Thou wouldst\nnot deign to sound thy horn of ivory. Were the King here we should\nsuffer no hurt.\"\n\nOliver was wise and Roland was brave, and the song that the minstrel\nTaillefer chanted before the conquering hosts of William of Normandy\nwas a wonderful, stirring song. No doubt there flows in English veins\nto-day much of the courage of Roland and the wisdom of Oliver. Although\nthe English continued English, yet for a long time following the\nconquest of England by the Normans songs were sung in French rather\nthan in English. And ready and witty was all that was written down in\nFrench, for the literature of the Normans was as brightly colored as\na jewel and not grand and melancholy as was that of the Anglo-Saxons.\n\"Beowulf\" was the battle song of the Anglo-Saxons, the \"Song of Roland\"\nthat of the Normans. Melancholy was the poem of \"Beowulf.\" White\nand clear, stirring and flashing in the sunshine was the \"Chanson\nde Roland,\" even as Roland's beloved sword Durendal, which is heard\nclinking against the stone of the Great Palace of English Literature.\n\nBut \"Roland\" represented only a fraction of the story-telling in\nthe French poetry of that time. The most exquisite and delightful\nstory-teller of that twelfth century collected and wrote here charming\nstories on English soil and dedicated them to Henry II., who died in\n1189. Her name was Marie de France, and of her lays a rival poet wrote:\n\n\n All love them much and hold them dear,\n Baron, count and chevalier,\n Applaud their form and take delight\n To hear them told by day and night.\n In chief, these tales the ladies please;\n They listen glad their hearts to ease.\n\n\nMarie de France's lays are based on British tradition. There are many\nof these delightful stories. Among the most interesting of them is \"The\nWerewolf.\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce upon a time in the days of King Arthur--for later there are some\nlines in Malory's \"Morte d'Arthur\" which tells us that this story\nmust have been true--there lived a man who for part of the week was a\nwolf--that is, he had the form and the appetite of a wolf, and was\ncalled a werewolf. But nobody knew that he was a werewolf for three\ndays in the week. Not even his wife, whom he loved well and devotedly,\nknew what happened to her husband while he was away from her these\nthree days every week.\n\nIt vexed the wife very much that she did not know, but she was afraid\nto question her husband, lest he be angry. At last one day she did\nquestion him.\n\n\"Ask me no more,\" replied the husband, \"for if I answered you you would\ncease to love me.\"\n\nNevertheless she gave him no peace until he had told her that three\ndays in the week, because of a spell which was over him, he was forced\nto be a werewolf, and that when he felt the change coming over him he\nhid himself in the very thickest part of the forest.\n\nThen the wife demanded to know what became of his clothes, and he\nanswered that he laid them aside. The wife asked where he put them. He\nbegged her not to ask him, for only the garments made it possible for\nhim to return to human shape again. But the wife cried and begged until\nthe knight, her husband, had told her all.\n\n\"Wife,\" he said, \"inside the forest on a crossroad is a chapel. Near\nthe chapel under a shrub is a stone. Beneath the stone is a hole,\nand in that hole do I hide my clothes until the enchantment makes it\npossible for me to take my human shape again.\"\n\nNow the wife was not a good wife. Instead of trying to help her husband\nto get free from the wolf shape he had to assume three days in every\nweek, thereafter she loathed him and was afraid of him. And what is\nworse still, she betrayed him to another knight. She took this other\nknight into her confidence and told him where her husband hid his\nclothes when the spell came upon him and he took the form of a wolf.\nThereupon the knight to whom she had told this dreadful secret stole\nthe clothes, and they hid them where the poor wolf could never find\nthem again. After that these two wicked people were married, while the\npoor wolf wandered about in the forest, grieving, for he had loved his\nwife well and truly.\n\nSome time after this the King was hunting one day in the forest, and\nhis hounds gave chase to a wolf. At last, when the wretched beast was\nin danger of being overtaken by the hounds and torn into a thousand\npieces, he fled to the King, seized him by the stirrup, and licked his\nfoot submissively.\n\nThe King was astonished. He called his companions, and they drove off\nthe dogs, for the King would not have the wolf harmed. But when they\nstarted to leave the forest the wolf followed the King and would not be\ndriven away. The King was much pleased, for he had taken a great liking\nto the wolf. He therefore made a pet of the lonely beast, and at night\nhe slept in the King's own chamber. All the courtiers came to love the\nwolf, too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one any harm.\n\nA long time had passed when one day the King had occasion to hold a\ncourt. His barons came from far and near, and among them the knight\nwho had betrayed the werewolf. No sooner did the wolf see him than he\nsprang at him to kill him. And had the King not called the wolf off he\nwould have torn the false knight to pieces. Every one was astonished\nthat this gentle beast should show such rage. But after the court was\nover and as time went on they forgot the beast's savage act.\n\nAt length the King decided to make a tour throughout his kingdom. And\nhe took the wolf with him, for that was his custom. Now the werewolf's\nfalse wife heard that the King was to spend some time in the part of\nthe country where she lived. So she begged for an audience. But no\nsooner did she enter the presence-chamber than the wolf sprang at her\nand bit off her nose.\n\nThe courtiers were going to slay the beast, but a wise man stayed their\nweapons.\n\n\"Sire,\" said the councilor, \"we have all caressed this wolf and he has\nnever done us any harm. This lady was the wife of a man you held dear,\nbut of whose fate we none of us know anything. Take my counsel and make\nthis lady answer your questions, so shall we come to know why the wolf\nsprang at her.\"\n\nThis was done. The false knight who had married her was brought also,\nand they told all the wickedness they had done to the poor wolf. Then\nthe King caused the wolf's stolen clothes to be fetched. But the wolf\nacted as if he did not see the clothes.\n\n\"Sire,\" said the councilor, \"if this beast is a werewolf he will not\nchange back into his human shape until he is alone.\"\n\nThey left him alone in the King's chamber, and put the clothes beside\nhim. Then they waited for a long time. Lo, when they entered the\nchamber again, there lay the long-lost knight in a deep sleep on the\nKing's bed! Quickly did the King run to him and embrace him, and\nafter that he restored to him all his lost lands, and he banished\nthe false wife and her second husband from the country. And they who\nwere banished lived in a strange land, and all the girls among their\nchildren and grandchildren were without noses.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSo close we this little golden door--not the less precious because\nlittle--over which is written in letters all boys and girls should\nlove: _Marie de France_, who wrote \"The Werewolf.\"\n\n\n\n\n IX\n\n AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW\n\n\nAmong all the golden doors in the Great Palace of English Literature\nabout which we are coming to know something, and through some of which\nwe have already passed, there was one golden window on the stairway\nof the palace. This window on the stairway of the palace looked out\nupon a busy town and down upon the windings of the river Wye, and off\nupon hills and upon the ruins of a wonderful old abbey called Tintern\nAbbey, about which, some six hundred years later, an English poet\ncalled William Wordsworth was to write a poem called \"Tintern Abbey.\"\nWordsworth wrote \"We Are Seven,\" and also this little poem about a\nbutterfly:\n\n\n I've watched you now a full half-hour,\n Self-poised upon that yellow flower;\n And, little Butterfly! indeed\n I know not if you sleep or feed.\n How motionless! Not frozen seas\n More motionless! and then\n What joy awaits you, when the breeze\n Hath found you out among the trees\n And calls you forth again.\n This plot of orchard ground is ours;\n My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;\n Here rest your wings when they are weary;\n Here lodge as in a sanctuary!\n Come often to us, fear no wrong;\n Sit near us on the bough!\n We'll talk of sunshine and of song,\n And summer days when we were young;\n Sweet childish days that were as long\n As twenty days are now.\n\n\nBut the golden window at which Geoffrey sat was in Monmouth, and he was\ncalled Geoffrey of Monmouth. That was some seven hundred years ago. No\ndoubt the little town was very busy even in 1137 when Geoffrey sat at\nhis window and wrote his famous chronicle called _British History_.\n\nBefore Geoffrey began to write down his marvelous stories, other\nstories and poems were written. In King Alfred's time, when the home of\nEnglish literature was shifted from the north to the south, two fine\nbattle songs were written. They were the \"Song of Brunanburh\" and the\n\"Song of the Fight at Maldon.\" These were written in the tenth century.\n\"The Charge of the Light Brigade,\" composed some eight hundred years\nlater by the poet Tennyson, is like these old songs in its short, rapid\nlines and in its thought. Every one should learn these lines from the\npoem Alfred Tennyson wrote:\n\n\n Half a league, half a league,\n Half a league onward,\n All in the valley of Death\n Rode the six hundred.\n \"Forward the Light Brigade!\n Charge for the guns!\" he said:\n Into the valley of Death\n Rode the six hundred.\n\n \"Forward the Light Brigade!\"\n Was there a man dismayed?\n Not tho' the soldier knew\n Some one had blunder'd:\n Theirs not to make reply,\n Theirs not to reason why,\n Theirs but to do and die:\n Into the valley of Death\n Rode the six hundred.\n\n\nBut we have been long enough away from that golden window by which\nGeoffrey of Monmouth sat and wrote his immortal stories. Geoffrey\nwas called a chronicler. And what he was supposed to be doing was\njotting down accurately historical events year after year. Some of the\nchronicles written in this way have become the chief sources of English\nhistory. Among the men who wrote these chronicles were William of\nMalmesbury and Matthew Paris. And between them came Geoffrey himself.\n\nIt will never be known, unless it should prove possible to roll time\nback some seven hundred years, just what Geoffrey did see from his\nwindow as he looked out upon the busy town of Monmouth, or all that\nwent on in his nimble mind. In any event it is plain that he had the\nbest of good times inventing or retelling stories in his chronicle.\nThere is to be found the story of King Lear and his three daughters,\nRegan, Goneril, and Cordelia--Lear, the hero of Shakespeare's play,\n\"King Lear,\" written over four hundred years later. There, too, is\nthe story of Ferrex and Porrex. Geoffrey had a nimble quill pen with\nwhich to follow his nimble wit. He writes of Julius C\u00e6sar and of\nhow he came to Great Britain. What Geoffrey of Monmouth says may be\nridiculous enough in the light of history, but there it is, and there\nis C\u00e6sar himself, not only looking upon the coast of Britain but\nactually standing upon it. We become familiar, too, with many names\nknown in stories about King Arthur. Perceval is one of these. And Uther\nPendragon, who was the father of King Arthur, is another.\n\nOne of the marvelous facts about Geoffrey is that when he looked out\nof that golden window he could see so much farther than just Monmouth.\nHe could see all the way to the sea, and on its shores that beautiful\ncity Tintagel, where Queen Igraine, the mother of Arthur, lived. But in\nGeoffrey's chronicle she was called Igerna. A name is sometimes like a\nlong, long journey, not only in its romance, but also because it takes\nyou to other lands and other people, and passes, even as the road upon\na long journey, through many changes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nGeoffrey saw from his golden window not only Tintagel, that beautiful\nSouth Welsh city by the sea, but also a little village in North Wales\ncalled Beddgelert. This little village is set down in the midst of\nmountains like a lump of sugar in the bottom of a deep cup. Outside\nthis little village is a hill called Dinas Emrys. Geoffrey looked\nnorthward out of his golden window in Monmouth, and what do you think\nhe saw? He saw the magician, Merlin, the youth who had never had a\nfather. And this lad was quarreling with another lad in Caernarvon, a\nWelsh city thirteen miles away from the little village of Beddgelert.\n\nNow Vortigern had been attempting to build a tower on Dinas Emrys, but\nwhatever the workmen did one day was swallowed up the next.\n\nThen some wise men said to Vortigern: \"You must find a youth who has\nnever had a father. You must sacrifice him and sprinkle the foundations\nwith his blood.\"\n\nSo Vortigern sent men to find a boy who had never had a father and\nwho should be brought him that they might kill him. When Vortigern's\nmessenger reached Caernarvon, thirteen miles away from Beddgelert and\nthe hill Dinas Emrys, they found two boys playing games and quarreling\nabout their parentage. And one of them, Dabutius, was accusing the\nother, Merlin, of having no father. They took him to Vortigern.\n\nAnd Vortigern said, \"My magicians told me to seek out a lad who had\nno father, with whose blood the foundations of my building are to be\nsprinkled to make it stand.\"\n\n\"Order your magicians,\" answered Merlin, \"to come before me and I will\nconvict them of a lie.\"\n\nIt is a terrible thing to be convicted of a lie, and of course the\nmagicians did not wish to come. But King Vortigern made them come and\nordered them to sit down before Merlin.\n\nMerlin spoke to them after this manner: \"Because you are ignorant what\nit is that hinders the foundations of the tower, you have told the King\nto kill me and to cement the stones with my blood. But tell me now,\nwhat is there under the foundations that will not suffer it to stand?\"\n\nTo this they gave no answer, for they were frightened.\n\nThen said Merlin, \"I entreat your Majesty would command your workmen\nto dig into the ground, and you will find a pond which causes the\nfoundations to sink.\"\n\nThis the King had done, and a pond was found there.\n\nThen said Merlin to the King's magicians, \"Tell me, ye false men, what\nis there under the pond?\"\n\nBut they were afraid to answer.\n\nMerlin turned to King Vortigern and said, \"Command the pond to be\ndrained, and at the bottom you will see two hollow stones, and in them\nare two dragons asleep.\"\n\nThe King had the pond drained, and he found all just as Merlin said it\nwould be. And as the King sat on the edge of the drained pond out came\nthe two dragons, one red and one white, and, approaching each other,\nthey began to fight, blowing forth fire from their nostrils. At last\nthe white dragon got the advantage and made the red dragon fly to the\nother end of the drained pond.\n\nWhen King Vortigern asked Merlin to explain what this meant, Merlin\nburst into tears.\n\nThen commanding his voice, he spoke: \"In the days that are to come\ngold shall be squeezed from the lily and the nettle, and silver shall\nflow from the hoofs of bellowing cattle. The teeth of wolves shall be\nblunted and the lion's whelps shall be transformed into sea-fishes.\"\n\nAnd unto this day nobody knows exactly what Merlin meant, or what\nGeoffrey thought he meant, although there has been much guessing.\n\n * * * * *\n\nGeoffrey must have been very fond of looking out of his window and\nseeing Merlin, for many a story he tells about him. There is the story\nof how Merlin helped to remove the stones of the Giants' Dance from\nIreland. Giants of old had brought them from the farthest coast of\nAfrica. They were mystical stones and had value to heal and cure men.\nWhen these stones were found too heavy to be lifted by human hands,\nMerlin found a way, nevertheless, to lift them. Then the stones of the\nGiants' Dance were carried across the sea and placed in England at\nStonehenge. It is an exciting story Geoffrey tells about the Giants'\nDance, yet I fear we know no more really how the big stones got to\nStonehenge than we know about the ribs of our solid earth. Certainly\nthose stones were set up in Stonehenge even before men began recording\nhistory or Geoffrey of Monmouth sat in his golden window.\n\nAnd there is the story of the 40,060 kings who never existed--which is\nmore almost than ever did exist. And of the coming of St. Augustine to\nEngland, bringing with him the gentle religion of Christ.\n\nIt would be very nice if all this about Merlin and the dragons and the\nGiants' Dance were what might be called true history. Alas, it is not!\nIn the first place, Geoffrey tells stories which vary greatly from what\nwas actually known to be history. Then, too, this chronicle is full, as\nyou have seen, of miraculous stories of one sort or another. And there\nare other reasons, also, why these delightful stories of Geoffrey of\nMonmouth must be taken with a pinch of salt.\n\nBut it is because Geoffrey did sit at his window in the little town\nof Monmouth, writing these stories which have to be taken with a\npinch of salt, that English story-telling began to grow. Geoffrey's\nimagination was to English story-telling what the sunlight is in\nmaking a tulip grow. Story-telling grew out of the Chronicles, the\nso-called historical literature. The men of Geoffrey's time said that\n\"he had lied saucily and shamelessly.\" No doubt he had. Yet these\nsame men could not help reading the stories he told, for they were\nso interesting that all men read them. What he had done was to take\nseveral Welsh legends, put them together cleverly, as a carpenter joins\na delicate bit of woodwork, translate these Welsh legends into Latin\nand call the work a Chronicle. Not only was it read in England, but it\nwas read all over the continent of Europe, too. It had great success.\n\nGeoffrey Gaimer put these stories into French. The stories traveled\nto France. Once there, other legends were added, and when Geoffrey's\nChronicle turned up again in England it came back as the work of Wace,\na Norman trouveur, or ballad-singer. But Geoffrey's stories were too\ngood to let drop even after they had been through so many hands. An\nEnglish priest in Worcestershire by the name of Layamon, translating\nthe French poem which Wace had made out of Geoffrey's prose stories,\nretold the stories in English poetry. That was in 1205, after Geoffrey\nhad died.\n\nGeoffrey of Monmouth must have been very happy as he sat in his sunny,\ngolden window and heard about the tales he had written there. He must\nhave chuckled many a time over what the world had made out of his\nnimble story-telling wits. English literature could not be at all the\nsame, in either prose or poetry, if it were not for that golden palace\ndoor over which was written _Welsh_ or that window upon the stairway\nwhere Geoffrey sat.\n\nBut it was the Normans who brought the taste for history with them\nto England in 1066, when they conquered the land which had been King\nAlfred's land. It was some time before the Normans became what we call\nEnglish in their feeling. Probably the Normans would never have become\nso strongly English in feeling if English patriotism, even after the\nconquest of 1066, had not remained very much alive. The English had\nwritten down in English some of the proverbs of their former King\nAlfred. The parents of the chronicler, William of Malmesbury, were both\nEnglish and Norman. And, strangely enough, Layamon's \"Brut\" is not\nunlike the poetry of the cowherd C\u00e6dmon, the first of the great English\nsingers, the first of English poets.\n\nPerhaps this very hour the sun is shining down upon that golden window\nof Geoffrey of Monmouth, and laughing for joy because the man who \"lied\nso saucily\" was the first of the great English story-tellers.\n\n\n\n\n X\n\n A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY\n\n\nGeoffrey's window is a very fascinating place to be--possibly the most\ninteresting window the world has ever seen. It is not just one lifetime\nwhich has found that window interesting, but more lifetimes than we can\ncount comfortably. Sir Thomas Malory, who wrote his _Morte d'Arthur_\nin 1469, fairly lived in that window; so did Shakespeare when he wrote\n\"King Lear\" in 1605, and even the modern poet, Alfred, Lord Tennyson,\nwho wrote \"The Charge of the Light Brigade,\" composed a series of poems\ncalled \"Idylls of the King,\" which return for their sources through\nMalory to Geoffrey at his window.\n\nThere is one story, however, which Geoffrey did not see as he looked\nout of his golden window--the story of the famous kitchen boy, or\n\"Gareth and Linet.\" This tale is found in Sir Thomas Malory's _Morte\nd'Arthur_, which was not completed until 1469, many years after the\nwriting of Geoffrey's Chronicle in 1147. Clear and sunshiny is the\nEnglish of this wonderful book of Malory's, and nowhere in the world\ncan more beautiful, exciting, and marvelous stories be found than\nbetween the covers of the _Morte d'Arthur_. The _Morte d'Arthur_ was\nwritten about twenty years after the invention of printing by Coster\nand Gutenberg. Sixteen years after the completion of the book by\nMalory, Caxton printed it in black letter in English. There is only one\nperfect copy of this book by Caxton, the first of the English printers,\nand that is in Brooklyn, New York. In the preface which Caxton wrote\nfor the _Morte d'Arthur_, he says that in this book will be found \"many\njoyous and pleasant histories, and noble and renowned acts of humanity,\ngentleness and chivalries.... Do after the good and leave the evil, and\nit shall bring you good fame and renown.\" Certainly that is what the\nkitchen boy did, and it brought him to good fame.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIt was one day when King Arthur was holding a Round Table court at\nKynke Kenadonne by the sea. And they were at their meat, three hundred\nand fifty knights, when there came into the hall two men well clad\nand fine-looking. And, as the old story says, there leaned upon their\nshoulders \"the goodliest young man and the fairest that ever they all\nsaw, and he was large and long and broad in the shoulders, and well\nvisaged, and the fairest and the largest-handed that ever man saw,\nbut he fared as if he might not go or bear himself--\"\n\n\n[Illustration: KNIGHT IN ARMOR\n_MS. Roy. 2 A. xxii_\nLate Thirteenth Century]\n\n\nThe two men supported the young man up to the high dais upon which\nArthur was feasting. When the young man that was being helped forward\nwas seen there was silence. Then the young man stretched up straight\nand besought Arthur that he would give him three gifts.\n\n\"The first gift I will ask now,\" he said, \"but the other two gifts I\nwill ask this day twelve months wheresoever you hold your high feast.\"\n\n\"Ask,\" replied Arthur, \"and you shall have your asking.\"\n\n\"Sir, this is my petition for this feast: that you will give me meat\nand drink enough for this twelvemonth, and at that day I will ask mine\nother two gifts.\"\n\n\"My fair son,\" said Arthur, \"ask better. This is but simple asking.\"\n\nBut the young man would ask no more. And when the King, who had taken a\ngreat liking to him, asked him for his name, the young man said that he\ncould not tell him.\n\nThe King took him to Sir Kay, the steward, and charged him to give the\nyoung man the best of all the meats and drinks and to treat him as a\nlord's son.\n\nBut Sir Kay was angry, and said: \"An he had come of gentlemen, he would\nhave asked of you horse and armor, but such as he is, so he asketh.\nAnd since he hath no name, I shall give him a name that shall be\nBeaumains, that is Fair-hands, and into the kitchen shall I bring him,\nand there he shall have fat brose every day, that he shall be as fat by\nthe twelvemonth's end as a pork hog.\"\n\nAnd Sir Kay scorned him and mocked at him. On hearing this both Sir\nLauncelot, the greatest of the Knights of the Round Table, and Sir\nGawaine were wroth and bade Sir Kay leave his mocking.\n\n\"I dare lay my head,\" said Sir Launcelot, \"he shall prove a man of\ngreat worship.\"\n\n\"It may not be by no reason,\" replied Sir Kay, \"for as he is so hath he\nasked.\"\n\nBeaumains, or Fair-hands, was put into the kitchen, and lay there\nnightly as the boys of the kitchen did. The old book says: \"He endured\nall that twelvemonth, and never displeased man nor child, but always he\nwas meek and mild. But ever when he saw any jousting of knights, that\nwould he see an he might.\"\n\nSir Launcelot gave him gold to spend, and clothes, and whenever the boy\nwent where there were games or feats of strength he excelled in them\nall.\n\nBut always Sir Kay would taunt him with these words spoken to others,\n\"How like you my boy of the kitchen?\"\n\nAnd so Fair-hands, the kitchen boy, continued in service for a year.\nAt the close of the year came a lady to the court and told about her\nsister who was besieged in a castle by a tyrant who was called the\nRed Knight of the Red Laundes. But she would not tell her name, and\ntherefore the King would not permit any of his knights to go with her\nto rescue her sister from the Red Knight, who was one of the worst\nknights in the world.\n\nBut at the King's refusal, Beaumains, or Fair-hands, as he was called,\nspoke, \"Sir King, God thank you, I have been this twelvemonth in your\nkitchen, and have had my full sustenance, and now I will ask my two\ngifts that be behind.\"\n\n\"Ask, upon my peril,\" said the King.\n\n\"Sir, this shall be my two gifts: first, that you will permit me to go\nwith this maiden that I may rescue her sister. And second, that Sir\nLauncelot shall ride after me and make me knight when I require it of\nhim.\"\n\nAnd both these requests the King granted. But the maiden was angry\nbecause, she said, he had given her naught but his kitchen page.\n\nThen came one to Fair-hands and told him that his horse and armor were\ncome for him. And there was a dwarf with everything that Beaumains\nneeded, and all of it the richest and best it was possible for man to\nhave. But though he was horsed and trapped in cloth of gold, he had\nneither shield nor spear.\n\nThen said Sir Kay openly before all, \"I will ride after my boy of the\nkitchen.\"\n\nJust as Beaumains overtook the maiden, so did Sir Kay overtake his\nformer kitchen page.\n\n\"Sir, know you not me?\" he demanded.\n\n\"Yea,\" said Beaumains, \"I know you for an ungentle knight of the court.\nTherefore beware of me.\"\n\nThereupon Sir Kay put his spear in the rest and ran straight upon\nhim, and Beaumains came fast upon him with his sword in his hand. And\nBeaumains knocked the spear out of the knight's hand and Sir Kay fell\ndown as he had been dead. Beaumains took Sir Kay's shield and spear and\nrode away upon his own horse. The dwarf took Sir Kay's horse.\n\nJust then along came Sir Launcelot, and Beaumains challenged him to\na joust. And so they fought for the better part of an hour, rushing\ntogether like infuriated boars. And Sir Launcelot marveled at the young\nman's strength, for he fought more like a giant than like a knight. At\nlast he said, \"Fight not so sore; your quarrel and mine is not so great\nbut we may leave off.\"\n\n\"Truly that is truth,\" said Beaumains, \"but it doth me good to feel\nyour strength, and yet, my lord, I showed not the most I could do.\"\n\nThen Sir Launcelot confessed to Beaumains that he had much ado to\nsave himself, and that Beaumains need fear no earthly knight. And\nthen Beaumains confessed to Sir Launcelot that he was the brother of\nSir Gawaine and the youngest son of King Lot; that his mother, Dame\nMorgawse, was sister to King Arthur, and that his name was Gareth.\n\nAfter that Launcelot knighted Gareth, and Gareth rode on after the\nmaiden whose sister was kept a prisoner by the Red Knight.\n\nWhen he overtook her she turned upon him and said: \"Get away from me,\nfor thou smellest all of the kitchen. Thy clothes are dirty with grease\nand tallow. What art thou but a ladle-washer?\"\n\n\"Damosel,\" replied Beaumains, \"say to me what you will, I will not go\nfrom you whatsoever you say, for I have undertaken to King Arthur for\nto achieve your adventure, and so shall I finish it to the end or I\nshall die therefor.\"\n\nThen came a man thereby calling for help, for six thieves were after\nhim. Even when Beaumains had slain all the six thieves and set the man\nfree from his fears, then the maiden used him despicably, calling him\nkitchen boy and other shameful names.\n\nOn the next day Beaumains slew two knights who would not allow him and\nthe maiden to cross a great river.\n\nBut all the maiden did was to taunt him. \"Alas,\" she said, \"that ever\na kitchen page should have that fortune to destroy even two doughty\nknights; but it was not rightly force, for the first knight stumbled\nand he was drowned in the water, and by mishap thou earnest up behind\nthe last knight and thus happily slew him.\"\n\n\"Say what you will,\" said Beaumains, \"but with whomsoever I have ado\nwithall, I trust to God to serve him or he depart.\"\n\n\"Fie, fie, foul kitchen knave,\" answered the maiden, \"thou shalt see\nknights that shall abate thy boast.\"\n\nAnd so she continued to scold him and would not rest therefrom. And\nthey came to a black land, and there was a black hawthorn, and thereon\nhung a black banner, and on the other side there hung a black shield,\nand by it stood a black spear great and long, and a great black horse\ncovered with silk, and a black stone fast by.\n\nAnd before the Knight of the Black Lands the maiden used Beaumains\ndespicably, calling him kitchen knave and other such names. And the\nBlack Knight and Beaumains came together for battle as if it had been\nthunder. After hard struggle Beaumains killed the Black Knight and rode\non after the damosel.\n\n\"Away, kitchen boy, out of the wind,\" she cried, \"for the smell of thy\nclothes grieves me.\"\n\nAnd so ever despitefully she used him. Yet he overcame the Green\nKnight, who was the brother of the Black Knight, and spared his life at\nthe maiden's request.\n\nAnd it was after the vanquishing of the Green Knight that they saw\na tower as white as any snow, and all around the castle it was\ndouble-diked. Over the tower gate there hung fifty shields of divers\ncolors, and under that tower was a fair meadow. And the lord of the\ntower looked out of his window and beheld Beaumains, the maiden, and\nthe dwarf coming.\n\n\"With that knight will I joust,\" called the lord of the tower, \"for I\nsee that he is a knight errant.\"\n\nAnd before the knight the maiden used him despitefully.\n\nAnd ever he replied, patiently, \"Damosel, you are uncourteous so to\nrebuke me, for meseemeth I have done you good service.\" Then did the\nheart of the maiden soften a little.\n\n\"I marvel what manner of man you be,\" she said, \"for it may never be\notherwise but that you come of a noble blood, for so shamefully did\nwoman never rule a knight as I have done you, and ever courteously you\nhave suffered me, and that comes never but of gentle blood.\"\n\n\"Damosel,\" answered Beaumains, \"a knight may little do that may not\nsuffer a damosel. And whether I be gentleman born or not, I let you\nwit, fair damosel, I have done you gentleman's service.\"\n\nShe begged him to forgive her, and this Beaumains did with all his\nheart.\n\nThen they met Sir Persant of Inde, who was dwelling only seven miles\nfrom the siege, and the maiden besought Beaumains to flee while there\nwas yet time. But he refused.\n\nAnd when Sir Persant and Beaumains met they met with all that ever\ntheir horses might run, and broke their spears either into three\npieces, and their horses rushed so together that both their horses fell\ndead to the earth. And they got off their horses and fought for more\nthan two hours. And Beaumains spared his life only at the maiden's\nrequest.\n\nThen Beaumains told Sir Persant that his name was Sir Gareth. And\nthe maiden said that hers was Linet, and that she was sister to Dame\nLionesse, who was besieged.\n\nThen the dwarf took word to the lady who was besieged, and the others\ncame on after.\n\n\"How escaped he,\" said the lady, Dame Lionesse, \"from the brethren of\nSir Persant?\"\n\n\"Madam,\" said the dwarf, \"as a noble knight should.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Dame Lionesse, \"commend me unto your gentle knight, and pray\nhim to eat and drink and make him strong. Also pray him that he be of\ngood heart and courage, for he shall meet with a knight who is neither\nof bounty, courtesy, nor gentleness; for he attendeth unto nothing but\nmurder, and that is the cause I cannot praise him nor love him.\"\n\nAll that night Beaumains lay in an hermitage, and upon the morn he and\nthe damosel Linet broke their fast and heard mass. Then took they their\nhorses, and, riding through a fair forest, they came out upon a plain\nwhere there were many pavilions and tents and a castle and much smoke\nand a great noise. When they came near the siege Beaumains espied upon\ngreat trees goodly knights hanging by the neck, their shields about\ntheir necks with their swords, and gilt spurs upon their heels. There\nhung high forty knights.\n\n\"What meanest this?\" said Sir Beaumains.\n\n\"Fair sir, \"answered the damosel, \"these knights came hither to this\nsiege to rescue my sister, Dame Lionesse, and when the Red Knight of\nthe Red Lands had overcome them he put them to this shameful death.\"\n\nThen rode they to the dikes, and saw them double-diked with full\nwarlike walls; and there were lodged many great lords nigh the walls;\nand there was great noise of minstrelsy; and the sea beat upon the side\nof the walls, where there were many ships and mariners' noise. And also\nthere was fast by a sycamore-tree, and there hung a horn, the greatest\nthat ever they saw, of an elephant's bone. Therewith Beaumains spurred\nhis horse straight to the sycamore-tree, and blew so eagerly the horn\nthat all the siege and the castle rang thereof. And then there leaped\nout knights out of their tents and pavilions, and they within the\ncastle looked over the walls and out of windows. Then the Red Knight of\nthe Red Lands armed him hastily, and two barons set on his spurs upon\nhis heels, and all was blood red, his armor, spear, and shield.\n\n\"Sir,\" said the damosel Linet, \"look you be glad and light, for yonder\nis your deadly enemy, and at yonder window is my sister, Dame Lionesse.\"\n\nThen Beaumains and the Red Knight put their spears in their rests,\nand came together with all their might, and either smote the other in\nthe middle of their shields, that the surcingles and cruppers broke\nand fell to the earth both, and the two knights lay stunned upon the\nground. But soon they got to their feet and drew their swords and ran\ntogether like two fierce lions. And then they fought until it was past\nnoon, tracing, racing, and foining as two boars. Thus they endured\nuntil evensong time, and their armor was so hewn to pieces that men\nmight see their naked sides. Then the Red Knight gave Beaumains a\nbuffet upon the helm, so that he fell groveling to the earth.\n\nThen cried the maiden Linet on high: \"Oh, Sir Beaumains, where is thy\ncourage? Alas! my sister beholdeth thee and she sobbeth and weepeth.\"\n\nWhen Beaumains heard this he lifted himself up with great effort and\ngot upon his feet, and lightly he leaped to his sword and gripped it in\nhis hand. And he smote so thick that he smote the sword out of the Red\nKnight's hand. Sir Beaumains fell upon him and unlaced his helm to have\nslain him. But at the request of the lords he saved his life and made\nhim yield him to the lady.\n\nAnd so it was that Beaumains, or Sir Gareth, as his real name was, came\ninto the presence of his lady and won her love through his meekness and\ngentleness and courtesy and courage, as every true knight should win\nthe love of his lady.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSo ends happily one of the charming stories of adventure and knighthood\nin one of the greatest Cycles of Romance the world has ever known.\nIndeed, in that Great Palace we have entered, and some of whose golden\ndoors we have been opening, there is no door more loved by human beings\nthan the one over which is written _Romance_, for boys and girls and\ntheir elders have always loved a romantic story, and always will.\n\nThere are four great romantic stories in the Palace of English\nLiterature. The first is _King Arthur and the Round Table_, which\nGeoffrey of Monmouth discovered for us by his golden window. The second\ngreat romance is the story of Charlemagne. This was in the twelfth\ncentury, and the most valiant story which grew out of the Charlemagne\nCycle was that of Roland. Every one should know the story of Roland and\nhis famous sword, Durendal. The third is the _Life_ _of Alexander_,\nwhich came to England from the east. And the fourth is the _Siege of\nTroy_, composed in the thirteenth century and written in Latin.\n\nIt takes many, many stories to satisfy our love of Romance. As we pass\nthrough the golden door over which is written _Romance_, one whole\nwall is filled with the names of lesser romances forgotten long, long\nago. But the stories which Sir Thomas Malory gave us in his _Morte\nd'Arthur_, written in 1469, will never be forgotten as long as the\nEnglish language is spoken.\n\n\n\n\n CHRONOLOGY\n\n\n -------+----------------------+----------------------+---------------------\n | HISTORY | LITERATURE | SCIENCE AND ART\n -------+----------------------+----------------------+---------------------\n | Romans leave | St. Augustine, | Galen, the great\n | Britain, 409-420. | 354-430. | doctor, d. 200.\n | Coming of Angles and | Earliest Gaelic lays,| Baths of Caracalla,\n 200-600| Saxons, 449. | 200-300. | 215.\n | King Arthur, d. 520. | St. Patrick, d. 465. | Great Roman Roads.\n | | Merlin, 475-575. | Underground churches\n | | Taliesin, 500-560. | for Christians,\n | | \"Traveller's Song,\" | 250-260.\n | | Widsith. | Glass used in\n | | | cathedral\n | | | windows, 300.\n | | | First bells in\n | | | Europe.\n | | | The first clock,\n | | | a water-clock,\n | | | 5th century.\n -------+----------------------+----------------------+---------------------\n | Charlemagne, | Beowulf, 7th century,| The first stone\n | 742-814. | formative period. | English churches,\n | First landing of | C\u00e6dmon, late 7th | 680.\n | Danes, 787. | century. | The organ used in a\n | Alfred, 871-900. | Judith. | church, 757.\n | Battle of | The Fight at | Worms Cathedral\n | Brunanburh, 937. | Finnesburg. | commenced, 996.\n | Canute, 1016-1035. | St. Cuthbert, d.686. |\n | Macbeth, 1040-1057. | Aldhelm, 655-709. |\n | Edward the | _Arabian Nights_ |\n | Confessor, 1042. | (Traditions of), |\n 600- | Harold, 1066. | c. 700. |\n 1066 | | \"Deor's Lament.\" |\n | | Bede, 670?-735. |\n | | Cynewulf, c. |\n | | 725-800. |\n | | Old German |\n | | alliterative |\n | | poetry, 8th |\n | | century. |\n | | Nennius, Historia |\n | | Britonum, probl. |\n | | 9th century. |\n | | Alfred's |\n | | translations, |\n | | after 871. |\n | | Anglo-Saxon |\n | | Chronicle, |\n | | 875-1154. |\n | | _Asser's Life of |\n | | Alfred_, 910. |\n | | Poems \"Battle of |\n | | Brunanburh,\" 937; |\n | | \"Battle of |\n | | Maldon,\" 994. |\n | | First medieval |\n | | drama, 980. |\n | | Aelfric's Homilies, |\n | | 995. |\n | | Early Chanson de |\n | | Gestes and |\n | | Fabliaux, 1000 |\n | | and later. |\n -------+----------------------+----------------------+---------------------\n | William the | \"Chanson de Roland,\" | Striking clocks with\n | Conqueror, | composed | wheels, late\n | 1066-1087. | 1066-1097? | 11th century.\n | The Crusades, | Archbishop Anselm, | Westminster Hall and\n | 1095-1270. | 1093-1109. | London Bridge\n | Feudal system | William of Guienne, | built, late 11th\n | in England. | the first | century.\n | _Domesday Book_, | troubadour, | Wool manufactured\n | 1086. | late 11th | in England, early\n | William II., | century. | 12th century.\n | 1087-1100. | William of | Silk cultivated in\n | Henry I., 1100-1135. | Malmesbury, | Sicily, 1146.\n | Stephen, 1135-1154. | 1095-1142. | Leaning Tower of\n | Civil War, | Chansons | Pisa commenced,\n 1066- | 1139-1142. | d'Alexandre, | 1174.\n 1200 | Henry II., | 1050-1150. |\n | 1154-1189. | Chronicle of |\n | Thomas \u00e0 Becket, | Geoffrey of |\n | d. 1170. | Monmouth, 1137. |\n | Richard I., | Nibelungen Lied, |\n | 1189-1199. | c. 1140. |\n | John, 1199-1216. | Wace's \"Brut |\n | | d'Angleterre,\" |\n | | 1155. |\n | | Minnesingers. |\n | | Arthurian legends, |\n | | 12th century. |\n | | Giraldus Cambrensis, |\n | | 1147-1216. |\n | | Crestien de Troyes, |\n | | 1140-1227. |\n | | Gottfried von |\n | | Strasburg. |\n | | Marie de France, |\n | | Lais, late 12th |\n | | century. |\n -------+----------------------+----------------------+---------------------\n | Magna Charta, 1215. | Walther von der | University of Paris\n | Henry III., | Vogelweide, c. | Charter, c. 1200.\n | 1216-1272. | 1170-1235. | The University of\n | The Barons' War, | St. Francis of | Oxford Charter,\n | 1262-1266. | Assisi, 1182-1226. | c. 1200.\n | Edward I., | Wolfram von | The University of\n | 1272-1307. | Eschenbach's | Cambridge\n | Wales subdued, 1282. | \"Parzival,\" early | Charter, c. 1231.\n | William Wallace, fl. | 13th century. | Roger Bacon,\n | 1296-1298. | The Bestiary, early | 1214-1292.\n | Edward II., | 13th century. | (Reference to\n | 1307-1327. | Romance of the Rose, | gunpowder.)\n | Robert Bruce, | 13th and 14th | Cologne Cathedral\n | 1306-1329. | centuries. | commenced, 1249.\n 1200- | Battle of | Havelok (English | First rag paper, c.\n 1350 | Bannockburn, 1314, | version), 1300. | 1300.\n | Edward III., | Bevis of Hampton | First apothecaries\n | 1327-1377. | (English version), | in England, 1345.\n | Scotland | c. 1300. | Glass windows in\n | reorganized, 1328. | Guy of Warwick | general use,\n | Opening of Hundred | (English version), | 1345.\n | Years' War | c. 1300. |\n | with France, 1337. | Mabinogion, |\n | | 1250-1290. |\n | | King Horn (English |\n | | version), 1250. |\n | | Dante, 1265-1321. |\n | | Jean de Meung, b. |\n | | 1280. |\n -------+----------------------+----------------------+---------------------\n\n\n\n\n Transcriber's Note:\n\n Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been\n rendered in full capitals.\n A number of minor spelling errors have been corrected without note.","title":"Early English Hero Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":23542}