THROUGH
GOLDEN DOORS
TO
ENGLISH LITERATURE
THROUGH GOLDEN DOORS
TO
ENGLISH LITERATURE
A NEW SERIES
BY JEANNETTE MARKS
_Lecturer at Mt. Holyoke College_
The master-stories of English literature told for young readers. The
author, who has been professor of English Literature at Mt. Holyoke
and the author of several successful books for both younger and older
readers, has been occupied for a long time in making a selection of the
best stories from the greatest English writers beginning with "Beowulf"
and the dawn of English letters.
The present volume offers masterpieces chosen from the earliest English
literature from the seventh to the fourteenth century, stories which
are not readily accessible.
The second volume will offer hero tales of the Middle English period,
from Chaucer and others.
In later volumes selections will be made from the masters of modern
English literature.
EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES
From 600 to 1340
Other books in preparation
_Each illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, 50 cents net_
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
[Illustration: MEDIEVAL LONDON
_From Manuscript 16 F. ii in the British Museum_]
[Illustration]
EARLY
ENGLISH
HERO TALES
TOLD BY
JEANNETTE MARKS
WELLESLEY M.A.
LECTURER AT MT. HOLYOKE COLLEGE
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
HARPER & BROTHERS
NEW YORK & LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED APRIL, 1915
TO
H. M. C.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
I. THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO 1
II. WELSH MAGIC 9
III. THE BATTLE AT THE FORD 18
IV. CÆDMON THE COWHERD 30
V. THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE 41
VI. THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE 48
VII. A FISHERMAN'S BOY 57
VIII. THE WEREWOLF 68
IX. AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW 75
X. A FAMOUS KITCHEN BOY 85
CHRONOLOGY 101
ILLUSTRATIONS
MEDIEVAL LONDON _Frontispiece_
(From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)
KINGS IN ARMOR _Page_ 27
(From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)
HENRY III. SAILING HOME FROM GASCONY, 1243 " 61
(From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)
KNIGHT IN ARMOR " 87
(From Green's _Short History of the English People_.)
INTRODUCTION
Supposing you were asked to enter a Great Palace? And within that
palace, you were told, were more than a thousand golden doors? And
those doors opened into rooms and upon gardens and balconies, all of
which were the most beautiful of palace rooms and gardens? And some
were more beautiful than anything the world had ever known before? Do
you think you would go through the gate to that palace?
And if you were told that in the palace were lamps so bright that they
lighted not only the palace, but cast a glow over the whole world?
And that these lamps hung from chains the ends of which you could
not see, just as Pryderi was not able to see the ends of the hanging
golden chains in the palace which he entered? And once within the Great
Palace you were not only better for being there, but also happier and
stronger and more beautiful, and never any more could you be lonely?
It sounds like an Aladdin's lamp, does it not, which, once seen and
touched, could bring so much beauty and power into our lives! Indeed,
it is Aladdin's lamp--the lamp of men's minds and souls. And the Great
Palace is the Palace of English Literature.
Over those doors are many names written--names never to be forgotten
while the English tongue is spoken. And in that palace there is
fairyland; there are giants and monsters; there are warrior heroes
like Beowulf, and saintly heroes like Cuthbert; there are noble boys
like Alfred; there are poets, princes, lovely ladies, little children,
spirited horses, faithful dogs; there are heard the sound of singing,
the playing of the harp, the beat of feet dancing, cries of gladness,
cries of sorrow, the rolling of the organ, the fluting of birds, the
laughter of water, and the whisper of every wind that has blown upon
the fields of the world; there are seen flowers of every marvelous and
starlike shape, of every rainbow hue, and jewels as shining as the
lamps hanging in the Great Palace, and fruits rare and strange filling
the Great Palace with sweet fragrance and color; there are rooms unlike
any rooms we have ever seen before; and the years are there--nearly
two thousand--numbered and made beautiful; there, too, are Wisdom and
Kindness and Courage and Faith and Modesty and Love and Self-Control,
coming and going hither and yon through the wide hallways or on service
bent up and down the narrow corridors.
It is a Palace of Enchantment, is it not? Yes, it is a Palace of
Enchantment, and I can think of no greater happiness, no stronger
assurance that we shall learn how to be our best selves and to rule
ourselves, no greater inspiration to be wise and kind while we are
boys and girls, and when we grow up no fuller promise of a good time
and many kinds of happiness and pleasure, than just to take the gate
into that palace, listen to its songs and poems and stories, taste of
its fruits, hold some of its flowers in our hands, grow warm in its
sunshine, dream in its moonlight, and watch the fairies dance with the
feet that dance there, play with its jewels, listen to the whisper of
the winds that blow around the world, lay our hands in the brave hands
of Love and Courage, Wisdom and Kindness, who dwell there; knock on
those golden doors where we would go in and be alone; and come out
again, knowing that we have won the great enchantment, which is the
companionship of beautiful and imperishable story and poem, song and
play.
It is a wonderful Palace of English Literature in which we shall see
many marvels: the first English hero, Beowulf, and the monster Grendel;
all the fortunes and misfortunes of the little, radiant-browed Welsh
boy called Taliesin, the battle of the friends Cuchulain and Ferdiad,
who were betrayed by the false Irish Queen Maeve; how song came to our
first great English poet, Cædmon, in the cow-stall at the Monastery
of Whitby (670); of the courage of a shepherd lad who had became a
saint, and of even the seals who loved St. Cuthbert (seventh century);
of the young Prince Alfred who won a book as a prize (849-900); of
Havelok, the son of the King of Denmark, who lived with Fisherman Grim
at Grimsby; of a man who was under enchantment as a wolf part of the
week and whom Marie de France called a Werewolf; of all the marvels
that Geoffrey of Monmouth (1147) saw from his window; and especially of
the wonders which King Arthur's magician, Merlin, worked; and of the
red and white dragons that came out of a drained pond; and of a famous
kitchen-boy who became a great knight, and about whom Sir Thomas Malory
tells one exciting adventure in the _Morte d'Arthur_ (1469).
What boys and girls will enter the gate with me? Shall we go into the
Great Palace to-day? And on what golden door shall we rap first that we
may be admitted?
J. M.
SOUTH HADLEY, MASS., _January, 1915_.
EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES
EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES
I
THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO
[Illustration]
The first golden door we open in the Great Palace shows us a hero, and
that is as it should be, for the English have always been brave. Yet
probably the poem about this first English hero is not the first poem.
The first is a poem by the name of the "Far Traveller." "Many men and
rulers have I known," says this traveler; "through many strange lands
I have fared throughout the spacious earth." This poem may not be of
great value, but it is a wonderful experience to open this door and
see back, back, back, thousands of years to the very cradle in which
English literature was born. This first Englishman was a wanderer, as
all Englishmen, despite their love of home, have been, or else they
would not hold so many great dominions as they do to-day. Then, too,
there was "Deor's Lament," with its sad refrain,
_Thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg_
(That was overcome, so may this be)
and its grave thought that "The All-wise Lord of the world worketh
many changes." One more poem, or, better, fragment, is spoken of
in _Beowulf_. "The Fight at Finnesburg" is full of the savagery
and fierceness of warfare; it is even more wild and barbarous than
"Beowulf."
Now let us open the door over which is written _Beowulf_. It is one
of the oldest and rudest of the golden doors in the Great Palace of
English Poetry, but also one of the most precious. The pictures we are
to see are beautiful sometimes. More often they are cruel and pitiless.
* * * * *
The sun was shining, the wind was blowing, the air was as
sweet-smelling as if it rose from fields of lilies, and it was the very
springtime of the world some two thousand years ago.
By song little Widsith has seen his master bind all men and all beasts.
Not only the fish and worms forgot their tasks, but even the cattle
stopped grazing, and, where they passed, men and children paused to
listen. They were on their way to the Great Hall to have a sight of
the hero, Beowulf.
Behind them lay the sea and the coast-guard pacing up and down. Before
them, landward, rose a long, high-roofed hall. It had gable ends from
which towered up huge stag-horns. And the roof shone only less brightly
than the sun, for it was covered with metal.
About the Great Hall toward which little Widsith and the master were
traveling was the village made up of tiny houses, each in its own
patch of tilled ground and apple-trees, and with fields in which sheep
and oxen and horses were pastured. Narrow paths wound in and out
everywhere. In front of the Hall was a broad meadow across which the
king and queen and their lords and ladies were used to walk.
There was much going on that day in Heorot. Flocks of children were
playing about the pretty paths. Mothers and aunts and older sisters sat
spinning in the open doorways. Beyond the wide meadow young men and
boys were leading or riding spirited horses up and down to exercise
them.
And all--men, women, and children alike--were talking about Beowulf,
who had come to kill the monster Grendel and free the people of Heorot.
Beowulf had not much more than entered the Hall when the scôp, or
singer, as little Widsith's master was called, entered too. In those
days singers were welcome everywhere. They saw Beowulf stride mightily
across the many-colored floor of Heorot and go up to the old King. And
they heard his voice, which sounded like the rumble of a heavy sea on
their rock-bound coast.
"Hrothgar!" he said to the old King, "across the sea's way have I come
to help thee."
"Of thee, Beowulf, have we need," replied the old King in tears, "for
Heorot has suffered much from the monster."
"I will deliver thee, Hrothgar," said Beowulf, in his great voice;
"thee and all who dwell in Heorot."
"Steep and stony are the sea cliffs, joyless our woods and
wolf-haunted, robbed is our Heorot, for to Grendel can no man do aught.
He breaks the bones of my people. And those of my people he cannot eat
in Heorot he drags away on to the moor and devours alive."
And the old, bald-headed King, seated on his high seat in the Hall
between his pretty daughter and his tired Queen, sighed as he thought
of the approaching night. Yet, now that Beowulf had come, he hoped.
Together they gathered about the banquet. Beowulf sat among the sons
of the old King. The walls inside were as bright as the roof, and
gold-gilded, and the great fires from which smoke poured out through
openings in the roof were cheerful and warm.
Then little Widsith's master was called up, and Widsith placed the harp
for him. Clear rose the song from the scôp's lips, and all the company
was still. For a while they forgot the monster which, even now with
the falling dusk, was striding up from the sea, perhaps by the same
path Beowulf and Widsith and the scôp had come. Already it had grown
dark under heaven and darker in the Hall, and the place was filled with
shadowy shapes.
And now came Grendel stalking from the cloudy cliffs toward the Gold
Hall. It would have been hard for four men to have carried his huge
head, so big it was. The nails of his hands were like iron, and large
as the monstrous claws of a wild beast. And, since there was a spell
upon him, no sword or spear could harm him.
While others slept--even frightened little Widsith, who had thought he
could never sleep--Beowulf lay awake, ready with his naked hands to
fight Grendel.
Suddenly the monster smote the door of Heorot, and it cracked asunder.
In he strode, flame in his eyes, and before Beowulf could spring upon
him or any one awake, he snatched a sleeping warrior and tore him to
pieces.
Beowulf, who had the strength of thirty men in his body, gripped him,
and the dreadful battle and noise began. The benches were overturned,
the walls cracked, the fires were scattered, and dust rose in clouds
from the many-colored floor as Beowulf wrestled with Grendel.
The scôp had seized his harp and was playing a great battle song, but
music has no power over such evil as Grendel's. Beowulf himself, who
was struggling to break the bone-house of the monster in the din of the
mighty battle, did not hear it, either. And the song was lost in the
noise and dust which rose together in Heorot.
Even the warriors, who struck Grendel with their swords, could not help
Beowulf, for neither sword nor spear could injure the monster. Only the
might of the hero, himself, could do aught.
At last, with the strength of thirty men, Beowulf gripped the monster.
And Grendel, with rent sinews and bleeding body, fled away to the
ocean cave where he had lived. And there in the cave, with the sea
blood-stained and boiling above him, he died, outlawed for evil.
* * * * *
In the second part of this poem Beowulf was living as king in his own
land, and ruling like the great and brave king he was. But a huge old
dragon who was guarding a treasure was robbed. So angry was the dragon
that he left his heap of treasure and came down upon the land of King
Beowulf, burning it and terrifying the people. Then Beowulf, who had
become an old man, felt that he must fight to save his people. He went
out and slew the dragon, but was himself scorched to death by the fiery
breath of the dragon.
"Beowulf" is the epic of our old English period. An epic is an
heroic poem. In "Beowulf" the story of Beowulf's great deeds--such
as his struggle with Grendel and Grendel's mother--and of his death
is told. Probably it was sung before the fifth century, when the
English conquered Britain, for England itself is not mentioned in this
wonderful poem. Indeed, the country described is that of the Goths of
Sweden and of the Danes. Your geography will show you where Sweden and
Denmark are. When the English forefathers came to England they brought
this poem with them, perhaps in the form of short poems which were
woven together by a Christian Northumbrian poet in the eighth century
or thereabouts.
It will be interesting to see how this wild moorland, over which
Grendel stalked and over which the dreadful dragon dragged his length,
became, with the cultivation of the land and advancing civilization,
the gentle and beautiful dwelling of the fairies. The fairies will not
live where it is too wild.
Much is to be learned from this epic of the customs and the manners of
the men who came to Britain and conquered it. We can see these people
as they lived in their sea-circled settlements, the ships they used to
sail upon the sea, how their villages looked, and the boys and girls
and grown-ups in them; the rocks and hills and ocean waves that made
up their out-of-door world; the good times they had; their games and
amusements. We come to know the respect that was given to their women;
we see the bravery of the men in facing death, and we hear the songs
they sang.
"Beowulf" is a great poem--English literature knows no poem that is
more sacred to it--but it is a sorrowful poem, too. These people
believed in Fate, for Christ had not yet been brought to them with His
message of love and peace and joy. English poetry to-day is much more
joyous--because it is Christian poetry--than it ever could have been if
England had remained a heathen land. Yet English poetry still has much
in common with "Beowulf," in love of the sea and worship of nature, and
a strange sense of Fate.
But we must close this door over which is written _Beowulf_, for the
Great Palace is full of many doors and many stories, and we have only
just begun our journey from golden door to golden door.
II
WELSH MAGIC
On the other side of most of the golden doors through which we shall
pass, our own tongue, English, is spoken. Yet in this wonderful palace,
full of beautiful thoughts and beautiful expression, there are two
doors which when thrown open we may enter, but where our English
would not be understood. They both admit us to the poems and prose of
families of the same race--a race called Celtic. Over one door of this
family, however, is written _Cymric_, and all that is Cymric is written
and spoken in Welsh. On the other door is _Gaelic_, and all that is
Gaelic is Irish and Scotch. And the Great Palace of English Literature,
with its innumerable golden doors, would not be at all the same palace
if it were not for these two little doors, for out of them has come
much that is best in poetry and prose.
The Welsh were already in Britain when the so-called "English" landed
on the island, and these English, after one hundred and fifty years,
succeeded in driving the Welsh, or Cymru, back to the mountains and
coast on the west of the island. There they lived among the mountains,
holding fast to their customs and to their songs and poetry. And by
and by, when it was time for this miracle to happen, the little golden
door over which was written _Cymric_, or _Welsh_, opened, and out of it
there passed one of the most beautiful story-cycles the world has ever
known, the tales about King Arthur. But of this great story we shall
hear later.
This little golden door may be the oldest in all the palace, for long
before the Arthur story was born there were other tales which the Cymru
loved. There is a word "prehistoric" which accurately describes some
of these stories known as _Mabinogion_, which means, literally, Tales
for the Children, or Little Ones. This famous book was translated from
Welsh into English by Lady Charlotte Guest in 1838. Among the oldest of
these tales is "Taliesin," which has behind it a prehistoric singer, a
mythic singer.
And now let us open that door over which is written _Cymric_, or
_Welsh_, and look in.
* * * * *
Long ago, at the beginning of King Arthur's time and the famous Round
Table, there lived a man whose name was Tegid Voel. His wife was called
Caridwen. And there was born to them a son, Avagddu, who was the
ugliest boy in all the world.
When Caridwen looked at Avagddu, and knew beyond any doubt that he was
the ugliest boy in all the world, she was much troubled. Therefore she
decided to boil a caldron of Inspiration and Science for her son, so
that Avagddu might hold an honorable position because of his knowledge.
Caridwen filled the caldron and began to boil it, and all knew that it
must not cease boiling for one year and a day--that is, until three
drops of Inspiration had been distilled from it. Gwion Bach she put to
stirring the caldron, and Morda, a blind man, was to keep the caldron
boiling day and night for the whole year. And every day Caridwen
gathered charm-bearing herbs and put them in to boil.
And it was one day toward the close of the year that three drops of the
liquid in the caldron flew out upon the finger of Gwion Bach, who was
stirring the liquid. It burnt him, and he put his finger in his mouth.
Because of the magic of those drops he knew all that was going to
happen. And he was afraid of the wiles of Caridwen, and in fear he ran
away.
All the liquor in the caldron, except the three charm-bearing drops
that had fallen upon the finger of Gwion Bach, was poisonous, and
therefore the caldron burst. When Caridwen saw the work of her whole
year lost, she was angry and seized a stick of wood. With the stick she
struck Morda on the head.
"Thou hast disfigured me wrongfully," he said, "for I am innocent."
"Thou speakest truth," she replied; "it was Gwion Bach robbed me."
And Caridwen went forth after Gwion Bach, running.
When little Gwion saw her coming, because of the magic drops that had
touched his finger, he was able to change himself into a hare. But
thereupon Caridwen changed herself into a greyhound, and there was a
race fleeter almost than the wind. Caridwen was nearly upon him when
little Gwion turned toward the river and became a fish. Then Caridwen
changed herself from a greyhound into an otter, and chased little Gwion
under the water. So close was the chase that he had to turn himself
into a bird of the air. Whereupon Caridwen became a hawk and followed
him and gave him no rest in the sky. She was just swooping down upon
him, and little Gwion thought that the hour of his death had come,
when he saw a heap of winnowed wheat on the floor of the barn, and
he dropped into the wheat and turned himself into one of the grains.
And then what do you think happened? Caridwen changed herself into a
high-crested black hen, hopped into the wheat, scratching it with her
feet, found poor little Gwion Bach, who had once been a boy, then in
turn became a rabbit, a fish, a bird of the air, and was now a grain of
wheat.
Caridwen swallowed him! But so powerful was the magic of those three
drops of Inspiration which had touched his finger, that little Gwion
appeared in the world again, entering it as a beautiful child. And even
Caridwen, because of his beauty, could not bear to kill him, so she
wrapped him in a leathern bag and cast him into the sea. That was on
the twenty-ninth day of April.
Where Caridwen threw little Gwion into the sea was near the
fishing-weir of Gwyddno by Aberstwyth. And even as Caridwen had the
ugliest son in all the world, so had Gwyddno the most unlucky, and his
name was Elphin. This year Gwyddno had told Elphin that he might have
the drawing of the weir on May Eve. Usually the fish they drew from the
weir were worth about one hundred pounds in good English silver. His
father thought that if luck were ever going to come to Elphin, it would
come with the drawing of the weir on May Eve.
But on the next day, when Elphin went to look, there was nothing in the
weir except a leathern bag hanging on a pole.
One of the men by the weir said to Elphin: "Now hast thou destroyed the
virtue of the weir. There is nothing in it but this worthless bag."
"How now," said Elphin, "there may be in this bag the value of an
hundred pounds."
They took the bag down from the pole, and Elphin opened it, and as he
opened it he saw the forehead of a beautiful boy.
"Behold a radiant brow!" cried Elphin. "Taliesin shall he be called."
Although Elphin lamented his bad luck at the weir, yet he carried the
child home gently on his ambling horse. Suddenly the little boy began
to sing a song in which he told Elphin that the day would come when he
would be of more service to him than the value of three hundred salmon.
And this song of comfort was the first poem the little, radiant-browed
Taliesin ever sang. But when Gwyddno, the father of Elphin, asked him
what he was, he sang again and told the story of how he had fled in
many shapes from Caridwen; as a frog, as a crow, as a chain, as a rose
entangled in a thicket, as a wolf cub, as a thrush, as a fox, as a
martin, as a squirrel, as a stag's antler, as iron in glowing fire, as
a spear-head from the hand of one who fights, as a fierce bull, as a
bristly boar, and in many other forms, only to be gobbled up in the end
as a grain of wheat by a black hen.
"What is this?" said Gwyddno to his son Elphin.
"It is a bard--a poet," the son answered.
"Alas! what will he profit thee?"
"I shall profit Elphin more than the weir has ever profited thee,"
answered Taliesin.
And the little, radiant-browed boy began to sing another song:
"Wherefore should a stone be hard;
Why should a thorn be sharp-pointed;
Who is hard like flint;
Who is salt like brine;
Who is sweet like honey;
Who rides in the gale?"
Then bade he Elphin wager the King that he had a horse better and
swifter than any of the King's horses. Thus Elphin did, and the King
set the day and the time for the race at the place called the Marsh of
Rhiannedd. And thither every one followed the King, who took with him
four-and-twenty of his swiftest horses.
The course was marked and the horses were placed for running. Then
in came Taliesin with four-and-twenty twigs of holly, which he had
burned black, and he put them in the belt of the youth who was to ride
Elphin's horse. He told this youth to let all the King's horses get
ahead of him; but as he overtook one horse after the other he was to
take one of the burnt twigs of holly and strike the horse over the
crupper, then let the twig fall. This the youth who rode Elphin's horse
was to do to each of the King's horses as he overtook it, and he was
to watch where his own horse should stumble, and throw down his cap on
that spot.
Thereupon the youth who rode Elphin's horse, and all the King's riders,
pricked forth upon their steeds, their horses with bridles of linked
gold on their heads, and gold saddles upon their backs. And the racing
horses with their shell-formed hoofs cast up sods, so swiftly did they
run, like swallows in the air. Blades of grass bent not beneath the
fleet, light hoofs of the coursers.
Elphin's horse won the race. Taliesin brought Elphin, when the race was
over, to the place where the horse had stumbled and where the youth had
thrown down his cap as he had been told. Elphin did as Taliesin bade
him and put workmen to dig a hole in this spot. And when they had dug
the ground deep enough, there was found a large caldron full of gold.
Then said Taliesin: "Elphin, behold! See what I give thee for having
taken me out of the weir and the leathern bag! Is this not worth more
to thee than three hundred salmon?"
* * * * *
In the _Mabinogion_ stories, first collected and set down some time in
the twelfth century, we live in a world of enchantment and fairies.
Those tales are full of gold--the gold of a wondrous imagination.
It would be nice if we could keep this door, over which is written
_Welsh_, open long enough so that I might tell you the story of
Pryderi, too, and how Pryderi found a castle where no castle had ever
been, how he entered it and saw "In the center of the castle floor
... a fountain with marble-work around it, and on the margin of the
fountain a golden bowl on a marble slab, and chains hanging from the
air, to which he saw no end." What happened to him when he seized
this cup, how the castle faded away, how the heroes of the story were
changed to mice--for none of this can we hold open the golden door any
longer. The ends of the golden chains of many a story are not to be
seen by us.
III
THE BATTLE AT THE FORD
It is interesting to think, is it not, that if it had not been for
those two little Celtic doors of gold over one of which was written
_Cymric_, or _Welsh_, and over the other, _Gaelic_, or _Irish_, our
Great Palace of English Literature could not have been the same palace,
nor half so beautiful. It is not only that there would not have been so
many wonderful golden doors leading into story-land, but the stories
themselves would not have been told in the same way. The Scotch, too,
who belong to the Celtic family, are almost as great story-tellers as
the Welsh and Irish.
When the Roman Tacitus wrote about the Welsh and Irish he said, "Their
language differs little." And even their buildings, Cæsar said, were
"almost similar." What was true of their speech and their buildings
was more true of the gifts they have left in the Great Palace. They
have the same delightful way of telling a story; what they have to say
naturally falls into conversations, and they are quick as a wink in the
wit and fun and beauty and sadness of what they do say.
This little golden door and the wonderful room beyond it were, perhaps,
longer in being built than the Welsh. These stories and poems of the
Irish were composed at the time of Cæsar and the Christian era. The
epic cycle of Conchubar and Cuchulain is the first group of tales in
Irish literature. They are made up of prose with occasional verses here
and there. The Irish are very clever at invention, and these stories
are among the most wonderful ever written or sung. Among the best of
these stories is one we shall open a door to listen to--the story of
Ferdiad and Cuchulain in "The Battle at the Ford."
The dialogue in "The Battle at the Ford" shows us plainly how great the
Irish dramatic gift has always been. They were born makers of plays.
Just see how the Irish genius makes Ferdiad and Cuchulain talk, and how
lifelike they are! The story is there, not much changed from what it
was two thousand years ago, and shows all the Irish sense of form. By
sense of form is meant simply the story's way of expressing itself. You
see, a story or poem is like a human being. It has not only thoughts,
but also a body to hold these thoughts. It is because of these two
golden doors, over which are written the words, _Welsh_, _Irish_, that
English Literature is likely to produce most of the great plays which
will be acted, and most of the great novels.
Every Christian and Jewish boy and girl knows the Bible story of David
and Jonathan--that Jonathan who loved David as his soul, and David
who loved Jonathan more than a brother can love. This friendship of a
king's son with the son of a shepherd was very beautiful and tender and
pure. "The Battle at the Ford" is not so gentle a story, but it is,
nevertheless, and despite the treachery of the Queen and the sad end of
Ferdiad, the David and Jonathan story of Irish Literature.
* * * * *
The men of Ireland settled it that Ferdiad and Cuchulain should fight
the next day. But when they sent messengers to fetch Ferdiad he would
not come, for he learned that they wanted him to fight against his
friend Cuchulain.
Then Maeve, the Queen, sent the Druids after him, who by their hurtful
poems about Ferdiad should raise three blisters on his face--the
blisters of Shame, Blemish, and Reproach.
So Ferdiad had to come to answer the Queen, Maeve. She offered him
great riches if he would fight against his friend Cuchulain--speckled
satins and silver and gold, with lands, horses, and bridles.
But to Maeve Ferdiad replied, "If you offered me land and sea I would
not take them without the sun and moon."
For he loved his friend Cuchulain so that there was no wealth which
could tempt Ferdiad to go out against him to wound him.
"But," said Maeve, "you shall have your fill of the jewels of the
earth. Here is my brooch with its hooked pin and my daughter,
Findabair."
"Nay," answered Ferdiad, "these things and all things like unto them
shall remain yours, for there is nothing I would take to go into battle
against my friend Cuchulain. Nothing shall come between him and me--he
who is the half of my heart without fault, and I the half of his own
heart. By my spear, were Cuchulain killed, I would be buried in his
grave--the one grave for the two of us! Misfortune on you, Maeve,
misfortune on you for trying to put your face between us!"
Then Maeve considered how she should stir him up and thus get her own
ends.
Aloud she said to her people, "Is it a true word Cuchulain spoke?"
"What word was that?" asked Ferdiad, sharply.
"He said," answered Maeve, "that there would be no wonder in it did you
fall in the first trial of arms against him."
Then was Ferdiad angry. "That had Cuchulain no right to say! If it be
true he said this thing, then will I fight with him to-morrow!"
At that Fergus left Ferdiad and Maeve, and went out in his chariot to
tell Cuchulain what had happened.
"I give my word," exclaimed Cuchulain, "for my friend to come against
me is not my wish!"
"Ferdiad's anger is stirred up," said Fergus, "and he has no fear of
you."
"Be quiet," replied Cuchulain, "for I can stand against him anywhere!"
"It will go hard with you getting the better of him," answered Fergus,
"for he has the strength of a hundred."
"My word and oath," said Cuchulain, "it is I who will be victorious
over Ferdiad."
Then went Fergus joyfully back to the encampment. But Ferdiad, gloomy
and heavy-hearted, slept only through the early part of the night.
Toward the end of night he told his driver to harness his horses.
"Ferdiad," said the driver, "it would be better for you to stop here,
for grief will come of that meeting with Cuchulain."
Yet the chariot was yoked and they went forward to the ford, and day
and its full light came upon them there. Then Ferdiad slept while he
waited for the coming of Cuchulain.
With the full light of day Cuchulain himself rose up, and said to his
driver, "Laeg, yoke the chariot, for the man who comes to meet us
to-day is an early riser."
"The horses are harnessed," answered Laeg.
With that Cuchulain leaped into the chariot, and about him shouted the
people of the gods of Dana, and the witches and the fairies.
Then Ferdiad's driver heard them coming, the straining of the harness,
the creaking of the chariot, the ringing of the armor and the shields,
and the thunder of the horses' hoofs.
"Good Ferdiad," said the driver, laying his hand upon his master, "rise
up. Cuchulain comes, and he is coming not slowly, but quick as the wind
or as water from a high cliff or like swift thunder."
And they saw Cuchulain coming, swooping down on them like a hawk from a
cliff on a day of hard wind. Cuchulain drew up on the north side of the
ford.
"I am happy at your coming," said Ferdiad.
"Till this day would I have been glad to hear that welcome," answered
Cuchulain; "but now it is no longer the welcome of a friend."
Then each spoke unfriendly words and each began to boast.
"Before the setting of the sun to-night," said Ferdiad, "you will be
fighting as with a mountain, and it is not white that battle will be."
"You are fallen into a gap of danger," answered Cuchulain, "and the end
of your life has come."
"Leave off your boasting," shouted Ferdiad, "you heart of a bird in a
cage, you giggling fellow."
But to this Cuchulain replied, "You were my heart companion, you were
my people, you were my family--I never found one who was dearer."
"What is the use of this talk?" asked Ferdiad.
"Good Ferdiad," answered Cuchulain, "it is not right for you to come
out against me through the meddling of Maeve. Do not break your
oath not to fight with me. Do not break friendship. We were heart
companions, comrades, and sharing one bed."
And Ferdiad answered: "Do not be remembering our companionship, for it
will not protect you this day. It is I will give you your first wounds."
Then began they with their casting weapons--their round-handled spears
and their little quill spears and their ivory-hilted knives and their
ivory-hafted spears, and these weapons were flying to and fro like
bees on the wing on a summer's day. Yet good as the throwing was, the
defense was better, and neither hurt the other. There was no cast that
did not hit the protecting shields, and by noon their weapons were all
blunted against the faces and bosses of the shields.
So they left these weapons and took to their straight spears. And from
the middle of midday till the fall of evening each threw spears at the
other. But good as the defense was, in that time each wounded the other.
"Let us leave this, now," said Ferdiad.
Then each came to the other and put his hands around the neck of the
other and gave him three kisses. And that night one inclosure held
their horses and at one fire sat their chariot-drivers. And of every
healing herb that was put on Cuchulain's wounds Cuchulain sent an equal
share westward across the ford for the wounds of Ferdiad. And of food
and drink Ferdiad sent a fair share northward to Cuchulain and his men.
And in the morning they rose up and came to the ford of battle.
"What weapons shall we use to-day?" asked Cuchulain.
"To-day is your choice, for I made the choice yesterday," answered
Ferdiad.
"Then let us take our great broad spears, for so by the end of evening
shall we be nearer the end of the fight."
From the twilight of the early morning till the fall of evening each
cut at and wounded the other, till, were it the custom of birds in
their flight to pass through the bodies of men, they might have done so
on this day.
"Let us stop from this, now," said Cuchulain, "for our horses and men
are tired and down-hearted. Let us put the quarrel away for a while."
So they threw their spears into the hands of their chariot-drivers,
and each put his hand around the neck of the other and gave him three
kisses. And that night they slept on wounded men's pillows their
chariot-drivers had made for them. A full share of every charm and
spell used to cure the wounds of Cuchulain was sent to Ferdiad. And of
food Ferdiad sent a share.
Again early on the morrow they came to the ford of battle, and there
was a dark look on Ferdiad that day.
"It is bad you are looking to-day," said Cuchulain.
"It is not from fear or dread of you I am looking this way," answered
Ferdiad.
"No one has ever put food to his lips, Ferdiad, and no one has ever
been born for whose sake I would have hurt you."
"Cuchulain," cried Ferdiad, "it was not you, but Maeve, who has
betrayed us, and now my word and my name will be worth nothing if I go
back without doing battle with you."
And that day they fought with their swords, and each hacked at the
other from dawn till evening. When they threw their swords from them
into the hands of their chariot-drivers, their parting that night was
sad and down-hearted.
Early the next morning Ferdiad rose up and went by himself to the ford,
and there clad himself in his shirt of striped silk with its border
of speckled gold, over that a coat of brown leather, and on his head
a crested helmet of battle. Taking his strong spear in his right hand
and sword in his left, he began to show off very cunningly, wonderful
feats that were made up that day by himself against Cuchulain.
[Illustration: KINGS IN ARMOR
_MS. Camb. Univ. Libr. Ee. iii. 59_ C. A.D. 1245]
But when Cuchulain came to the ford, it was his turn to choose the
weapons for the day. And they fought all the morning. By midday the
anger of each was hot upon him, and Cuchulain leaped up onto the bosses
of Ferdiad's shield, but Ferdiad tossed him from him like a bird on
the brink of the ford, or as foam is thrown from a wave. Then did
Cuchulain leap with the quickness of the wind and the lightness of a
swallow, and lit on the boss of Ferdiad's shield. But Ferdiad shook his
shield and cast Cuchulain from him. Cuchulain's anger came on him like
flame; and so close was the fight that their shields were broken and
loosened, that their spears were bent from their points to their hilts;
and so close was the fight that they drove the river from its bed, and
that their horses broke away in fear and madness.
Then Ferdiad gave Cuchulain a stroke of the sword and hid it in his
body. And Cuchulain took his spear, Gae Bulg, cast it at Ferdiad, and
it passed through his body so that the point could be seen.
"O Cuchulain," cried Ferdiad, when Gae Bulg pierced him, "it was not
right that I should fall by your hand! My end is come, my ribs will not
hold my heart. I have not done well in the battle."
Then Cuchulain ran toward him and put his two arms about him, and laid
him by the ford northward. And he began to keen and lament: "What are
joy and shouting to me now? It is to madness I am driven after the
thing I have done. O Ferdiad, there will never be born among the men of
Connaught who will do deeds equal to yours!
"O Ferdiad, you were betrayed to your death! You to die, I to be
living. Our parting for ever is a grief for ever! We gave our word
that to the end of time we would not go against each other.
"Dear to me was your beautiful ruddiness, dear to me your comely form,
dear to me your clear gray eye, dear your wisdom and your talk, and
dear to me our friendship!
"It was not right you to fall by my hand; it was not a friendly ending.
My grief! I loved the friend to whom I have given a drink of red blood.
O Ferdiad, this thing will hang over me for ever! Yesterday you were
strong as a mountain. And now there is nothing but a shadow!"
IV
CÆDMON THE COWHERD
A very great modern poet, Coleridge, who wrote "The Ancient Mariner,"
said that prose was words in their best order, but that _poetry was the
best words in their best order_. This is a simple and good definition
of poetry. Yet there is even more than best words in their best order
in the room beyond the door over which is written _Poetry_. Perhaps,
however, beautiful words in their best order would always teach us to
find what is beautiful and to love the good. I do not know. Do you?
Cædmon's poem, written about 670, marks the beginning of English
poetry in Great Britain, for "Beowulf" was first sung in another
land--the land of the conquerors of England--before it was brought
to British soil. The verses of Cædmon's poetry are as stormy as the
sea which beats at the bottom of the cliffs of Whitby, on which rose
the monastery of Streoneshalh. Cædmon was at first a servant in this
monastery, but when the power to sing came to him it lifted not only
Cædmon himself to something better than he had been; it has also lifted
men and women ever since to better ways of thinking and feeling and to
greater happiness than they would ever have had without English poetry.
Bede, who wrote about Cædmon, said, "He did not learn the art of poetry
from men, nor of men, but from God." Cædmon sang many songs, chiefly
songs about stories in the Bible. Our first poetry was religious. "Dark
and true and tender is the north," and true and tender is all great
English poetry since that most precious of all the golden doors was
thrown open in the Great Palace of English Literature.
Almost more interesting than the stories which Cædmon resung for the
world is the story of the way the gift of song came to Cædmon.
* * * * *
One day a little boy stood by a fishing-boat from which he had just
leaped. He dug his toe in the sand and looked up to the edge of the
rocky cliff above him.
"What dost see, lad?" said his uncle, who was tossing his catch of fish
to the sand; "creatures of the mist in the clouds yonder?"
"Nay, uncle," answered Finan, "there is no Grendel in the clouds.
Last night at the Hall a man sang to the harp that Grendel was a
moor-treader. Also he told of the deeds of the hero Beowulf, and he
said that Beowulf had killed Grendel."
Finan's eyes were on the distant moor, which was the color of flame in
the evening light. Already twinkling above were little stars bright as
the sheen of elves. There, he knew, for everybody said so, lived elf
and giant and monster. There in the moor pools lived the water-elves.
Across its flame of heather strode mighty march-gangers like Grendel,
and in the dark places of the mountains lived a dragon, crouched above
his pile of gold and treasure.
There stood the miraculous tree, of great size, on which were carved
the figures of beasts and birds and strange letters which told what
gods the heathen worshiped before the gentle religion of Christ was
brought to England. There lived the Wolf-Man, too, so friendless and
wild that he became the comrade of the wolves which howled in those
dark places. There lived a bear, old and terrible, and the wild boar
rooting up acorns with his huge curved tusks.
Nearer the village was the wolf's-head tree--more terrible tree than
any in the mysteries of forest and fen-land. This was the gallows on
which the village folk hung those who did evil. Finan could see the
tree where it stood alone in the sunset light. And he heard the rough
cawing of ravens as they settled down into its dark branches to roost.
"Caw, caw," croaked one raven, "ba-a-d man, ba-ad man."
"Caw, caw," sang another raven, "ba-ad."
Then they flapped their wings and settled to their sleep.
"Uncle," Finan said, "I will go up the cliffside."
The fisherman looked up. He heard the chanting from the church, and saw
an immense white cross upright on the cliff's edge. But he knew not of
what adventure little Finan was thinking.
"Aye," he said, "go. Perhaps you will see the blessed Hild."
So it came about that little Finan climbed the cliff on that evening
which was to prove a night wonderful in its miracle. There was born
that night that which, like the love of Christ, has made children's
lives better and happier.
Finan reached the top of the cliff by those steps which were cut into
it, and then took the main road, paved and straight, which led toward
the Great Hall. He went along slowly under the apple-trees. He saw a
black-haired Welsh woman draw water. Little children not so big as
Finan were sitting on the steps by their mothers, who were spinning
in their doorways. He passed a dog gnawing a bone flung to it for its
supper.
A cobbler, laying by his tools, looking up, saw Finan and greeted
him. A jeweler was fixing ornaments on a huge horn he had polished.
Carpenters were leaving a little cottage which they were building.
The road was full of men--swineherds and cowherds, plowboys and
wood-choppers from the forests beyond, gardeners and shepherds--all on
their way to the Great Hall. Some men there were in armor, too, their
long hair floating over their shoulders.
Inside the windows, which in those days contained no window-glass,
torches and firelight would soon begin to flame, and mead would be
passed. Already a loud horn was calling all who would to come.
Suddenly something sharp stabbed Finan, and he cried out.
A man, a woman, and a little child came rushing from one of the
household yards, flapping their garments and screaming: "The bees! The
bees!"
They had just found their precious hive empty. The bees had swarmed,
and unless they could find them there would be no more sweet-smelling
mead made from honey in that household that year.
Another bee stung Finan. And there they were clinging to a low apple
bough just above his head. They hung in a great cluster, like a bunch
of dark grapes.
"Dame," said a cowherd, who was in the road, to the people who were
crying out for their bees, "yonder lad knows where the bees are."
Finan rubbed his head and looked up at the angry, humming swarm.
"Aye," he said, and laughed.
"Throw gravel on the swarming bees," called the cowherd, Cædmon.
The man and woman and Finan took handfuls of gravel from the roadside
and flung them over the bees, and sang again and again, "Never to the
wood, fly ye wildly more!"
Then they laughed, and the bees swarmed.
"Now," said Cædmon, who was a wise cowherd, "hang veneria on the hive,
and if ye would have them safe lay on the hive a plant of madder. Then
can naught lure them away."
When they reached the Hall folk were already eating inside. Little
Finan saw Cædmon go in quietly, for Cædmon was attached to the Abbess
Hild's monastery and had a right to go in and eat. Inside they were
singing for the sake of mirth, and the torches and firelight were
flaming.
Through the open window--for windows were always open then, and the
word window meant literally "wind-eye"--Finan saw the harp being passed
from one to another.
They sang many songs as the harp passed from hand to hand, songs of war
and songs of home.
But when the harp was passed to Cædmon, who had charmed the bees, he
shook his head sorrowfully, saying that he could not sing, and got up
sad and ashamed and went out.
Little Finan wanted to shout through the window to him to sing about
the bees. He did not dare, for he was afraid of being discovered.
Instead he followed behind Cædmon. He wished to ask him why he could
not sing. This he did not dare to do, either, but he went on to the
fold where the cowherd had gone to care for the cattle. And there
on the edge of the fold the little boy, unseen by the cowherd, fell
asleep. Shortly afterward Cædmon, too, fell asleep.
It must have been near the middle of the night when the stars one and
all were shining and dancing with the sheen of millions and millions of
elves, and the sea down below the cliff was singing a mighty lullabye,
that little Finan started wide awake, hearing a voice speak.
"Cædmon," spoke a man who stood beside the sleeping cowherd, "sing me
something."
Cædmon drowsily answered: "I cannot sing anything. Therefore went I
away from the mirth and came here, for I know not how to sing."
Again the mysterious stranger spoke. "Yet you could sing."
And Finan heard the sleep-bound voice of Cædmon ask, "What shall I
sing?"
"Sing to me," said the stranger, "the beginning of all things."
And at once Cædmon began to sing in a strong voice, and very
beautifully, the praise of God who made this world. And his song had
all the beat of sea waves in it--sometimes little waves that lapped
gently on the shore and bore in beautiful shells and jeweled seaweed.
But more often its rhythm was as mighty as ocean waves that tossed big
ships.