Cædmon awoke from his sleep, and he remembered all that he had sung and
the vision that had come to him. And he was glad. He arose and went to
the Abbess Hild to tell her what had happened to him, the least of her
servants.
In the presence of many wise men did Hild bid Cædmon tell his dream and
sing his verses. And he did as he was told, and it was plain to all
that an angel had visited Cædmon. The Abbess Hild took him into the
monastery, and she ordered that everything be done for him. And Cædmon
became the first and one of the greatest of English poets. And even as
Christ was born in a manger in Bethlehem, English poetry was born in a
cattle-fold in a town which was called Streoneshalh, which means "Bay
of the Beacon." And to mankind since Cædmon, the first English poet,
English song has been a beacon to all the world.
* * * * *
If you open a book written in the English of to-day, it is easy to read
it--just as easy as to understand the speech we use among one another.
But the English of fifteen or sixteen hundred years ago would be
difficult to read. There is an illustration of this English in a line
from "Deor's Lament":
Thas ofer eode, thisses swa maeg.
It is easy to pick this out word for word, and see that it means, "That
was overcome (or overpassed), so may this be." The English in that
Great Palace, some of whose doors are more than twelve hundred years
old, is the same English, just as the oak-tree two hundred years old is
the same oak-tree, though different, that it was when planted. But you
would find it difficult to read the English in which Cædmon wrote his
great poems.
Old English poetry, too, seems as different from the poetry of to-day
as the language we speak seems different from the language they used to
speak. For one thing, old English poetry did not have rhymes.
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life and bade thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
This poem was written somewhat over a hundred years ago by William
Blake, but it is modern and part of that brightest and most beautiful
room of all English poetry--Nineteenth Century Poetry. What is a rhyme?
You can tell if you will study this stanza from "The Lamb." You will
see that "thee" of the first line rhymes with "thee" of the second,
that "feed" and "mead" rhyme, and that "delight" and "bright" rhyme
just as "voice" and "rejoice." Old English poetry was different, too,
in that it did not count the syllables in a line of poetry. If you drum
on the table and count the syllables of the first and second lines,
you will see that each has six, and the following six lines have seven
syllables each, and the last two six each. Then if you drum a little
more you will see that each of the first two lines has three accents or
stresses, and the following six four accents or stresses each.
Then, you ask, what was this old English poetry like? Even if the
syllables were not counted and there was no rhyme, it had accents just
as our modern poetry has. Every line was divided into half verses by a
pause, as, for example:
Warriors of winters young with words spake.
There are two accented syllables in the first half of this line, and
one in the second. And now, instead of rhyme, what do you think the old
English poetry had? Alliteration. That is a big word, but it is not
nearly so difficult as it seems, for it means simply the repetition of
the same letter at the beginning of two or more words. Here it is, the
letter "w" that is repeated. It was poetry with alliteration and stress
which little Finan heard on that night so long ago when the angel came
to Cædmon and commanded him to sing.
V
THE SHEPHERD OF LAUDERDALE
After Cædmon's day there were more and more religious poets. Very often
the men who wrote the poetry and prose during the time of Cædmon and
of Cuthbert lived in monasteries, where the life was a religious life.
In the Great Palace of English Literature there is a pretty story told
about Ealdhelm, who was a young man when Cædmon died. This young man
later became the Abbot of Malmesbury. He was not only a religious poet,
but he also made songs and could sing them to music. He traveled from
town to town, and, finding that the men at the fairs did not come to
church as they should, he would stand on the bridge and sing songs to
them in the English tongue, persuading them thus to come to hear the
word of God. Living at this same time--that is, during the latter half
of the seventh century--was St. Cuthbert, not so great a scholar as
Ealdhelm, but as great a wanderer.
* * * * *
There is a little valley between England and Scotland called
Lauderdale--a little valley watered by a river which flows into the
Tweed. There Cuthbert did not keep the flocks of his father as did
David, yet, like David, he was a warrior lad. Day and night Cuthbert
lived in the open, shepherding the sheep of many masters.
There was not among the lads of that time a boy more active, more
daring than Cuthbert. He could walk on his hands, turn somersaults,
fight boldly, and become a victor in almost every race. There was no
other boy so active but that Cuthbert was better at games and sports.
And when all the others were tired he would ask whether there was not
some one who could go on playing. Then suddenly a swelling came on
his knee and the poor little boy could play no longer, and had to be
carried in and out, up and down, by attendants. This continued until
one day a horseman, clothed in white garments and riding a horse of
incomparable beauty, appeared before the sick boy and cured his knee.
Little Cuthbert was now able to walk about once more, but never again
did he play the games he used to play.
Not far from where Cuthbert lived was the monastery of Tiningham, by
the mouth of the river Tyne. Some of the monks were bringing down on
rafts wood which they had spent a long time felling and sawing up. They
were almost opposite the monastery and were just about to draw the wood
to the shore, when a great wind came up from the west and drove the
rafts out toward the sea. There were five of them, and so quickly did
they drift away that it was not more than a few minutes before they
began to look in the distance as small as five little birds. Those
upon the rafts were in much danger of losing their lives. Those in the
monastery came out and prayed upon the shore for them. But the five
rafts that now looked like the tiniest of birds went on drifting out to
sea. And the populace, which had been heathens very lately, began to
jest at the monks because their prayers were in vain.
Then said Cuthbert: "Friends, you do wrong to speak evil of those you
see hurried away to death. Would it not be better to pray for their
safety?"
"No!" shouted the people, angrily. "They took away our old worship, and
you can see that nothing comes of the new."
At this the young Cuthbert began to pray, bowing his head to the
ground. And the winds were turned around and brought the rafts in
safety to the shore of the monastery.
Like David, this boy Cuthbert was very near to God, and one night,
while keeping the sheep of his masters, he saw angels descending from
heaven. Cuthbert was on a remote mountain with other shepherds, and
keeping not only his sheep, but also the vigil of prayer, when a light
streamed down from heaven and broke the thick darkness. Then Cuthbert
made up his mind to serve God by entering a monastery.
One day he was on a journey on horseback when he was not quite fifteen
years old. He turned aside to the farmstead which he saw at some
distance, and entered the house of a very good woman. He wanted to rest
himself. But even more he wanted to get food for his horse. The woman
urged him to let her prepare dinner for him. But Cuthbert would not
eat, for it was a fast-day.
"Consider," said the woman, "that on your journey you will find no
village nor habitation of man; for indeed a long journey is before you,
nor can you possibly accomplish it before sunset. Wherefore, I beg of
you to take some food before setting out, lest you be obliged to fast
all day, or perhaps even until to-morrow."
But Cuthbert would not break his fast. Night came on and he saw that he
could not finish his journey, and there was no house anywhere in which
to take shelter. As he went on, however, he noticed some shepherds'
huts which had been roughly thrown together in the summer. He entered
one of these to pass the night there, tied his horse to the wall, and
set before the horse a bundle of hay to eat. Suddenly Cuthbert noticed
that his horse was raising his head and pulling at the thatching of
the hut. And as the horse drew the thatch down there fell out also a
folded napkin. In the napkin was wrapped the half of a loaf of bread,
yet warm, and a piece of meat--enough for Cuthbert's supper.
At last, followed by his squire, and with his lance in hand, the
youthful shepherd-warrior, then but fifteen years old, appeared before
the gates of the monastery of Melrose. For Cuthbert had decided to
serve God in a religious life rather than upon the battle-field.
There was not a village so far away, or a mountain so steep, or a
cottage so poverty-stricken, but that the boy Cuthbert, strong and
energetic, visited it. Most often he traveled on horseback; but there
were places so rough and wild they were not to be reached on horseback.
These places along the coast he visited in a boat. Cuthbert thought
nothing of hunger and thirst and cold. From the Solway to the Forth
he covered Scotland with his pilgrimages. This, of course, was in the
seventh century--a long time ago--yet stories are still told there of
the wonderful work of Cuthbert.
While he was young in the life of the monastery it was Cuthbert's
good fortune to entertain an angel unawares, as, perhaps, we all do
sometimes. At the monastery Cuthbert, so pleasant and winning were
his manners, was appointed guest-master. Going out one morning from
the inner buildings of the monastery to the guest-chamber, he found
a young man seated there. He welcomed him with the usual forms of
kindness, gave him water to wash his hands, himself bathed his feet and
wiped them with a towel and warmed them. He begged the young man not
to go forward on his journey until the third hour, when he might have
breakfast. He thought the stranger must have been wearied by the night
journey and the snow. But the stranger was very unwilling to stay until
Cuthbert urged him in the Divine Name. Immediately after the prayers
of tierce--or the third hour--were said, Cuthbert laid the table and
offered the stranger food.
"Refresh thyself, master, until I return with some new bread, for I
expect it is ready baked by this time."
But when he returned the guest whom he had left at the table had gone.
Although a recent snowfall had covered the ground, and Cuthbert looked
for his footprints, none were to be found. On entering the room again,
there came to him a very sweet odor, and he saw lying beside him three
loaves of bread, warm and of unwonted whiteness and beauty.
"Lo," said Cuthbert, "this was an angel of God who came to feed and not
to be fed. These are such loaves as the earth cannot produce, for they
surpass lilies in whiteness, roses in smell, and honey in flavor."
By all human beings and creatures was Cuthbert beloved. He usually
spent the greater part of the night in prayer. One night one of the
brothers of the monastery followed him to find out where he went when
he left the monastery. St. Cuthbert went out to the shore and entered
the cold water of the sea till it was up to his arms and neck. And
there in praises, with the sound of the waves in his ears, he spent the
night. When dawn was drawing near he came out of the water and finished
his prayer upon the shore. While he was doing this two seals came from
out of the depths of the sea, warmed his feet with their breath and
dried them with their hair. And when Cuthbert's feet were warm and dry
he stood up and blessed the seals and sent them back into the sea,
wherein these humble creatures swam about praising God.
VI
THE BOY WHO WON A PRIZE
You know what sort of stories Bede was fond of telling--of course in
Latin. If you should be asked with whom English prose began, I think it
would be safe to say, "With Bede, who wrote the life of St. Cuthbert
and the Ecclesiastical History." But that is not why you should say
that Bede began English prose, but because at his death he was busy
finishing a book written in English and called _Translation of the
Gospel of St. John_.
When his last day came the good old man called all his scholars about
him.
"There is still a chapter wanting," said the youth who always took down
all of Bede's dictation, "and it is hard for thee to question thyself
longer."
"It is easily done," answered Bede; "take thy pen and write quickly."
And all day long they wrote.
When twilight came the boy cried out, "There is still one sentence
unwritten, dear master."
"Write it quickly," answered the master.
"It is finished now," said the boy.
"Thou sayest truth," came the answer, "all is finished now."
Singing the praise of God, his scholars and the boy scribe about him,
he died. Alas that this English book that he bravely finished has been
lost!
Bede was born about 673 and lived most of his life in the monastery
at Jarrow in Northumbria in the north of England. With Bede's death
the home of English prose literature was changed from the north to the
south, from Northumbria to Wessex, where there lived a noble boy called
Alfred. Asser, the man who was his secretary after the boy grew up, has
written a life of Alfred.
* * * * *
From the very first this little boy was full of promise and very
attractive. This fact is rather hard on some of us, is it not, who find
it difficult to be good and to win the confidence of grown-up people.
But the confidence of others is precisely what the boy Alfred did win,
and it was not because he was a molly-coddle, for no young prince ever
swung a battle-ax more lustily than did Alfred.
When he was a little bit of a chap only five years old, he was taken to
Rome to see the Pope. Alfred was born in 849 at the town of Wantage, so
you know what year it was when he went to Rome. The Pope took a great
fancy to him and hallowed him as his "bishop's son." Just how old this
charming boy was when he began to read we do not know. At that time,
of course, all boys read Latin, for there were no English books to
read. But there is an old English couplet--a couplet is two lines of
verse with a rhyme at the end of each line--which may tell the story of
Alfred's reading:
At writing he was good enough, and yet as he telleth me,
He was more than ten years old ere he knew his A B C.
Alfred may have been younger or older than this. We don't know, and the
probability is that we never shall know. This little boy was much loved
by his father, King Ethelwulf, and his mother, Queen Osburh. He had
many brothers and sisters, and was himself the fifth child. But he was
a finer-looking boy than the others, and more graceful in his way of
speaking and in his manners.
From the time that he was a tiny child he loved to know things. And yet
his parents and nurses allowed him to remain untaught in reading and
writing until he was quite a big boy. But at night, when the gleemen
sang songs to the harp in the royal villa, Alfred listened attentively.
He had memorized very early some splendid old English songs, such as
"Beowulf." He knew all about Grendel, and all about the death of the
warrior Beowulf after his battle with the dragon. And he had listened
to gentler songs, like the one of the cowherd, Cædmon. He listened
to the singing of poems which were full of the sea and full of war.
Saints, warriors, and pirates were the chief heroes. A Roman poet,
thinking of the warriors and pirates, called the English people "sea
wolves." All their poetry was full of the sea, and it is still true
that the English love the sea.
* * * * *
But you must not think of these people, in the midst of whom Alfred
was born, as just warriors. They loved their homes, and their poetry
is full of love for their families and for the dear old home-place,
wherever it happened to be. Besides home-loving poetry, the gleemen
sang many religious poems to which the little Alfred listened. Among
them was the story of Cædmon, as I have said. We hear, too, of warrior
saints, good men who did not go out to slay a fire-spewing dragon lying
on a heap of gold, as did Beowulf, but who taught them how to fight the
dragon of evil which lurks somewhere near or within us all the time.
It is this sort of golden and every-day victory that not only Cædmon,
the cowherd, sings, but also Cynewulf, who lived during the last half
of the eighth century. Cynewulf was a minstrel at the court of one
of the Northumbrian kings--just such a minstrel or gleeman as Alfred
sometimes listened to on many a night when he was committing to memory
some stirring or beautiful Anglo-Saxon poem. This poet-singer loved
the sea with all his heart, and his poetry is full of this love. And
in our own day, eleven centuries later, Tennyson wrote poems in their
spirit not unlike Old English poems. There is one called "The Sailor
Boy" which resembles an Anglo-Saxon poem called "The Seafarer." It is a
spirited little poem and begins:
He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Shot o'er the sultry harbour-bar,
And reached the ship and caught the rope,
And whistled to the morning star.
God help me! save I take my part
Of danger on the roaring sea,
A devil rises in my heart,
Far worse than any death to me.
That devil is, of course, the devil of idleness, of uselessness.
These stanzas are worth memorizing. You can see the spirit of a poet
sometimes has a very long life. Here is one of the Old English riddles:
On the sand I stayed, by the sea-wall near,
All beside the surge-inflowing! Firm I sojourned there,
Where I first was fastened. Only few of men
Watched among the waste where I wonned on the earth.
But the brown-backed billow, at each break of day,
With its water-arms enwrapt me! Little weened I then,
That I e'er should speak, in the after-days,
Mouthless o'er the mead-bench....
What do you think that meant? A reed flute--a little flute on which one
played a song.
When Christianity came to England, as it did in 597 with St. Augustine,
almost three hundred years before little Alfred was born, it made men
care less for warfare and more for Christ. It is difficult to do what
Christ told us to do--love one another, and at the same time fight one
another. And that we should love one another was the great new message
of Christianity. Christ was in men's minds, however, in those olden
days, not only our gentle Saviour, but also a hero who went forth to
war.
* * * * *
Alfred knew all about warfare, but it was not for warfare that this
gentle boy and brave man cared most. One day his noble mother, Osburh,
showed him and his brothers a book of poetry written in English.
"Whichever of you," she said, "shall the soonest learn this volume
shall have it for his own."
This book was a very beautiful book with an illuminated letter at the
beginning of the volume. An illuminated letter is usually bright with
gold as well as with other colors. Of course the boy Alfred wanted this
wonderful book.
He said before all his brothers, who were older than he, "Will you
really give that book to one of us, that is to say to him who can first
understand and repeat it to you?"
"Yes," answered his mother, smiling, and assuring him that it was so.
Alfred thereupon took the book from her hand and went to his master to
read it. And it was not so very long before he had it all by heart.
Then one day he brought the book to his mother and recited it. And so
well did he do that he received the gift as his mother had promised him
he should.
We have taken a look through the golden door over which is written _Old
English Poetry_. We know something of what the boy Alfred learned from
the book his mother gave him.
By that time he had grown to be a large boy. When he was still a little
boy he had been taken from his nurses and taught the use of arms and
how to ride. All his training was teaching him how to be a soldier. Yet
there was something for which Alfred cared even more. All about them in
those days were the Danes, the fiercest of fighting-men. Government,
the gentle religion of Christ, peace, had been almost dislodged by
these fierce, heathen Danes. Yet in the midst of the war-filled years
of his boyhood and young manhood Alfred was dreaming of what English
books, of what education in their own tongue, might do for his people.
And even in war times they were very busy just getting things together
in order to live. They had to have food, they had to be warm, they had
to have houses and clothes. In the woods they had pigs--wild-looking
swine with tusks. In the fields they had cattle and sheep and chickens.
From the sea they took fish. They made butter and cheese, ale and mead,
candles, leather from skins, and they wove cloth and silk. They kept
bees, too, as you know from what happened to little Finan in the story
of Cædmon. Besides all these things they had their carpenter's work,
their blacksmith's, their baker's, hunting, woodcutting, the making of
weapons, and a hundred and one other employments.
Still, despite all the warfare and the work, Alfred, when he became
king in 871, had time to do a great deal for the education of the boys
and girls of those stirring days. The young king wrote in English and
translated from Latin into English so that the people might have books
in their own tongue. And since Bede's translation of the Gospel of
St. John was lost, Alfred must be called the true "father of English
prose." Just as Whitby and the stall in which Cædmon saw the vision and
learned how to sing was the cradle of English poetry, so was Winchester
the cradle of English prose. To accomplish this work the good king
brought scholars from all over the world. Asser, his secretary and
biographer, has compared Alfred to a most productive bee which flew
here and there asking questions as he went. He made it possible for
every free-born youth to learn to read and write English perfectly.
Indeed, this wonderful king made himself into a schoolmaster and took
on the direction of a school in his own court. He translated from
well-known books into English, among others Bede's _History_ and Pope
Gregory's _Pastoral Care_. Although he freed his people from the fierce
Danes, through his love for a book he did more for his own times and
for all times--more, almost, than any other English boy has ever grown
up to do.
VII
A FISHERMAN'S BOY
When we say that we are English-speaking, it seems as if it were not
necessary to say more than that. But the more we wander about in the
Great Palace of English Literature opening golden doors, the more do we
realize that we cannot say that this palace was built by English hands
alone. No, the men who built it were not only English, they were, as
you know already, Welsh, Irish, Scotch. Indeed, the very word "English"
was brought to England by an invader, just as the word "America" was
brought to the North American continent by a discoverer. Not only was
this Palace of English Literature built by those who were Welsh, Irish,
and Scotch, as well as English, but also by Danes and Normans.
The English came to Britain in 449. About three hundred and fifty years
later (790) the Danes began to ravage Northumbria, which you have come
to know through the story of Cædmon the cowherd. But the Danes were of
English stock, so to speak, and they neither changed the language nor
altered things in the life of boys and girls and men and women. After
all it was much the same life after they came as it was before. They
brought with them some stories--just as the English "Beowulf." Among
the Danish-English stories were "Havelok the Dane" and "King Horn,"
both written down about 1280, but told and sung much before that time.