On one of the dark, rugged cliffs that jut out into the sea from the
eastern part of England, stood, many centuries ago, the monastery of
Whitby. At this time the people of England were still very ignorant.
Only the monks and nuns knew how to read or write. The rest of the
people were either warriors, or else simple-minded shepherds and
farmers.
In this monastery lived a servant whose duty it was to attend to the
sheep and cattle. In the evenings, very often, his companions were in
the habit of gathering together in the common hall or banquet room.
There it was the custom, while the feast was going on, for each one
in turn to take the harp as it was passed around the table, and make
up some simple song to entertain his friends. Although these people
knew nothing about reading or writing, they were wonderfully clever at
singing songs and accompanying themselves on the harp.
Only the herdsman who attended to the sheep and cattle, and whose name
was Cædmon, could never sing. So whenever the feasting time came, and
his comrades began to pass the harp from one to another, he, being
ashamed of his lack of skill, would leave the banquet hall to go alone
to the little house where he slept.
One night, after he had left his comrades, and had attended to all
the wants of the cattle under his care, he, as usual, went to sleep,
and in his sleep he had a wonderful dream. He dreamed that to his door
came a beautiful youth, with a light shining about his head, who said
to him, “Cædmon, sing for me.” Cædmon answered: “But thou knowest I
cannot sing. That is why I left my companions in the banquet hall, and
came here to my lonely hut.” “Try,” said the beautiful youth, “and thou
shalt find that thou canst sing.” Then Cædmon in wonder asked, “What
shall I sing about?”--”Sing of the beauty of the world, and the glory
of the stars and the skies, and of all that is on the earth,” was the
answer.
Then in his sleep Cædmon sang a beautiful song, just as the youth
had commanded him. But the strangest thing was that when he awoke he
remembered every word of the song, and not only that, but he found he
could sing a song about any thought that came into his mind; whereas,
formerly, he had never been able to sing at all.
Wonderful, indeed, all this seemed to the humble shepherd. He told his
companions about his dream, and they led him to the abbess, who was
chief in the monastery, and bade him sing his songs for her.
So he sang. All the wise monks came to hear him, and tears came into
their eyes at the beauty of his song; for when he sang, the sky and the
earth and the sea these men had known all their lives seemed suddenly
to be filled with a new glory. They all said that Cædmon had received
a wonderful gift from God, and that he must use it in a holy way.
From that day on some one else guarded the sheep and the cattle in
the monastery of Whitby; and the former shepherd learned to read and
write, and became one of the monks of the abbey. Many and beautiful
and holy were the songs he wrote. They were written in Anglo-Saxon,
the language spoken by the ancestors of the English people, and this
simple shepherd, Cædmon, who was the first of the Anglo-Saxon poets,
was therefore really the father of all English poetry.
--GRACE H. KUPFER.