Part 1

Chapter 14,041 wordsPublic domain

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

EARLY ENGLISH HERO TALES

TOLD BY JEANNETTE MARKS WELLESLEY M.A. LECTURER AT MT. HOLYOKE COLLEGE

ILLUSTRATED

HARPER & BROTHERS NEW YORK & LONDON

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

THE FIRST ENGLISH HERO

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.

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.