Part 2

"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.

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.