Part 4

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.

In her early days before she became a great world power, England had many conquerors. Not only the English and the Danes, but also the Normans were her conquerors in 1066 under William the Conqueror. English story-telling, as, for example, Malory's "Morte d'Arthur," could never have been the same without the Norman or French influence. If we pick up a handful of so-called English words, we shall see that some of these words are English, others are French, and still others Latin in their origin. But the Norman spoke French only for a while in England. He soon left the speaking and writing of French for that of English. However, there are many beautiful words, many strong words, many words of customs and manners which we should not find in the Great Palace of English Literature but for the conquerors who came to England.

There are several manuscripts in which the story of Havelok is found. But the one which is written in an English dialect shows best how old the story is.

* * * * *

There was a King whose name was Aethelwold, whose only heir was a tiny little girl. And the little girl's name was Goldborough. Alas, the King found he must die and leave his little girl fatherless! So he called to him the wisest and mightiest of his earls. The name of this Earl was Godrich. And the King made the Earl promise that he would guard his little girl until she was twenty years old, and that then he would give her in marriage to the fairest and strongest man alive.

But when the Earl Godrich saw how lovely little Goldborough was going to be, and knew that he would have to give up the kingdom to her before long, he was angry, and took her from Winchester to Dover on the English seacoast and shut little Goldborough up in a castle so that she could not get out.

In Denmark, just about this time, there lived a King whose name was Birkabeyn who had one boy and two sweet little girls. He, too, realized that he had to die. So he called to him his wisest Earl, a man by the name of Godard, and charged him to care for his children until Havelok, the boy, was old enough to rule the land. But this wicked Earl shut little Swanborow and Helfled up in a castle and had them killed.

And Godard was just about to kill Havelok, too, when he bethought him he would have somebody else do this terrible deed. The wicked Earl sent for a fisherman who would, he knew, do his will.

"Grim," said the wicked Earl, "to-morrow I will make thee rich if thou wilt take this child and throw him into the sea to-night."

Grim took the boy Havelok and bound him and gagged him and took him home in a black bag. When Grim carried the sack into his cottage, Dame Leve, his wife, was so frightened that she dropped the sack her husband had handed to her, and cracked poor little Havelok's head against a stone.

They let the boy lie this way until midnight, when it would be dark enough for Grim to drown Havelok in the sea. Leve was just bringing Grim some clothes that he might put on to go out and drown the King's son, when they saw a light shining about the child.

"What is this light?" cried Dame Leve. "Rise up, Grim."

In haste the fisherman rose and they went over to the child, about whose head shone a clear light, from whose mouth came rays of light like sunbeams. It was as if many candles were burning in that tiny fisherman's hut. They unbound the boy and they found on his right shoulder a king's mark, bright and fair like the lights.

They were overcome by what Godard had done and had almost led them to do. They fell upon their knees before the little boy and promised to feed and clothe him. And so they did, and they were very good to him and kept him from all harm. But Grim and his wife became frightened, for fear that Godard would discover that they had not drowned the child and would hang them. Thereupon Grim sold all that he had, sheep, cow, horse, pigs, goat, geese, hens--everything, in short, that was his. Taking his money, he put his wife, his three little sons, and two pretty little girls and Havelok into his fishing-boat and they set sail for England.

The north wind blew and drove them down upon the coast of England near the river Humber, and there Grim landed, and the place is called Grimsby to this day. Then Grim set himself to his old occupation of fishing, and he caught sturgeon, whale, turbot, salmon, seal, porpoise, mackerel, flounder, plaice, and thornback. And he and his sons carried the fish about in baskets and sold them.

Yet while Grim fed his family well, Havelok lay at home and did naught. And when Havelok stopped to think about that, he was ashamed, for he was a fine, strong boy.

"Work is no shame," said the King's son to himself.

And the next day he carried to market as much fish as four men could. And every bit of fish did he sell and brought back the money, keeping not a farthing for himself. Alas! there came a famine about this time, and Grim had great fear on Havelok's account lest the boy starve.

"Havelok," said Grim, "our meat is long since gone. For myself it does not matter, but I fear for thee. Thou knowest how to get to Lincoln, and there they will give thee a chance to earn thy food. Since thou art naked, I will make thee a coat from my sail."

This he did, and with the coat on and barefoot the King's son found his way to Lincoln. For two days the lad had no food. On the third day he heard some one crying, "Bearing-men, bearing-men, come here!" Havelok leaped forward to the Earl's cook and bore the food to the castle. Another time he lifted a whole cart-load of fish and bore it to the castle.

The cook looked him over and said: "Wilt thou work for me? I will feed thee gladly."

"Feed me," answered Havelok, "and I will make thy fire burn and wash thy dishes."

And because Havelok was a strong lad and a good boy, as all kings' sons are not, he worked hard from that day forth. He bore all the food in and carried all the wood and the water, and worked as hard as if he were a beast. And he was a merry lad, too, for he knew how to hide his griefs. And the old story says that all who saw him loved him, for he was meek and strong and fair. But still he had nothing but the wretched coat to wear. So the cook took pity on him and bought him span-new clothes and gave him stockings and shoes. And when he had put them on he looked the King's son he was. At the Lincoln games he was "like a mast," taller and straighter than any youth there. In wrestling he overcame every one. Yet he was known for his gentleness. Never before had Havelok seen stone-putting, but when his master told him to try, Havelok threw the stone twelve feet beyond what any one else could do.

The story of the stone-putting was being told in castle and hall when Earl Godrich heard it, and said to himself that here was the tallest, strongest, and fairest man alive, and he would fulfil his promise and get rid of Goldborough, the King's daughter, by giving her to Havelok, whom he thought to be just a cook's boy. Now Havelok did not wish to marry any more than did Goldborough, but they were forced to. And when they were married Havelok knew not whither they could go, for he saw that Godrich hated them and that their lives were not safe.

Therefore they went on foot to Grimsby, and royal was their welcome. Grim, the fisherman, had died.

But his five children fell on their knees and said: "Welcome, dear lord. Stay here and all is thine."

And that night as they lay on their bed in the fisherman's hut, Goldborough discovered, because of the bright light which came from the mouth of Havelok, that he was a King's son. And it was not long after this they all set sail for Denmark, so that Havelok, with the help of Grim's sons and many others, might win back the kingdom of Denmark.

It was in the house of Bernard Brown, the magistrate of the Danish town, that sixty strong thieves, clad in wide sleeves and closed capes, attacked him. Bernard Brown seized an ax and leaped to the door to defend his home.

One of the thieves shouted at him, "We will go in at this door despite thee."

And he broke the door asunder with a boulder. Whereupon Havelok took the great bar from across the door. And with the bar he slew several, yet the thieves had wounded him in many places, when Grim's sons came upon the scene to defend their lord and saw the thieves treating Havelok as a smith does his anvil. Like madmen the three sons of Grim leaped into the fight, and they fought until not one of the thieves was left alive.

When Earl Ubbe heard of this he rode down to Bernard Brown's. Then he heard the story of Havelok's bravery and of the terrible wounds he had received, so that Bernard Brown feared he might die because of them.

"Fetch Havelok quickly," commanded Ubbe. "If he can be healed, I myself will dub him knight."

When a leech saw the wounds of Havelok he told Ubbe that they could be cured.

"Come forth now," said Ubbe to Havelok, "thou and Goldborough and thy three servants."

And with rejoicing did Ubbe bring them to his city. And about the middle of the night Ubbe saw a great light in the tower where Havelok was sleeping. He peered through a crack and he saw that the "sunny gleam" came from Havelok's mouth. It was as if a hundred and seven candles were burning, and on Havelok's shoulder was a clear, shining cross.

"He is Birkabeyn's heir," said Ubbe, "for never in Denmark was brother so like to brother as this fair man is like the dead King."

And Earl Ubbe and his men fell at Havelok's feet and awoke him. And very happy was Havelok, and thankful to God. And then came barons and warriors and thanes and knights and common men, and all swore fealty to Havelok. With a bright sword Ubbe dubbed Havelok knight and made him King. And the three sons of Grim were also made knights. Thereat were all men happy, and they wrestled and played, played the harp and the pipe, read romances from a book, and sang old tales. There was every sort of sport and plenty of food.

Finally they all, a thousand knights and five thousand men, set forth that Havelok might take vengeance on the wicked Earl Godard. There was a hard fight, but at last they caught and bound Earl Godard. And he was hung on the gallows and died there. Such was the end of one who betrayed his trust.

The wicked Earl Godrich in England, who had robbed Goldborough of her kingdom, heard that Havelok was become King of Denmark and also that he was come to Grimsby. So he gathered all his army together and there was a great battle. And the battle was going against Havelok, when the wicked hand of Godrich was struck off. After that Havelok and his men were victorious. Then did they condemn the Earl Godrich to death. And he was bound to an ass and led through London and burned at the stake. Such was the end of one who betrayed his trust.

And after that Havelok and Goldborough reigned in England for sixty years. So great was the love of the King and Queen for each other that all marveled at it. Neither was happy away from the other. And never were they angry, for their love for each other was always new.

VIII

THE WEREWOLF

In the Great Palace of English Literature over one of the golden doors hangs a horn of ivory, and a sword of which the name is Durendal. Above that door is written _Chanson de Roland_, which means the Song of Roland. Often in the stillness of the early morning or at dusk the Great Palace rings faintly with the music from that ivory horn which belonged to Roland, and which he sounded for the last time in the Pass of Roncevaux. Or there is heard the clinking of Durendal against the stone of the palace walls--no doubt the wind stirring it where it hangs beside the door it guards.

"Chanson de Roland!" You see the story is French. The Normans brought it with them when they came to conquer Britain in 1066 under William of Normandy. Before the soldiers of William, the minstrel, Taillefer, rode singing of "Charlemagne, and of Roland, and of Oliver, and the vassals who fell at Roncevaux."

"Roland, comrade," said Oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, and Charles shall hear it and bring hither again his army, and ... succor us."

"Nay, first will I lay on with Durendal, the good sword girded at my side."

"Roland, comrade," urged Oliver, "blow thy horn of ivory, that Charles may hear it."

"God forbid that they should say I sounded my horn for dread of the heathen."

"Prithee look!" begged Oliver. "They are close upon us. Thou wouldst not deign to sound thy horn of ivory. Were the King here we should suffer no hurt."

Oliver was wise and Roland was brave, and the song that the minstrel Taillefer chanted before the conquering hosts of William of Normandy was a wonderful, stirring song. No doubt there flows in English veins to-day much of the courage of Roland and the wisdom of Oliver. Although the English continued English, yet for a long time following the conquest of England by the Normans songs were sung in French rather than in English. And ready and witty was all that was written down in French, for the literature of the Normans was as brightly colored as a jewel and not grand and melancholy as was that of the Anglo-Saxons. "Beowulf" was the battle song of the Anglo-Saxons, the "Song of Roland" that of the Normans. Melancholy was the poem of "Beowulf." White and clear, stirring and flashing in the sunshine was the "Chanson de Roland," even as Roland's beloved sword Durendal, which is heard clinking against the stone of the Great Palace of English Literature.

But "Roland" represented only a fraction of the story-telling in the French poetry of that time. The most exquisite and delightful story-teller of that twelfth century collected and wrote here charming stories on English soil and dedicated them to Henry II., who died in 1189. Her name was Marie de France, and of her lays a rival poet wrote:

All love them much and hold them dear, Baron, count and chevalier, Applaud their form and take delight To hear them told by day and night. In chief, these tales the ladies please; They listen glad their hearts to ease.

Marie de France's lays are based on British tradition. There are many of these delightful stories. Among the most interesting of them is "The Werewolf."

* * * * *

Once upon a time in the days of King Arthur--for later there are some lines in Malory's "Morte d'Arthur" which tells us that this story must have been true--there lived a man who for part of the week was a wolf--that is, he had the form and the appetite of a wolf, and was called a werewolf. But nobody knew that he was a werewolf for three days in the week. Not even his wife, whom he loved well and devotedly, knew what happened to her husband while he was away from her these three days every week.

It vexed the wife very much that she did not know, but she was afraid to question her husband, lest he be angry. At last one day she did question him.

"Ask me no more," replied the husband, "for if I answered you you would cease to love me."

Nevertheless she gave him no peace until he had told her that three days in the week, because of a spell which was over him, he was forced to be a werewolf, and that when he felt the change coming over him he hid himself in the very thickest part of the forest.

Then the wife demanded to know what became of his clothes, and he answered that he laid them aside. The wife asked where he put them. He begged her not to ask him, for only the garments made it possible for him to return to human shape again. But the wife cried and begged until the knight, her husband, had told her all.

"Wife," he said, "inside the forest on a crossroad is a chapel. Near the chapel under a shrub is a stone. Beneath the stone is a hole, and in that hole do I hide my clothes until the enchantment makes it possible for me to take my human shape again."

Now the wife was not a good wife. Instead of trying to help her husband to get free from the wolf shape he had to assume three days in every week, thereafter she loathed him and was afraid of him. And what is worse still, she betrayed him to another knight. She took this other knight into her confidence and told him where her husband hid his clothes when the spell came upon him and he took the form of a wolf. Thereupon the knight to whom she had told this dreadful secret stole the clothes, and they hid them where the poor wolf could never find them again. After that these two wicked people were married, while the poor wolf wandered about in the forest, grieving, for he had loved his wife well and truly.

Some time after this the King was hunting one day in the forest, and his hounds gave chase to a wolf. At last, when the wretched beast was in danger of being overtaken by the hounds and torn into a thousand pieces, he fled to the King, seized him by the stirrup, and licked his foot submissively.

The King was astonished. He called his companions, and they drove off the dogs, for the King would not have the wolf harmed. But when they started to leave the forest the wolf followed the King and would not be driven away. The King was much pleased, for he had taken a great liking to the wolf. He therefore made a pet of the lonely beast, and at night he slept in the King's own chamber. All the courtiers came to love the wolf, too, for he was a gentle wolf and did no one any harm.

A long time had passed when one day the King had occasion to hold a court. His barons came from far and near, and among them the knight who had betrayed the werewolf. No sooner did the wolf see him than he sprang at him to kill him. And had the King not called the wolf off he would have torn the false knight to pieces. Every one was astonished that this gentle beast should show such rage. But after the court was over and as time went on they forgot the beast's savage act.

At length the King decided to make a tour throughout his kingdom. And he took the wolf with him, for that was his custom. Now the werewolf's false wife heard that the King was to spend some time in the part of the country where she lived. So she begged for an audience. But no sooner did she enter the presence-chamber than the wolf sprang at her and bit off her nose.

The courtiers were going to slay the beast, but a wise man stayed their weapons.

"Sire," said the councilor, "we have all caressed this wolf and he has never done us any harm. This lady was the wife of a man you held dear, but of whose fate we none of us know anything. Take my counsel and make this lady answer your questions, so shall we come to know why the wolf sprang at her."

This was done. The false knight who had married her was brought also, and they told all the wickedness they had done to the poor wolf. Then the King caused the wolf's stolen clothes to be fetched. But the wolf acted as if he did not see the clothes.

"Sire," said the councilor, "if this beast is a werewolf he will not change back into his human shape until he is alone."

They left him alone in the King's chamber, and put the clothes beside him. Then they waited for a long time. Lo, when they entered the chamber again, there lay the long-lost knight in a deep sleep on the King's bed! Quickly did the King run to him and embrace him, and after that he restored to him all his lost lands, and he banished the false wife and her second husband from the country. And they who were banished lived in a strange land, and all the girls among their children and grandchildren were without noses.

* * * * *

So close we this little golden door--not the less precious because little--over which is written in letters all boys and girls should love: _Marie de France_, who wrote "The Werewolf."

IX

AT GEOFFREY'S WINDOW

Among all the golden doors in the Great Palace of English Literature about which we are coming to know something, and through some of which we have already passed, there was one golden window on the stairway of the palace. This window on the stairway of the palace looked out upon a busy town and down upon the windings of the river Wye, and off upon hills and upon the ruins of a wonderful old abbey called Tintern Abbey, about which, some six hundred years later, an English poet called William Wordsworth was to write a poem called "Tintern Abbey." Wordsworth wrote "We Are Seven," and also this little poem about a butterfly: