Chapter II: Part 2

Then the wandering stranger, hearing the beauty of the song, vanished. 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.

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:

I've watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower;
And, little Butterfly! indeed
I know not if you sleep or feed.
How motionless! Not frozen seas
More motionless! and then
What joy awaits you, when the breeze
Hath found you out among the trees
And calls you forth again.
This plot of orchard ground is ours;
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
Here rest your wings when they are weary;
Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
Come often to us, fear no wrong;
Sit near us on the bough!
We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
And summer days when we were young;
Sweet childish days that were as long
As twenty days are now.

But the golden window at which Geoffrey sat was in Monmouth, and he was called Geoffrey of Monmouth. That was some seven hundred years ago. No doubt the little town was very busy even in 1137 when Geoffrey sat at his window and wrote his famous chronicle called _British History_.

Before Geoffrey began to write down his marvelous stories, other stories and poems were written. In King Alfred's time, when the home of English literature was shifted from the north to the south, two fine battle songs were written. They were the "Song of Brunanburh" and the "Song of the Fight at Maldon." These were written in the tenth century. "The Charge of the Light Brigade," composed some eight hundred years later by the poet Tennyson, is like these old songs in its short, rapid lines and in its thought. Every one should learn these lines from the poem Alfred Tennyson wrote:

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

But we have been long enough away from that golden window by which Geoffrey of Monmouth sat and wrote his immortal stories. Geoffrey was called a chronicler. And what he was supposed to be doing was jotting down accurately historical events year after year. Some of the chronicles written in this way have become the chief sources of English history. Among the men who wrote these chronicles were William of Malmesbury and Matthew Paris. And between them came Geoffrey himself.

It will never be known, unless it should prove possible to roll time back some seven hundred years, just what Geoffrey did see from his window as he looked out upon the busy town of Monmouth, or all that went on in his nimble mind. In any event it is plain that he had the best of good times inventing or retelling stories in his chronicle. There is to be found the story of King Lear and his three daughters, Regan, Goneril, and Cordelia--Lear, the hero of Shakespeare's play, "King Lear," written over four hundred years later. There, too, is the story of Ferrex and Porrex. Geoffrey had a nimble quill pen with which to follow his nimble wit. He writes of Julius Cæsar and of how he came to Great Britain. What Geoffrey of Monmouth says may be ridiculous enough in the light of history, but there it is, and there is Cæsar himself, not only looking upon the coast of Britain but actually standing upon it. We become familiar, too, with many names known in stories about King Arthur. Perceval is one of these. And Uther Pendragon, who was the father of King Arthur, is another.