English Literature For Boys And Girls by H.E. Marshall

H >> H.E. Marshall >> English Literature For Boys And Girls

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45

So although the heart of Deirdre was sad and heavy with
foreboding of evil, they set sail for the land of Erin. But
Deirdre looked behind her as the shore faded from sight and sang
a mournful song: -

"O eastern land I leave, I loved you well,
Home of my heart, I love and loved you well,
I ne'er had left you had not Naisi left."*

*Douglas Hyde

And so they fared on their journey and came at last to Conor's
palace. And the story tells how the boding sorrow that Deirdre
felt fulfilled itself, and how they were betrayed, and how the
brothers fought and died, and how Deirdre mourned until

"Her heart-strings snapt,
And death had overmastered her. She fell
Into the grave where Naisi lay and slept.
There at his side the child of Felim fell,
The fair-haired daughter of a hundred smiles.
Men piled their grave and reared their stone on high,
And wrote their names in Ogham.* So they lay
All four united in the dream of death."**

* Ancient Gaelic writing.
** Douglas Hyde

Such in a few words is the story of Deirdre. But you must read
the tale itself to find out how beautiful it is. That you can
easily do, for it has been translated many times out of the old
Gaelic in which it was first written and it has been told so
simply that even those of you who are quite young can read it for
yourselves.

In both The Tain and in Deirdre we find the love of fighting, the
brave joy of the strong man when he finds a gallant foe. The
Tain is such history as those far-off times afforded, but it is
history touched with fancy, wrought with poetry. In the Three
Sorrows we have Romance. They are what we might call the novels
of the time. It is in stories like these that we find the keen
sense of what is beautiful in nature, the sense of "man's
brotherhood with bird and beast, star and flower," which has
become the mark of "Celtic" literature. We cannot put it into
words, perhaps, for it is something mystic and strange, something
that takes us nearer fairyland and makes us see that land of
dreams with clearer eyes.

BOOKS TO READ

The Celtic Wonder World, by C. L. Thomson. The Enchanted Land
(for version of Deirdre), by L Chisholm. Three Sorrows (verse),
by Douglas Hyde.

Chapter IV THE STORY OF A LITERARY LIE

WHO wrote the stories which are found in the old Gaelic
manuscripts we do not know, yet the names of some of the old
Gaelic poets have come down to us. The best known of all is
perhaps that of Ossian. But as Ossian, if he ever lived, lived
in the third century, as it is not probable that his poems were
written down at the time, and as the oldest books that we have
containing any of his poetry were written in the twelfth century,
it is very difficult to be sure that he really made the poems
called by his name.

Ossian was a warrior and chief as well as a poet, and as a poet
he is claimed both by Scotland and by Ireland. But perhaps his
name has become more nearly linked to Scotland because of the
story that I am going to tell you now. It belongs really to a
time much later than that of which we have been speaking, but
because it has to do with this old Gaelic poet Ossian, I think
you will like to hear it now.

In a lonely Highland village more than a hundred and fifty years
ago there lived a little boy called James Macpherson. His father
and mother were poor farmer people, and James ran about
barefooted and wild among the hills and glens. When he was about
seven years old the quiet of his Highland home was broken by the
sounds of war, for the Highland folk had risen in rebellion
against King George II., and were fighting for Prince Charlie,
hoping to have a Stewart king once more. This was the rebellion
called the '45, for it was fought in 1745.

Now little James watched the red coats of the southern soldiers
as, with bayonets gleaming in the sun, they wound through the
glens. He heard the Highland battle-cry and the clash of steel
on steel, for fighting came near his home, and his own people
joined the standard of the Pretender. Little James never forgot
these things, and long afterwards, when he grew to be a man and
wrote poetry, it was full of the sounds of battle, full, too, of
love for mountain and glen and their rolling mists.

The Macphersons were poor, but they saw that their son was
clever, and they determined that he should be well taught. So
when he left school they sent him to college, first to Aberdeen
and then to Edinburgh.

Before he was twenty James had left college and become master of
the school in his own native village. He did not, however, like
that very much, and soon gave it up to become tutor in a family.

By this time James Macpherson had begun to write poetry. He had
also gathered together some pieces of old Gaelic poetry which he
had found among the Highland folk. These he showed to some other
poets and writers whom he met, and they thought them so beautiful
that he published them in a book.

The book was a great success. All who read it were delighted
with the poems, and said that if there was any more such poetry
in the Highlands, it should be gathered together and printed
before it was lost and forgotten for ever. For since the '45 the
English had done everything to make the Highlanders forget their
old language and customs. They were forbidden to wear the kilt
or the tartan, and everything was done to make them speak English
and forget Gaelic.

So now people begged Macpherson to travel through the Highlands
and gather together as much of the old poetry of the people as he
could. Macpherson was at first unwilling to go. For one thing,
he quite frankly owned that he was not a good Gaelic scholar.
But at length he consented and set out.

For four months Macpherson wandered about the Highlands and
Islands of Scotland, listening to the tales of the people and
writing them down. Sometimes, too, he came across old
manuscripts with ancient tales in them. When he had gathered all
he could, he returned to Edinburgh and set to work to translate
the stories into English.

When this new book of Gaelic poetry came out, it again was a
great success. It was greeted with delight by the greatest poets
of France, Germany, and Italy, and was soon translated into many
languages. Macpherson was no longer a poor Highland laddie, but
a man of world-wide fame. Yet it was not because of his own
poetry that he was famous, but because he had found (so he said)
some poems of a man who lived fifteen hundred years before, and
translated them into English. And although Macpherson's book is
called The Poems of Ossian, it is written in prose. But it is a
prose which is often far more beautiful and poetical than much
that is called poetry.

Although at first Macpherson's book was received with great
delight, soon people began to doubt about it. The Irish first of
all were jealous, for they said that Ossian was an Irish poet,
that the heroes of the poems were Irish, and that Macpherson was
stealing their national heroes from them.

Then in England people began to say that there never had been an
Ossian at all, and that Macpherson had invented both the poems
and all the people that they were about. For the English knew
little of the Highlanders and their customs. Even after the '15
and the '45 people in the south knew little about the north and
those who lived there. They thought of it as a land of wild
mountains and glens, a land of mists and cloud, a land where wild
chieftains ruled over still wilder clans, who, in their lonely
valleys and sea-girt islands, were for ever warring against each
other. How could such a people, they asked, a people of savages,
make beautiful poetry?

Dr. Samuel Johnson, a great writer of whom we shall hear more
later, was the man of his day whose opinion about books was most
thought of. He hated Scotland and the Scottish folk, and did not
believe that any good thing could come from them. He read the
poems and said that they were rubbish, such as any child could
write, and that Macpherson had made them all up.

So a quarrel, which has become famous, began between the two men.
And as Dr. Johnson was far better known than Macpherson, most
people agreed with him and believed that Macpherson had told a
"literary lie," and that he had made up all the stories.

There is no harm in making up stories. Nearly every one who
writes does that. But it is wrong to make up stories and then
pretend that they were written by some one else more famous than
yourself.

Dr. Johnson and Macpherson were very angry with and rude to each
other. Still that did not settle the question as to who had
written the stories; indeed it has never been settled. And what
most men believe now is that Macpherson did really gather from
among the people of the Highlands many scraps of ancient poetry
and tales, but that he added to them and put them together in
such a way as to make them beautiful and touching. To do even
that, however, a true poet was needed, so people have, for the
most part, given up arguing about whether Macpherson wrote Ossian
or not, and are glad that such a beautiful book has been written
by some one.

I do not think that you will want to read Ossian for yourself for
a long time to come, for the stories are not always easy to
follow. They are, too, often clumsy, wandering, and badly put
together. But in spite of that there is much beauty in them, and
some day I hope you will read them.

In the next chapter you will find one of the stories of Ossian
called Fingal. Fingal was a great warrior and the father of
Ossian, and the story takes place in Ireland. It is told partly
in Macpherson's words.

Chapter V THE STORY OF FINGAL

"CATHULLIN sat by TURA's wall, by the tree of the rustling sound.
His spear leaned against a rock. His shield lay on grass, by his
side. And as he thus sat deep in thought a scout came running in
all haste and cried, 'Arise! Cathullin, arise! I see the ships
of the north. Many, chief of men, are the foe! Many the heroes
of the sea-born Swaran!'

"Then to the scout the blue-eyed chief replied, 'Thou ever
tremblest. Thy fears have increased the foe. It is Fingal King
of deserts who comes with aid to green Erin of streams.'

"'Nay, I beheld their chief,' replied the scout, 'tall as a
glittering rock. His spear is a blasted pine. His shield the
rising moon. He bade me say to thee, "Let dark Cathullin
yield."'

"'No,' replied the blue-eyed chief, 'I never yield to mortal man.
Dark Cathullin shall be great or dead.'"

Then Cathullin bade the scout summon his warriors to council.
And when they were gathered there was much talk, for some would
give battle at once and some delay until Fingal, the King of
Morven, should come to aid them. But Cathullin himself was eager
to fight, so forward they marched to meet the foe. And the sound
of their going was "as the rushing of a stream of foam when the
thunder is traveling above, and dark-brown night sits on half the
hill." To the camp of Swaran was the sound carried, so that he
sent a messenger to view the foe.

"He went. He trembling, swift returned. His eyes rolled wildly
round. His heart beat high against his side. His words were
faltering, broken, slow. 'Arise, son of ocean! arise, chief of
the dark brown shields! I see the dark, the mountain stream of
battle. Fly, King of ocean! Fly!'

"'When did I fly?' replied the King. 'When fled Swaran from the
battle of spears? When did I shrink from danger, chief of the
little soul? Shall Swaran fly from a hero? Were Fingal himself
before me my soul should not darken in fear. Arise, to battle my
thousands! pour round me like the echoing main. Gather round the
bright steel of your King; strong as the rocks of my land, that
meet the storm with joy, and stretch their dark pines to the
wind.'

"Like autumn's dark storms, pouring from two echoing hills,
towards each other approached the heroes. Like two deep streams
from high rocks meeting, mixing, roaring on the plain; loud,
rough and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Innis-fail. chief
mixes his strokes with chief, and man with man; steel clanging
sounds on steel. Helmets are cleft on high. Blood bursts and
smokes around. Strings murmur on the polished yews. Darts rush
along the sky, spears fall like the circles of light which gild
the face of night. As the noise of the troubled ocean when roll
the waves on high, as the last peal of thunder in heaven, such is
the din of war. Though Cormac's hundred bards were there to give
the fight to song, feeble was the voice of a hundred bards to
send the deaths to future times. For many were the deaths of
heroes; wide poured the blood of the brave."

Then above the clang and clamor of dreadful battle we hear the
mournful dirge of minstrels wailing o'er the dead.

"Mourn, ye sons of song, mourn! Weep on the rocks of roaring
winds, O mad of Inistore! Bend thy fair head over the waves,
thou lovelier than the ghost of the hills, when it moves, in a
sunbeam at noon, over the silence of Morven. He is fallen! thy
youth is low! pale beneath the sword of Cathullin. No more shall
valor raise thy love to match the blood of kings. His gray dogs
are howling at home, they see his passing ghost. His bow is in
the hall unstrung. No sound is on the hill of his hinds."

Then once again, the louder for the mourning pause, we hear the
din of battle.

"As roll a thousand waves to the rocks, so Swaran's host came on.
As meets a rock a thousand waves, so Erin met Swaran of spears.
Death raises all his voices around, and mixes with the sounds of
shields. Each hero is a pillar of darkness; the sword a beam of
fire in his hand. The field echoes from wing to wing, as a
hundred hammers that rise by turn, on the red son of the
furnace."

But now the day is waning. To the noise and horror of battle the
mystery of darkness is added. Friend and foe are wrapped in the
dimness of twilight.

But the fight was not ended, for neither Cathullin nor Swaran had
gained the victory, and ere gray morning broke the battle was
renewed.

And in this second day's fight Swaran was the victor, but while
the battle still raged white-sailed ships appeared upon the sea.
It was Fingal who came, and Swaran had to fight a second foe.

"Now from the gray mists of the ocean, the white-sailed ships of
Fingal appeared. High is the grove of their masts, as they nod
by turns on the rolling wave."

Swaran saw them from the hill on which he fought, and turning
from the pursuit of the men of Erin, he marched to meet Fingal.
But Cathullin, beaten and ashamed, fled to hide himself:
"bending, weeping, sad and slow, and dragging his long spear
behind, Cathullin sank in Cromla's wood, and mourned his fallen
friends. He feared the face of Fingal, who was wont to greet him
from the fields of renown."

But although Cathullin fled, between Fingal and Swaran battle was
renewed till darkness fell. A second day dawned, and again and
again the hosts closed in deadly combat until at length Fingal
and Swaran met face to face.

"There was a clang of arms! their every blow like the hundred
hammers of the furnace. Terrible is the battle of the kings;
dreadful the look of their eyes. Their dark brown shields are
cleft in twain. Their steel flies, broken from their helms.

"They fling their weapons down. Each rushes to his hero's grasp.
Their sinewy arms bend round each other: they turn from side to
side, and strain and stretch their large and spreading limbs
below. But when the pride of their strength arose they shook the
hills with their heels. Rocks tumble from their places on high;
the green-headed bushes are overturned. At length the strength
of Swaran fell; the king of the groves is bound."

The warriors of Swaran fled then, pursued by the sons of Fingal,
till the hero bade the fighting cease, and darkness once more
fell over the dreadful field.

"The clouds of night come rolling down. Darkness rests on the
steeps of Cromla. The stars of the north arise over the rolling
of Erin's waves: they shew their heads of fire, through the
flying mist of heaven. A distant wind roars in the wood. Silent
and dark is the plain of death."

Then through the darkness is heard the sad song of minstrels
mourning for the dead. But soon the scene changes and mourning
is forgotten.

"The heroes gathered to the feast. A thousand aged oaks are
burning to the wind. The souls of warriors brighten with joy.
But the king of Lochlin (Swaran) is silent. Sorrow reddens in
his eyes of pride. He remembered that he fell.

"Fingal leaned on the shield of his fathers. His gray locks
slowly waved on the wind, and glittered to the beam of night. He
saw the grief of Swaran, and spoke to the first of the bards.

"'Raise, Ullin, raise the song of peace. O soothe my soul from
war. Let mine ear forget in the sound the dismal noise of arms.
Let a hundred harps be near to gladden the king of Lochlin. He
must depart from us with joy. None ever went sad from Fingal.
The lightening of my sword is against the strong in fight.
Peaceful it lies by my side when warriors yield in war.'"

So at the bidding of Fingal the minstrel sang, and soothed the
grief of Swaran. And when the music ceased Fingal spoke once
more:--

"'King of Lochlin, let thy face brighten with gladness, and thine
ear delight in the harp. Dreadful as the storm of thine ocean
thou hast poured thy valor forth; thy voice has been like the
voice of thousands when they engage in war.

"'Raise, to-morrow, raise thy white sails to the wind. Or dost
thou choose the fight? that thou mayest depart renowned like the
sun setting in the west.'"

Then Swaran chose to depart in peace. He had no more will to
fight against Fingal, so the two heroes swore friendship
together. Then once again Fingal called for the song of
minstrels.

"A hundred voices at once arose, a hundred harps were strung.
They sang of other times; the mighty chiefs of other years." And
so the night passed till "morning trembles with the beam of the
east; it glimmers on Cromla's side. Over Lena is heard the horn
of Swaran. The sons of the ocean gather around. Silent and sad
they rise on the wave. The blast of Erin is behind their sails.
White as the mist of Morven they float along the sea."

Thus Swaran and his warriors departed, and Fingal, calling his
men together, set forth to hunt. And as he hunted far in the
woods he met Cathullin, still hiding, sad and ashamed. But
Fingal comforted the beaten hero, reminding him of past
victories. Together they returned to Fingal's camp, and there
the heroes sang and feasted until "the soul of Cathullin rose.
The strength of his arm returned. Gladness brightened along his
face. Thus the night passed away in song. We brought back the
morning with joy.

"Fingal arose on the heath and shook his glittering spear. He
moved first towards the plain of Lena. We followed in all our
arms.

"'Spread the sail,' said the King, 'seize the winds as they pour
from Lena.'

"We rose on the wave with songs. We rushed with joy through the
foam of the deep."

Thus the hero returned to his own land.

NOTE.--There is no book of Ossian specially edited for children.
Later they may like to read the Century Edition of Macpherson's
Ossian, edited by William Sharpe. Stories about Ossian will be
found among the many books of Celtic tales now published.

Chapter VI ABOUT SOME OLD WELSH STORIES AND STORY-TELLERS

YOU remember that the Celtic family was divided into two
branches, the Gaelic and the Cymric. So far we have only spoken
about the Gaels, but the Cymry had their poets and historians
too. The Cymry, however, do not claim such great age for their
first known poets as do the Gaels. Ossian, you remember, was
supposed to live in the third century, but the oldest Cymric
poets whose names we know were supposed to live in the sixth
century. As, however, the oldest Welsh manuscripts are of the
twelfth century, it is again very difficult to prove that any of
the poems were really written by those old poets.

But this is very certain, that the Cymry, like the Gaels, had
their bards and minstrels who sang of the famous deeds of heroes
in the halls of the chieftains, or in the market-places for the
people.

From the time that the Romans left Britain to the time when the
Saxons or English were at length firmly settled in the land, many
fierce struggles, many stirring events must have taken place.
That time must have been full of brave deeds such as the
minstrels loved to sing. But that part of our history is very
dark. Much that is written of it is little more than a fairy
tale, for it was not until long afterwards that anything about
this time was written down.

The great hero of the struggle between the Britons and the Saxons
was King Arthur, but it was not until many many years after the
time in which he lived that all the splendid stories of his
knights, of his Round Table, and of his great conquests began to
take the form in which we know them. Indeed, in the earliest
Welsh tales the name of Arthur is hardly known at all. When he
is mentioned it is merely as a warrior among other warriors
equally great, and not as the mighty emperor that we know. The
Arthur that we love is the Arthur of literature, not the Arthur
of history. And I think you may like to follow the story of the
Arthur of literature, and see how, from very little, it has grown
so great that now it is known all the world over. I should like
you to remember, too, that the Arthur story is not the only one
which repeats itself again and again throughout our Literature.
There are others which have caught the fancy of great masters and
have been told by them in varying ways throughout the ages. But
of them all, the Arthur story is perhaps the best example.

Of the old Welsh poets it may, perhaps, be interesting to
remember two. These are Taliesin, or "Shining Forehead," and
Merlin.

Merlin is interesting because he is Arthur's great bard and
magician. Taliesin is interesting because in a book called The
Mabinogion, which is a translation of some of the oldest Welsh
stories, we have the tale of his wonderful birth and life.

Mabinogion really means tales for the young. Except the History
of Taliesin, all the stories in this book are translated from a
very old manuscript called the Red Book of Hergest.. This Red
Book belongs to the fourteenth century, but many of the stories
are far far older, having, it is thought, been told in some form
or other for hundreds of years before they were written down at
all. Unlike many old tales, too, they are written in prose, not
in poetry.

One of the stories in The Mabinogion, the story of King Ludd,
takes us back a long way. King Ludd was a king in Britain, and
in another book we learn that he was a brother of Cassevelaunis,
who fought against Julius Caesar, so from that we can judge of
the time in which he reigned.

"King Ludd," we are told in The Mabinogion, "ruled prosperously
and rebuilt the walls of London, and encompassed it about with
numberless towers. And after that he bade the citizens build
houses therein, such as no houses in the kingdom could equal.
And, moreover, he was a mighty warrior, and generous and liberal
in giving meat and drink to all that sought them. And though he
had many castles and cities, this one loved he more than any.
And he dwelt therein most part of the year, and therefore was it
called Caer Ludd, and at last Caer London. And after the strange
race came there, it was called London." It is interesting to
remember that there is still a street in London called Ludgate.
Caer is the Celtic word for Castle, and is still to be found in
many Welsh names, such as Carnarvon, Caerleon, and so on.

Now, although Ludd was such a wise king, three plagues fell upon
the island of Britain. "The first was a certain race that came
and was called Coranians, and so great was their knowledge that
there was no discourse upon the face of the island, however low
it might be spoken, but what, if the wind met it, it was known to
them.

"The second plague was a shriek which came on every May-eve over
every hearth in the island of Britain. And this went through
peoples' hearts and frightened them out of their senses.

"The third plague was, however much of provision and food might
be prepared in the king's courts, were there even so much as a
year's provision of meat and drink, none of it could ever be
found, except what was consumed upon the first night."

The story goes on to tell how good King Ludd freed the island of
Britain from all three plagues and lived in peace all the days of
his life.

In five of the stories of The Mabinogion, King Arthur appears.
And, although these were all written in Welsh, it has been
thought that some may have been brought to Wales from France.

This seems strange, but it comes about in this way. Part of
France is called Brittany, as you know. Now, long long ago,
before the Romans came to Britain, some of the people who lived
in that part of France sailed across the sea and settled in
Britain. These may have been the ancient Britons whom Caesar
fought when he first came to our shore.