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

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Quickly then he seized a warrior and as quickly devoured him.
But as he stretched forth his hand to seize another, Beowulf
gripped him in his awful grasp.

Then began a terrible combat. The hall echoed with cries and
sounds of clashing steel. The Goths awoke, joining in the fight,
but all their swords were of no avail against the ogre. With his
bare hands alone Beowulf fought, and thought to kill the monster.
But Grendel escaped, though wounded to death indeed, and leaving
his hand, arm, and shoulder behind in Beowulf's grip.

When morning came there was much rejoicing. Hrothgar made a
great feast, at which he gave rich gifts to Beowulf and his
friends. The evening passed in song and laughter, and when
darkness fell the Danes lay down to rest in the hall as of old.

But the evil was not over. Grendel indeed was slain, but his
mother, an ogre almost as fierce as he, was ready to avenge him.
So when night fell she hastened to the hall, and carried off
Hrothgar's best loved thane.

"Then was there a cry in Heorot. Then was the prudent king, the
hoary warrior, sad of mood, when he learned that his princely
thane, the dearest to him, no longer lived. Quickly was Beowulf
fetched to the bower, the man happy in victory, at break of day."

And when Beowulf heard the mournful tale he comforted the King
with brave and kindly words, and quickly he set forth to the
dreadful mere, the dwelling of the water-witch, Grendel's mother.
And here he plunged in ready to fight.

"Soon did she, who thirsting for gore, grim and greedy, for a
hundred years had held the circuit of the waves, discover that
some one of men, some strange being, was trying from above the
land. She grappled then towards him, she seized the warrior in
her foul claws."

Then beneath the waves was there a fierce struggle, but Beowulf
in the end conquered. The water-witch was slain, and rejoicing,
the hero returned to Hrothgar.

Now indeed had peace come to the Danes, and loaded with thanks
and rewards, Beowulf returned homeward.

Many years passed. Beowulf himself became king in his own land,
and for fifty years he ruled well, and kept his folk in peace.
Then it fell that a fearful Fire-Dragon wasted all the land, and
Beowulf, mindful of his deeds of old, set forth to slay him.

Yet ere he fought, he bade farewell to all his thanes, for he
knew well that this should be his last fight.

"Then greeted he every one of the men, the bold helm bearer
greeted his dear comrades for the last time. I would not bear
sword or weapon against the worm if I knew how else I might
proudly grapple with the wretch, as I of old with Grendel did.
But I ween this war fire is hot, fierce and poisonous; therefore
have I on me shield and byrnie. . . . Then did the famous warrior
arise beside his shield, hard under helmet he bare the sword-
shirt, under the cliffs of stone, he trusted in the strength of
one man; nor is such an expedition for a coward."

Fiercely then did the battle rage between hero and dragon. But
Beowulf's sword failed him in his need, and it was like to go ill
with him. Then, when his thanes who watched saw that, fear fell
upon them, and they fled. One only, Wiglaf was his name, would
not forsake his liege lord. Seizing his shield and drawing his
sword, he cried, "Come, let us go to him, let us help our
chieftain, although the grim terror of fire be hot."

But none would follow him, so alone he went: "through the fatal
smoke he bare his war helmet to the assistance of his lord."

Fierce was the fight and long. But at length the dragon lay
dead. Beowulf had conquered, but in conquering he had received
his death wound. And there, by the wild seashore, he died. And
there a sorrowing people buried him.

"For him, then did the people of the Geats prepare upon the earth
a funeral pile, strong, hung round with helmets, with war boards
and bright byrnies as he had requested. Weeping, the heroes laid
down in the midst their dear lord.

"Then began the warriors to awake upon the hill the mightiest of
bale-fires. The wood smoke rose aloft, dark from the foe of
wood. Noisily it went mingled with weeping. . . .

"The people of the Westerns wrought then a mound over the sea:
it was high and broad, easy to behold by the sailors over the
waves, and during ten days they built up the beacon of the war-
renowned, the mightiest of fires. . . . Then round the mound rode
a troupe of beasts of war, of nobles, twelve in all. They would
speak about their King, they would call him to mind. They
praised his valor, and his deeds of bravery they judged with
praise, even as it is fitting that a man should extol his
friendly lord, should love him in his soul, when he must depart
from the body to become of naught.

"Thus the people of the Geats, his hearth comrades, mourned their
dear lord. They said that he was of the kings of the world, the
mildest and gentlest of men, the most gracious to his people, and
the most jealous of glory."

BOOKS TO READ

Stories of Beowulf, by H. E. Marshall. Beowulf, translated by W.
Huyshe.

Chapter XII THE FATHER OF ENGLISH SONG

ALTHOUGH there are lines of Beowulf which seem to show that the
writer of the poem was a Christian, they must have been added by
some one who copied or retold the story long after the Saxons had
come to Britain, for the poet who first told the tale must have
been a heathen, as all the Saxons were.

The Britons were Christian, for they had learned the story of
Christ from the Romans. But when the Saxons conquered the land
they robbed and ruined the churches, the Christian priests were
slain or driven forth, and once more the land became heathen.

Then, after many years had passed, the story of Christ was again
brought to England. This time it came from Ireland. It was
brought from there by St. Columba, who built a church and founded
a monastery on the island of Iona. And from there his eager,
wandering priests carried the story far and wide, northward to
the fortress of the Pictish kings, and southward to the wild
Saxons who dwelt amid the hills and uplands of Northumbria.

To this story of love and gentleness the wild heathen listened in
wonder. To help the weak, to love and forgive their enemies, was
something unthought of by these fierce sea-rovers. Yet they
listened and believed. Once again churches were built, priests
came to live among the people, and the sound of Christian prayer
and praise rose night and morning from castle and from hut.

For thirty years and more St. Columba, the passionate and tender,
taught and labored. Many monasteries were founded which became,
as it were, the lighthouses of learning and religion. There the
monks and priests lived, and from them as centers they traveled
out in all directions teaching the heathen. And when at last St.
Columba closed his tired eyes and folded his weary hands, there
were many more to carry on his work.

Then, also, from Rome, as once before, the story of Christ was
brought. In 597, the year in which St. Columba died, St.
Augustine landed with his forty followers. They, too, in time
reached Northumbria; so, side by side, Roman and Celt spoke the
message of peace on earth, goodwill toward men.

The wild Saxon listened to this message, it is true. He took
Christianity for his religion, but it was rather as if he had put
on an outer dress. His new religion made little difference to
his life. He still loved fighting and war, and his songs were
still all of war. He worshiped Christ as he had worshiped Woden,
and looked upon Him as a hero, only a little more powerful than
the heroes of whom the minstrels sang. It was difficult to teach
the Saxons the Bible lessons which we know so well, for in those
far-off days there were no Bibles. There were indeed few books
of any kind, and these few belonged to the monks and priests.
They were in Latin, and in some of them parts of the Bible had
been translated into Latin. But hardly any of the men and women
of England could read or understand these books. Indeed, few
people could read at all, for it was still the listening time.
They learned the history of their country from the songs of the
minstrels, and it was in this way, too, that they came to learn
the Bible stories, for these stories were made into poetry. And
it was among the rugged hills of Northumbria, by the rocky shore
where the sounding waves beat and beat all day long, that the
first Christian songs in English were sung. For here it was that
Caedmon, the "Father of English Song," lived and died.

At Whitby there was a monastery ruled over by the Abbess Hilda.
This was a post of great importance, for, as you know, the
monasteries were the schools and libraries of the country, and
they were the inns too, so all the true life of the land ebbed
and flowed through the monasteries. Here priest and soldier,
student and minstrel, prince and beggar came and went. Here in
the great hall, when work was done and the evening meal over,
were gathered all the monks and their guests. Here, too, would
gather the simple folk of the countryside, the fishermen and
farmers, the lay brothers and helpers who shared the work of the
monastery. When the meal was done the minstrels sang, while
proud and humble alike listened eagerly. Or perhaps "it was
agreed for the sake of mirth that all present should sing in
their turn."

But when, at the monastery of Whitby, it was agreed that all
should sing in turn, there was one among the circle around the
fire who silently left his place and crept away, hanging his head
in shame.

This man was called Caedmon. He could not sing, and although he
loved to listen to the songs of others, "whenever he saw the harp
come near him," we are told, "he arose out of shame from the
feast and went home to his house." Away from the bright
firelight out into the lonely dark he crept with bent head and
lagging steps. Perhaps he would stand a moment outside the door
beneath the starlight and listen to the thunder of the waves and
the shriek of the winds. And as he felt in his heart all the
beauty and wonder of the world, the glory and the might of the
sea and sky, he would ask in dumb pain why, when he could feel it
touch his heart, he could not also sing of the beauty and wonder,
glory and might. [68]

One night Caedmon crept away as usual, and went "out of the house
where the entertainment was, to the stable, where he had to take
care of the horses that night. He there composed himself to
rest. A person appeared to him then in a dream and, calling him
by name, said, 'Caedmon, sing some song to me.'

"He answered, 'I cannot sing; for that was the reason why I left
the entertainment and retired to this place, because I cannot
sing.'

"The other who talked to him replied, 'However, you shall sing.'

"'What shall I sing?' rejoined he.

"'Sing the beginning of created things,' said the other.

"Whereupon he presently began to sing verses to the praise of
God, which he had never heard, the purport whereof was thus:--

'Now must we praise the guardian of heaven's kingdom,
The creator's might and his mind's thought;
Glorious father of men! as of every wonder he,
Lord eternal, formed the beginning.
He first framed for the children of earth
The heaven as a roof; holy Creator!
Then mid-earth, the Guardian of mankind,
The eternal Lord, afterwards produced;
The earth for men, Lord almighty.'

"This," says the old historian, who tells the story in Latin, "is
the sense, but not the words in order as he sang them in his
sleep. For verses, though never so well composed, cannot be
literally (that is word for word) translated out of one language
into another without losing much of their beauty and loftiness."*

*Bede, Ecclesiastical History.

Awakening from his sleep, Caedmon remembered all that he had sung
in his dream. And the dream did not fade away as most dreams do.
For he found that not only could he sing these verses, but he who
had before been dumb and ashamed when the harp was put into his
hand, could now make and sing more beautifully than could others.
And all that he sang was to God's glory.

In the morning, full of his wonderful new gift, Caedmon went to
the steward who was set over him, and told him of the vision that
he had had during the night. And the steward, greatly marveling,
led Caedmon to the Abbess.

The Abbess listened to the strange tale. Then she commanded
Caedmon, "in the presence of many learned men, to tell his dream
and repeat the verses that they might all give their judgment
what it was and whence his verse came."

So the simple farm laborer, who had no learning of any kind, sang
while the learned and grave men listened. And he who was wont to
creep away in dumb shame, fearing the laughter of his fellows,
sang now with such beauty and sweetness that they were all of one
mind, saying that the Lord Himself had, of His heavenly grace,
given to Caedmon this new power.

Then these learned men repeated to Caedmon some part of the
Bible, explained the meaning of it, and asked him to tell it
again in poetry. This Caedmon undertook to do, and when he fully
understood the words, he went away. Next morning he returned and
repeated all that he had been told, but now it was in beautiful
poetry.

Then the Abbess saw that, indeed, the grace of God had come upon
the man. She made him at once give up the life of a servant
which he had been leading, and bade him become a monk. Caedmon
gladly did her bidding, and when he had been received among them,
his brother monks taught to him all the Bible stories.

But Caedmon could neither read nor write, nor is it at all likely
that he ever learned to do either even after he became a monk,
for we are told that "he was well advanced in years" before his
great gift of song came to him. It is quite certain that he
could not read Latin, so that all that he put into verse had to
be taught to him by some more learned brother. And some one,
too, must have written down the verses which Caedmon sang.

We can imagine the pious, humble monk listening while another
read and translated to him out of some Latin missal. He would
sit with clasped hands and earnest eyes, intent on understanding.
Then, when he had filled his mind with the sacred story, he would
go away by himself and weave it into song. Perhaps he would walk
about beneath the glowing stars or by the sounding sea, and thank
God that he was no longer dumb, and that at last he could say
forth all that before had been shut within his heart in an agony
of silence. "And," we are told, "his songs and his verse were so
winsome to hear, that his teachers themselves wrote and learned
from his mouth."

"Thus Caedmon, keeping in mind all he heard, and, as it were,
chewing the cud, converted the same into most harmonious verse;
and sweetly repeating the same, made his masters in their turn
his hearers.

"He sang the creation of the world, the origin of man, and all
the history of Genesis; and made many verses on the departure of
the children of Israel out of Egypt, and their entering into the
land of promise, with many other histories from holy writ."

As has been said, there are lines in Beowulf which seem to have
been written by a Christian. But all that is Christian in it is
merely of the outside; it could easily be taken away, and the
poem would remain perfect. The whole feeling of the poem is not
Christian, but pagan. So it would seem that what is Christian in
it has been added long after the poem was first made, yet added
before the people had forgotten their pagan ways.

For very long after they became Christian the Saxons kept their
old pagan ways of thought, and Caedmon, when he came to sing of
holy things, sang as a minstrel might. To him Abraham and Moses,
and all the holy men of old, were like the warrior chieftains
whom he knew and of whom the minstrels sang. And God to him was
but the greatest of these warriors. He is "Heaven's Chief," "the
Great Prince." The clash and clang of sword and trumpet calls
are heard "amid the grim clash of helms." War filled the
greatest half of life. All history, all poetry were bound up in
it. Caedmon sang of what he saw, of what he knew. He was
Christian, he had learned the lesson of peace on earth, but he
lived amid the clash of arms and sang them.

Chapter XIII HOW CAEDMON SANG, AND HOW HE FELL ONCE MORE ON SILENCE

ONE of Caedmon's poems is call The Genesis. In this the poet
begins by telling of how Satan, in his pride, rebelled against
God, and of how he was cast forth from heaven with all those who
had joined with him in rebelling.

This story of the war in heaven and of the angels' fall is not in
the Bible. It is not to be found either in any of the Latin
books which the monks of Whitby may have had. The story did not
come from Rome, but from the East. How, then, did Caedmon hear
it?

Whitby, we must remember, was founded by Celtic, and not by Roman
monks. It was founded by monks who came from Ireland to Iona,
and from thence to Northumbria. To them the teaching of Christ
had come from Jerusalem and the East rather than from Rome. So
here again, perhaps, we can see the effect of the Celts on our
literature. It was from Celtic monks that Caedmon heard the
story of the war in heaven.

After telling of this war, Caedmon goes on to relate how the
wicked angels "into darkness urged them their darksome way."

"They might not loudly laugh,
But they in hell-torments,
Dwelt accursed.
And woe they knew
Pain and sorrow,
Torment endured
With darkness decked,
Hard retribution,
For that they had devised
Against God to war."

Then after all the fierce clash of battle come a few lines which
seem like peace after war, quiet after storm.

"Then was after as before
Peace in heaven,
Fair-loving thanes,
The Lord dear to all."

Then God grieved at the empty spaces in heaven from whence the
wicked angels had been driven forth. And that they might at last
be filled again, he made the world and placed a man and woman
there. This to the chief of the fallen angels was grief and
pain, and his heart boiled within him in anger.

"Heaven is lost to us," he cried; "but now that we may not have
it, let us so act that it shall be lost to them also. Let us
make them disobey God,
"Then with them will he be wroth of mind,
Will cast them from his favor,
Then shall they seek this hell
And these grim depths,
Then may we have them to ourselves as vassals,
The children of men in this fast durance."

Then Satan asks who will help him to tempt mankind to do wrong.
"If to any followers I princely treasure gave of old while we in
that good realm happy sate," let him my gift repay, let him now
aid me.

So one of Satan's followers made himself ready. "On his head the
chief his helmet set," and he, "wheeled up from thence, departed
through the doors of hell lionlike in air, in hostile mood,
dashed the fire aside, with a fiend's power."

Caedmon next tells how the fiend tempted first the man and then
the woman with guileful lies to eat of the fruit which had been
forbidden to them, and how Eve yielded to him. And having eaten
of the forbidden fruit, Eve urged Adam too to eat, for it seemed
to her that a fair new life was open to her. "I see God's
angels," she said,

"Encompass him
With feathery wings
Of all folk greatest,
Of bands most joyous.
I can hear from far
And so widely see,
Through the whole world,
Over the broad creation.
I can the joy of the firmament
Hear in heaven.
It became light to me in mind
From without and within
After the fruit I tasted."

And thus, urged by Eve, Adam too ate of the forbidden fruit, and
the man and woman were driven out of the Happy Garden, and the
curse fell upon them because of their disobedience.

So they went forth "into a narrower life." Yet there was left to
them "the roof adorned with holy stars, and earth to them her
ample riches gave."

In many places this poem is only a paraphrase of the Bible. A
paraphrase means the same thing said in other words. But in
other places the poet seems to forget his model and sings out of
his own heart. Then his song is best. Perhaps some of the most
beautiful lines are those which tell of the dove that Noah sent
forth from the ark.

"Then after seven nights
He from the ark let forth
A palid dove
To fly after the swart raven,
Over the deep water,
To quest whether the foaming sea
Had of the green earth
Yet any part laid bare.
Wide she flew seeking her own will,
Far she flew yet found no rest.
Because of the flood
With her feet she might not perch on land,
Nor on the tree leaves light.
For the steep mountain tops
Were whelmed in waters.
Then the wild bird went
At eventide the ark to seek.
Over the darling wave she flew
Weary, to sink hungry
To the hands of the holy man."

A second time the dove is sent forth, and this is how the poet
tells of it:--

"Far and wide she flew
Glad in flying free, till she found a place
On a gentle tree. Gay of mood she was and glad
Since she sorely tired, now could settle down,
On the branches of the tree, on its beamy mast.
Then she fluttered feathers, went a flying off again,
With her booty flew, brought it to the sailor,
From an olive tree a twig, right into his hands
Brought the blade of green.

"Then the chief of seamen knew that gladness was at hand, and he
sent forth after three weeks the wild dove who came not back
again; for she saw the land of the greening trees. The happy
creature, all rejoicing, would no longer of the ark, for she
needed it no more."*

*Stopford Brooke

Besides Genesis many other poems were thought at one time to have
been made by Caedmon. The chief of these are Exodus and Daniel.
They are all in an old book, called the Junian MS., from the name
of the man, Francis Dujon, who first published them. The MS. was
found among some other old books in Trinity College, Dublin, and
given to Francis Dujon. He published the poems in 1655, and it
is from that time that we date our knowledge of Caedmon.

Wise men tell us that Caedmon could not have made any of these
poems, not even the Genesis of which you have been reading. But
if Caedmon did not make these very poems, he made others like
them which have been lost. It was he who first showed the way,
and other poets followed.

We need not wonder, perhaps, that our poetry is a splendor of the
world when we remember that it is rooted in these grand old
tales, and that it awoke to life through the singing of a strong
son of the soil, a herdsman and a poet. We know very little of
this first of English poets, but what we do know makes us love
him. He must have been a gentle, humble, kindly man, tender of
heart and pure of mind. Of his birth we know nothing; of his
life little except the story which has been told. And when death
came to him, he met it cheerfully as he had lived.

For some days he had been ill, but able still to walk and talk.
But one night, feeling that the end of life for him was near, he
asked the brothers to give to him for the last time the
Eucharist, or sacrament of the Lord's Supper.

"They answered, 'What need of the Eucharist? for you are not
likely to die, since you talk so merrily with us, as if you were
in perfect health.'

"'However,' said he, 'bring me the Eucharist.'

"Having received the same into his hand, he asked whether they
were all in charity with him, and without any enmity or rancour.

"They answered that they were all in perfect charity and free
from anger; and in their turn asked him whether he was in the
same mind towards them.

"He answered, 'I am in charity, my children, with all the
servants of God.'

"Then, strengthening himself with the heavenly viaticum,* he
prepared for the entrance into another life, and asked how near
the time was when the brothers were to be awakened to sing the
nocturnal praises of our Lord.

*The Eucharist given to the dying.

"They answered, 'It is not far off.'

"Then he said, 'Well, let us wait that hour.' And signing
himself with the sign of the cross, he laid his head on the
pillow, and falling into a slumber ended his life so in silence."

Thus his life, which had been begun in silence, ended also in
silence, with just a few singing years between.

"Thus it came to pass, that as he had served God with a simple
and pure mind, and undisturbed devotion, so he now departed to
His presence, leaving the world by a quiet death. And that
tongue which had composed so many holy words in praise of the
Creator, uttered its last words while he was in the act of
signing himself with a cross, and recommending himself into His
hands."*

*Bede, Ecclesiastical History

At Whitby still the ruins of a monastery stand. It is not the
monastery over which the Abbess Hilda ruled or in which Caedmon
sang, for in the ninth century that was plundered and destroyed
by the fierce hordes of Danes who swept our shores. But in the
twelfth century the house was rebuilt, and parts of that building
are still to be seen.