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Title: Children's Stories in English Literature: From
   Taliesin to Shakespeare
Author: Wright, Henrietta Christian (d. 1899)
Date of first publication: 1889
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1907
Date first posted: 10 July 2009
Date last updated: 10 July 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #349

This ebook was produced by:
Brenda Lewis, Therese Wright
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made
available by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




CHILDREN'S STORIES

        IN

ENGLISH LITERATURE

_FROM TALIESIN TO SHAKESPEARE_




BY THE SAME AUTHOR


CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE,
    1861-1896. One vol., 12mo         $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN LITERATURE,
    1660-1860. One vol., 12mo         $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated       $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN AMERICAN HISTORY.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated       $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES OF THE GREAT SCIENTISTS.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated       $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.
    FROM TALIESIN TO SHAKESPEARE. One vol.,
    12mo                              $1.25

CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE.
    FROM SHAKESPEARE TO TENNYSON. One vol.,
    12mo                              $1.25

THE PRINCESS LILLIWINKINS AND OTHER STORIES.
    One vol., 12mo. Illustrated       $1.25




CHILDREN'S STORIES

        IN

ENGLISH LITERATURE

_FROM TALIESIN TO SHAKESPEARE_


          BY

HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT


      NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
        1907




COPYRIGHT, 1889, BY

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


            TROW'S
PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
           NEW YORK.




CONTENTS.


                                     PAGE

      CHAPTER I.
THE OLD BRITISH SONGS,                  1

      CHAPTER II.
THE OLD SAXON SONGS,                   20

      CHAPTER III.
CAEDMON,                               34

      CHAPTER IV.
THE VENERABLE BEDE,                    46

      CHAPTER V.
KING ALFRED,                           57

      CHAPTER VI.
THE ROMANCE OF KING ARTHUR,            79

      CHAPTER VII.
ROBIN HOOD: THE HERO OF THE PEOPLE,   102

      CHAPTER VIII.
LANGLANDE--GOWER,                     120

      CHAPTER IX.
SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE,                  142

      CHAPTER X.
GEOFFREY CHAUCER,                     162

      CHAPTER XI.
WICKLIFFE,                            202

      CHAPTER XII.
CAXTON,                               220

      CHAPTER XIII.
EDMUND SPENSER AND THE FARY QUEENE,  263

      CHAPTER XIV.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY,                    299

      CHAPTER XV.
THE RISE OF THE DRAMA,                321




CHAPTER I.

THE OLD BRITISH SONGS.


Once upon a time a company of daring seamen from the eastern borders
of the North Sea, sailing the ocean in search of new adventures, came
to a land whose white cliffs had seemed to shine a welcome to them for
many a mile across the gray waters. This was the country now known as
England, but then called Britain; and the seamen found it to be a
green and pleasant land, with safe coasts and good harbors, and
inhabited by a race like themselves, brave, strong, and warlike,
always eager for battle, and happiest when engaged in deadly combat
with some foe as fierce and unrelenting as themselves.

The new-comers stayed long enough to learn something of the life and
customs of the strangers--and perhaps had a battle or two with them
in order to try their mettle--and then sailed away again; and when
they returned home told their friends wonderful stories of the
Britons--those island warriors--and their brave deeds; of their
terrible appearance in battle, with their dark hair floating back from
their foreheads, and the upper part of their bodies naked and covered
with pictures of monsters and demons, and of their savage war-cries,
and their war-chariots with their wheels furnished with sharp scythes
to cut down the opposing foemen.

And they told also of the wide-stretching meadows, and fine rivers,
and great forests filled with all kinds of game; and of their walled
cities and beautiful temples, which had been built by Roman conquerors
when they claimed the island for their own.

These stories spread from one tribe to another until all the people
living on the eastern borders of the North Sea knew about the Land of
the Sea-Cliffs; and many voyages were made thither. We do not exactly
know the date when these foreign tribes first began to visit Britain,
though it was probably about the year 350; but from that time it was
no uncommon thing for the Britons to see these strangers landing on
their coasts. And as time passed the visitors, who had first been
attracted by curiosity, or love of gain, or friendship--for the
Britons more than once asked their help in the wars that they had with
unfriendly tribes in the north--came gradually to consider the country
as their own, and built homes there in the shades of the deep forests,
or on the borders of the sea, and the ancient inhabitants were
regarded by them almost as intruders.

Then for two hundred years or more there were wars over all the
country, and as the strangers were more and more successful, and made
settlement after settlement, even the old name Britain began to be
seldom heard, and the country was called the land of the Angles, or
Saxons, or Jutes, after the different tribes of invaders.

The Britons who were thus made to fight for their homes were a race
hard to conquer. Even the Roman soldiers, who subdued almost all of
Europe, never really conquered these island warriors, and only
succeeded in living harmoniously with them when they offered them
friendship and taught them the arts of peace, instead of trying to
make slaves of them.

Their religion was a gloomy and forbidding one, but taught them to die
like heroes, and to fear nothing except the anger of their priests,
who were called Druids, and who held unlimited power over the people.
They worshipped sometimes in the great stone temples, round and
roofless, which were built in the open plain, and sometimes in the
groves that were consecrated to religious uses. And as the solemn
ceremony proceeded, and the prisoners taken in battle were brought
forward and sacrificed upon the altars, the warriors felt that they
too were connected with the mysterious rites that held such awe for
them, and believed all the more firmly that war was a glorious thing,
and to die in battle the only death for a brave man.

The treasures taken in battle were kept in the sacred groves,
unguarded; for so great was the fear of the Druids and their power
that not even the bravest chieftain would approach the spot; and this
custom gave them an added terror as foemen, for no prize of gold or
silver or jewel offered by the enemy as the price of peace could
compare in value, to the British warrior, with the branch of oak or
twig of mistletoe which the priests bestowed upon him as the reward of
valor.

Thus loving war and content with their rough mode of life, nothing
that an enemy could offer would seem worth accepting; and although the
Romans built walled cities, and laid out gardens and vineyards, and
reclaimed the forest lands from the wild beasts, the nature of the
people did not change very much. And thus, notwithstanding the
centuries of Roman influence which preceded, the sea-kings who came to
conquer Britain for their own found its people as savage and
war-loving as themselves, and the conflict between them was a bitter
one.

It was natural that as war was the thing that engaged the thoughts of
the people most, it should also form the subject of their songs, and
the sweetest singer, in the mind of the British chieftain, was he who
could best praise the warlike deeds of his chief, and predict honor
and glory for him in the future. From the earliest times it was the
custom among them for each chieftain or king to have certain bards and
singers attached to his court, whose duty it was to recount his deeds
of battle and those of his forefathers, to relate the history of
ancient times, to sing the glories of the present, and to prophesy
future victories. These minstrels held places of high importance, and
took rank with the chief officers of the household.

Sometimes, when war had ceased for awhile, the warriors would resume
their old pastimes, and hunt the wolves, bears, deer, and boars that
roamed almost unchecked through the vast forests; and after the hunt,
as they lay around the great fires weary with the day's slaughter, the
bards would sing other songs more peaceful in character, and partaking
somewhat of the nature of their rough, but cherished home-life. And
from the fragments of these songs that have come down to us, we are
able to judge somewhat of the manner of living in those far-off times.


One of these old British lays relates the story of Crede, a beautiful
princess of Kerry, who declared she would marry no one but a poet
capable of describing her house. And then we see the picture of the
young poet stepping out into the midst of the gay company, wearing a
crimson cloak fastened with a gold brooch, and bearing his gold-rimmed
shield, and gold-hilted sword, and shining spear, which he stands
against the side of the hall while he takes the harp and sings of the
beauty of Crede's house.

And from his song we learn that the house of the beautiful princess
was well worthy of her. It was a hundred spans from one corner to
another, and the heavy oaken door was twenty feet wide, with a lintel
of carved silver, and posts of green bronze, and a portico thatched
with wings of blue and yellow birds. Inside, the corner-stones were of
silver and gold, and the floor was covered with green rushes. There
were beautiful couches from the East, adorned with yellow gold and
precious stones, and with embroidered curtains hanging from bronze
rods; and there were chairs blazing with jewels, and silken gowns and
blue mantles, and red and gold and crystal cups; and there was the
great bronze vat filled with the "pleasant juice of the malt," and the
cup-bearers clad in rich raiment passing to and fro among the guests
bearing jewelled goblets filled with mead, and serving cakes and
fruits; and there were songs and laughter and merry words, for Crede's
house was always filled with guests, all of whom received cordial
welcome, from the wandering musicians who paid for their welcome with
a song, to the stern and solemn Druids who awed the children with
their grave silence.

Such was the Song of Crede--sung by the brave young harper who was
suing for her love, and listened to with critical attention by the
gathered company who desired that the praises of their fair princess
and her beautiful house should be celebrated in words and music the
most fitting.

And then there was the song of Bail, the Sweet-spoken, and the
Princess Aillin, which tells how the unfortunate pair, being crossed
in love and parted by bitter fate, set out to meet each other
privately on the banks of the Boyne; and how, as Bail and his
followers were resting, having unyoked their chariots and sent their
horses out to graze, they saw a horrible spectre like a man coming
toward them along the shore, "swiftly as the hawk darts from the cliff
or the wind rushes from off the sea." And he told Bail that Aillin
was dead, as had been foretold by the Druids, and that they would
never meet in life, but would meet after death and would not part
forever after that. And then the man passed by "as a blast of the
wind," and Bail fell dead of the evil tidings, and his tombstone was
set up, and a yew grew up through his grave and the form of Bail's
head appeared on the top of it. And then the horrible spectre sped
southward, and passed into the sunny chamber of Aillin, and told her
he had witnessed the lamentations over Bail who died while coming to
meet her. Then Aillin fell dead, and her tombstone was set up and an
apple-tree grew through her grave and became a great tree, and
Aillin's head appeared on the top of it. And at the end of seven years
the two trees were cut down by the poets and prophets and seers, and
were made into two tablets, on which were written the loves of Bail
and Aillin. And long afterward, at a great festival of the bards of
the realm, the poets came from the North bringing the tablet of yew,
and the poets came from the South bringing the tablet of applewood,
and as the lord of the festival held the two tablets in his hands, in
order to read the tragic story engraven thereon, suddenly they sprang
together and were united so firmly that they could not possibly be
separated. And they were preserved many years in the treasury at Tara,
until it was burned by an enemy of the land.


Among the most popular of these old songs were those of Taliesin, one
of the greatest of the old bards. Taliesin, whose name meant Shining
Forehead, and was given him on account of the wondrous beauty of his
countenance, was one of those fascinating personages whom the early
races delighted to surround with mystery. There were strange accounts
of his birth, some asserting that he was the son of an enchanter and
knew all the secrets of the past and the mysteries of the future, as
well as the voices of nature in the world around, and that he had come
from his home in the region of the summer stars to encourage man by
his songs and prophecies.

Many of the songs relate to the victories of the great British chief
Urien, which took place between the years 547 and 560. Taliesin is
supposed to have passed many years of his life at the court of Urien,
where he was chief bard, and at all the great feasts the warriors
listened in astonishment and delight while Taliesin sang in a voice of
unrivalled sweetness and power the deeds of their famous chieftain. He
boasted always of Urien's exploits with loyal enthusiasm, Urien, whose
rage was a sword and whose spirit inspired his followers, charging
them to keep their faces ever toward the foe and raise their spears
high above the heads of the Saxons. "Urien," he says, "is warlike,
with the grandeur of a perfect prince." Urien is "the eagle of the
land--he terrifies the trembling Saxon, whose destiny is a bier." And
then, as the listeners bend forward more eagerly, the music swells,
and the words grow more vehement. "What noise is that? Is it the earth
that quakes, or the white swell of the sea rolling landward? If there
is a cry on the hill, is it not Urien that terrifies? If there is a
cry in the valley, is it not Urien thrusting his spear? If there is a
cry in the mountains, is it not Urien conquering his enemies? If there
is a sigh on the dyke, or a cry over the plains, or in the vale, it is
Urien, whose spear is like death!"

Always of Urien the bard sings lovingly and boastingly, till the great
chieftain meets his death and leaves his kingdom to his sons, whom
Taliesin also serves till, one by one, they fall in battle. And then
Taliesin withdraws from the world and spends the rest of his life in
solitary retreat in Wales, mourning the past, and sighing over the
years that have left him alone and homeless.

Among the finest of his songs which do not celebrate battle, is the
"Song to the Wind," one of the best examples of the old British
poetry. In this poem Taliesin sings of the wind, which will never be
older or younger, which is unconfined and unequalled, coming from the
four regions of the earth, and flaunting his banners over every land;
unseen and seeing not, afar off and near by, bold and vehement, mute
and loud-voiced, older than the earth, on sea and on land, coming
unwelcome and refusing to come when desired, refusing to repair his
wrong-doing and yet sinless, bearing heat of the sun and cold of the
moon, without wants, and indispensable to man.

There are also a "Song to the Great World" and a "Song to the Little
World," a "Song to Mead," and a "Song of Pleasant Things"--in all of
which Taliesin shows that familiarity with nature and the acute
perception of her beauties which are the gifts of the true poet. The
wheat on the stalk waving in the wind, the berries which the reapers
gather from the hedgerows in harvest time, the sea-gulls circling on
the shore, the open fields where sing the cuckoo and nightingale, the
slow, long days of summer, the charlock in the springing corn, the
green heath, and the salt marsh, fire, water, mist, flowers, and south
winds, are all noticed with a faithful touch by this old poet, to whom
nature spoke so truly and lovingly, and who knew her heart so well,
that even now, after so many years, the later poet can find no meaning
fairer than that given by Taliesin to the mysteries that it is the
poet's gift to divine.


The later deeds of Urien were also sung by Llywarch Hen, now generally
considered the greatest genius perhaps of all the old bards, though to
Taliesin is given the praise of possessing the sweetest voice.
Llywarch Hen was a warrior as well as bard, and followed his chief to
many a bloody battle. His "Lament for Urien" is full of power and
pathos, and became so popular that it was sung hundreds of years
afterward by the people of the country, when chief and poet were
alike almost forgotten. The minstrel-warrior was with Urien as
brother-in-arms at his last great battle with the Saxons, and carried
the head of his chief in his mantle from the field. The old chant is
full of the horrors of that fatal day--and Llywarch sings his song
with a heart full of sorrow:

    "The eagle of Gol, bold and generous,
     Wrathful in war, sure of conquest
     Was Urien with the ardent grasp.

     A head I bear by my side,
     The head of Urien, the leader,
     And on his white bosom the black raven is perched;

     A head I bear in my hand,
     He that was a soaring eagle,
     That was the shield of his country,
     That was a wheel in battle,
     That was a ready sword--

     A head I bear that supported me.
     Is there any known but he welcomed?
     Woe to my hand, he is gone,
     Woe to Reged from this day."

After the death of Urien, Llywarch Hen took refuge with Cyndyllan,
another chief, who also fell in battle with the Saxons, who burned
his house and massacred his family, and Llywarch Hen was again called
upon to chant a funeral song. He sang mournfully:

"The house of Cyndyllan is gloomy this night, without fire and without
song. Roofless and dark it stands, an open waste, that was once the
resort of strong warriors. Without, the eagle screams loud, he has
swallowed fresh drink, heart blood of Cyndyllan the fair. The house of
Cyndyllan is the seat of chill grief, encircled with wide-spreading
silence. Lonely it stands on the top of the rock of Hydwyth, without
its lord, without guests, without the circling feasts!"

Twenty-four brave sons had Llywarch Hen, and all of them fell in
fighting against their enemies. Gwenn, his best beloved, strong and
large of stature, was the first to fall under the spears of the
foemen, and the father's heart is filled with bitter grief as he
laments for his favorite child:

"Let the wave break noisily; let it cover the shore as the lances meet
in battle, let it cover the plain as the lances join in shock, for
Gwenn has been slain at the ford of Morlas. O Gwenn, woe to him who is
too old since he has lost you. Woe to him who is too old to avenge
you! Behold the tomb of Gwenn, the fearless! Sweetly a bird sang above
the head of Gwenn before they covered him with turf. But the song
broke the heart of Llywarch Hen."

Llywarch Hen was also a close observer of nature, and in his
descriptive poetry there is that same out-of-door freshness which
distinguishes the work of Taliesin, and which is to be found in the
writings of all the great English poets. In his songs of winter
nothing seems to have been too small or insignificant to pass over,
and every object is touched upon with the skill of the true poet; so
that in reading the verses we see, as in a picture, the wet furrows,
the yellow birch-tops, the bent branches bowing in the wind, the
scurrying leaves, the heaps of hard grain safely housed, and hear
without the war of the "gale and storm keeping equal pace."

Another time he speaks of the green-topped birch-saplings, and the
long stems of brambles full of berries, of the thrush in her leafy
nest, and the ferns drenched with showers, and the ocean veiled with
the rain; he sees also the willow tops, the clover, the dog-rose, the
apple blooms, the cresses and water-lilies, the hawthorn and
meadow-sweet, and hears the cuckoo sing on "the blossom-covered
branches, and in the ivied trees." And at night he shows us the humid
glens shining under the moon, and the white-topped cliffs, and the wet
beach surf-beaten and glistening, and we hear the "wave of sullen din
and loud," breaking and washing over the pebbles and gravel of the
shore.


Such were the songs that the old Britons listened to as they sat in
the halls of their chiefs, or gathered around the blazing fires in the
heart of the forest--songs of their kings and princes, and of the
bloody battles fought with the enemy who had come to conquer their
loved land, and of the familiar world of nature around them. It is
impossible to tell positively just when these old songs were composed,
for in those early times the poetry and history of the race were both
handed down from generation to generation by word of mouth mainly.
Taliesin and Llywarch Hen, it is pretty certain, lived in the sixth
century, but, from the manner of transmitting the old songs by word of
mouth, it might happen that a song in praise of one chieftain would,
in the next generation, be applied to another, and thus it is hard to
fix a date even for those songs which contain names somewhat familiar
to history. But this does not make the songs themselves any the less
interesting, as for many centuries the customs and habits of the
Britons remained unchanged; and the lays that are ascribed to
Taliesin, Llywarch Hen, Anewin, Ossian, and other bards will always
have a charm for lovers of true poetry as well as for those who
delight to trace the beginnings of a nation's history.




CHAPTER II.

THE OLD SAXON SONGS.


The invaders, the fair-haired races from across the sea, who had come
to drive the Britons from their homes, had also their songs, fierce
and warlike as best pleased their savage natures, and well fitted to
kindle in their hearts that wild enthusiasm that made them such
terrible enemies in battle. Never could the harpers sing a song too
fierce for these war-loving Saxons, who believed that only those who
died in battle might find entrance to the hall of Odin, their chief
god, and the feasts of the heroes in Valhalla.

Best liked of all these songs was that of Beowulf, the hero whose
brave deeds were known to all the races living on the borders of the
North Sea. And this is the story:


Hrothgar, King of the Danes, determined to build a palace that should
be forever renowned for its magnificence. So he sent all over the
world for the most skilled workmen, and they came from the North and
the East and the South, and in time the palace arose, stately and
beautiful, and was named Heorot, from the stags' antlers which adorned
the eastern and western gables. And its great mead-hall, the largest
in the world, was famed among the nations for its size and splendor.
Its arched roof was adorned with beautiful carvings, and its walls
were hung with costly tapestry, and golden veils on which were
curiously enwrought the sieges and wars of ancient times. At the upper
end of the hall was the raised seat of the chief, carved in strange
patterns, studded with jewels, and hung with webs of spun gold; and at
the lower end stood a table which held the drinking-horns and gold and
silver goblets used at the royal feasts. Through the centre of the
hall, from end to end, stretched the stone hearths, on which blazed
the mighty fires, and on either side of the hearths were the tables
and benches for the people, the chief's "hearth-sharers." Lofty
columns and pillars, carved and twined with chains of linked gold,
supported the roof, and the floors were of polished wood and inlaid
with rare designs. And Hrothgar was well satisfied with his beautiful
palace, and ordered feasts to be held continually in the great
mead-hall, where he sat in his lofty seat with his wife and nobles by
his side, and listened to the songs, and distributed rings and rich
gifts to all who were worthy of honor.

But evil days fell upon Heorot. One night, after a great feast, the
mead-hall was entered by Grendel, the grim dragon who dwelt in the
dismal fens, and was at enmity with all the races of men. The hall was
full of sleeping warriors, and the hungry monster carried off thirty
of Hrothgar's bravest thanes, and bore them to his den, and devoured
them with greedy joy. Great was the lamentation in Heorot when the
morning light disclosed the work of Grendel, and the sorrow-stricken
chieftains tracked the blood-stained course of the monster to the
fastnesses of the fens, and tried in vain to catch sight of their
lost companions. But Grendel only mocked at their sorrow and returned
to Heorot the next night, and resumed his deadly work; and despairing
fear fell upon the heart of Hrothgar and his thanes, for they well
knew that to war against Grendel was all in vain, for him could
neither steel nor iron injure, as his scaly coat was more impenetrable
than the strongest armor, and his breath was as poison to all who came
near him.

Wherefore there was wailing in Hrothgar's palace night after night,
for Grendel held grim sway in the mead-hall, and for twelve long years
wrought sorrow in the gold-decked halls of Heorot. And the hall of
feasting was deserted, and there was woe all over the land.

And the tale of distress was carried to all the neighboring kingdoms,
and came to the ears of Beowulf, the Goth, bravest of Scandinavian
warriors, who had in his right arm the strength of thirty men. And his
heart grieved over the sorrows of Hrothgar, and he resolved if
possible to free him from his enemy. So he ordered a ship to be built,
and choosing fifteen of his bravest warriors, sailed away for the
land of the Danes. The good ship bore them over the waters like a
bird, its foam-wreathed prow glistening, and its deck filled with
brave watchers; and on the second day they saw the shining cliffs and
broad seanesses of Denmark.

As they sprang out on the shore they were met by the warden of the
coast, who learning their errand, conducted them over the stone-paved
roads until they saw the shining walls of Heorot, and then returned to
the coast to guard the ship during their absence.

Beowulf and his companions entered the palace, their coats of mail
glistening and their armor clanging as they traversed the long hall,
and being exceedingly weary with their journey, set up their gilded
shields and bucklers against the walls, piled up their long spears,
and threw their war shirts in a ring on the mead benches. Then Beowulf
sent Wulfgar, the king's chamberlain, to demand audience of Hrothgar,
which was readily granted, for the hero's fame and nobility were well
known. Then Beowulf and his warriors entered the presence of the
great chief, wearing their linked war-shirts and helmets, but leaving
their arms piled in the hall; and Beowulf greeted the king
courteously, and also the queen and the great nobles, and said: "Hail,
Hrothgar! Beowulf am I, thane and kinsman to Hygelac the Goth. Hither
have I come, hearing of thy evil case, to do battle with Grendel. Oh,
Prince of the bright Danes, refuse not my boon, but grant that I and
my earls may fight the hero-devouring monster. Unarmed will we meet
him, for he cares not for the weapons of men, and if I conquer, then
will there be joy in these halls; but if I fall, send my
war-shirt--wrought by the noted Weland--back to Hygelac, that he may
know of my death, and that all in vain we followed the swan's path to
the coasts of the Ring-Danes."

And Hrothgar answered: "Shame and sorrow have ruled long in Heorot, O
Beowulf, and if thou wilt rid the land of this dreaded curse, then
indeed shall praise and honor be thine from the chief of the bright
Danes."

Then there was feasting and merry-making that night in the great
mead-hall, and Wealtheow the queen, clad in gold-embroidered
garments, bore to the guests costly jewelled goblets, and passed to
and fro with her maidens distributing gifts to the heroes. And when
the feast was over, one by one the Ring-Danes withdrew from the hall
and left Beowulf and his companions alone; and the Goths lay down to
rest with anxious hearts, scarce expecting ever to see again their
country and friends.

Then through the darkness came Grendel, creeping from the misty moors,
and laughed as he entered the great mead-hall and saw the sleeping
warriors. Quick as thought he seized one of the thanes, tore him limb
from limb, drank his blood, and devoured him hand and foot. Then he
stepped to where Beowulf lay, and seized the hero in his baleful
grasp. But the Goth was awake and ready for the foe, and seized
Grendel with such a grip of iron that the monster trembled with fear,
for never before had he felt the strength of such a hand, and he
dreaded lest his hour had come at last, and would have been glad to
creep away again to the fens and leave Heorot in peace. But Beowulf
held him with his mighty strength, and the two joined in deadly
combat. The great hall trembled under the fierce blows, and would have
fallen had it not been firmly held together by its cunningly wrought
bands of iron. The gold-adorned mead-benches were overturned, and the
ale ran in streams over the floor. But Beowulf ceased not till he had
given Grendel his death-wound, and the monster had fled to his den to
die, leaving one of his hands behind him in the hall, and staining all
the moors with the blood from his wounds.

Then there was joy in Heorot, and the glad news spread far and wide,
and Hrothgar's thanes came riding quickly to the palace to survey the
scene of the conflict. And all gazed with wonder at the wreck of the
mighty hall, of which not a part was uninjured excepting the roof, and
every thane felt himself honored at being permitted to see Beowulf,
the hero of the fight. And then the whole company followed the track
of Grendel over the noisome fens till they came to the lonely mere,
and saw the surge dyed with blood and the shores shrouded with gray,
poisonous vapors, and knew that the dreaded monster had crept thither
to die, and that he would trouble them no more.

Then the cunning smiths set to work and forged new bands of iron, and
repaired the mead-hall, which was soon made fresh by the willing hands
of men and maidens, and shone at sunset as fair and beautiful as ever,
hung anew with golden webs, and with its gold-adorned mead-benches
waiting for the heroes. And that night the king gave a feast in honor
of Beowulf, and songs were sung and mead drunk in honor of the Goth,
and the king made him beautiful presents, a golden flag with jewelled
standard, a helmet with the figure of the boar flashing its jewelled
eyes from the crest, a coat of mail whose links were of rarest
workmanship, and a sword of priceless value. And there were brought
into the court eight steeds of noble size, and on one of them was a
cunningly wrought saddle, blazing with gold and gems, and these also
Hrothgar gave to Beowulf, and Wealtheow brought to him a cloak
embroidered with gold, and a gold neck-ring of such size that it was
a marvel to all beholders, and said, "Hail, Beowulf! wear this cloak
and this ring in honor of thy victory, and in token of our abiding
friendship, and mayst thou be a friend to this house forever! for the
praise of thy deed shall spread throughout all time, even as the
waters gird all over the earth the windy walls of the land." And the
feast lasted long into the night, and when it was over the warriors
placed their shields, and war-shirts, and helmets, and spears at their
heads and lay down to rest, fearing no evil.

But scarcely had the great hall become quiet, when, from the deadly
streams that guarded the fens, came the sea-wolf, Grendel's mother, to
avenge her son, and entering the hall, seized schere, the king's
dearest thane, and bore him quickly away to her den. Now, again, there
was anguish in Heorot, but again Beowulf offered himself as a
champion, and sought the refuge of the wolf under the shadow of the
hills, where black mists hung over the down-rushing streams, and a
magic fire gleamed at night above the flood wherein swam dragons and
serpents. And he entered the loathsome flood and sank down to the
sea-wolf's dwelling, and, seizing an old sword which he saw gleaming
there, forged by giants, and greater than any other man might bear,
struck the murderess with the mighty brand, and slew her. The place
was full of gold and gems and war weapons of strange workmanship; but
Beowulf bore away only the rich sword hilt and the head of Grendel,
and so rose up again to the surface of the waters and swam to the
land, and was joyfully welcomed by the warriors who had feared his
death.

Then there was more rejoicing in the halls of Hrothgar, and when
Beowulf finally sailed away again to his own land, his good ship could
scarcely bear the weight of the treasure that Hrothgar had given him,
and every man bore with him a priceless heirloom that would win him an
honorable position at the court of Hygelac. And when the watchers on
the coast of Norway saw the ship of Beowulf appear with its gilded
boar's head flashing from the prow, they sent word in haste to the
court, and the king made ready to receive the hero royally, and he
was loaded with honors, and his praises were sung throughout the
length and breadth of all Scandinavia.

And then the old story relates other adventures of Beowulf, and tells
how he finally succeeded to the kingdom and ruled fifty years wisely,
well-beloved by the people; and how he died at last, while trying to
free the land from a demon who ravaged it, and so kept his bright
renown to the end.


Although the story of Beowulf is, so far as its incidents are
considered, a Scandinavian legend, it is, considered as literature, an
English poem, and, if we except the Paraphrase of Caedmon (about which
we shall hear in the next chapter, and which was written about the
same time, probably), the oldest poem in the English language. It is,
as a poem, not Scandinavian but English, because it is written in the
language formed after the Saxons had been long in Britain and had
mixed with those of the Britons whom they did not drive into Ireland,
Scotland, and Wales, and because not only the language but the scene
of it is English. So far as we know, the story was never written at
all before the Saxons came to Britain, and the poem is English
literature in somewhat the same way (though of course by no means to
the same degree) that Shakespeare's "Hamlet," for example, is English
literature, though its story is taken from old Danish chronicle. All
the Britons had not been driven out by the invaders, and the new race
was in part British, although chiefly Anglo-Saxon, of course. And the
influence of the old British songs and of the new country into which
the Saxons had come, was really what gave its form and its scene to
the old story retold and made into a true poem. All the scenery of the
poem is English, and anyone can now find along the coast of Yorkshire
the places described in it, while the country in Denmark, where the
incidents of the story are supposed to have happened, is very
different. It is these things as well as its early date which give the
poem of Beowulf so much importance as a monument of early English
literature.

The Saxons had other songs celebrating their victories over the
Britons, and their adventures in the chase, and from these as well as
from Beowulf we learn that, even in those early days, they held
courage and brave deeds in highest honor, and valued the power of
self-sacrifice. And whether we catch a glimpse of the old Britons with
their tattooed bodies and floating hair rushing to battle, or
wandering over the fens, or standing in solemn awe in the shadows of
the deep forests where the Druids kept their treasures, guarded only
by the sacredness of the place--or whether we see the conquering Saxon
in his lordly hall, with his gleemen singing before him, and his earls
drinking great draughts of ale, it is all a part of the same wonderful
picture in which we see the England of former days, when tribe was
pitted against tribe and race against race in contest for the land
which each claimed so fiercely for his own.




CHAPTER III.

CAEDMON.


The old British songs and the story of Beowulf belong to the time
before England received the name it is now known by, and when the
tribes which inhabited the land were often hostile, and always jealous
of the power which each held. But as years passed the land grew more
peaceful, and even the old warriors who had fought so fiercely at
length came to imagine a future when there should be harmony between
the different tribes, and when their children's children should no
longer look upon one another as rivals, but all should be joined
together by mutual interests, and the word _English_ stand for
all the people who called that country their home.

And this time at last actually came, but in a way perhaps that the
fierce sea-kings had never dreamed of, for the cause was so unlike
anything that had ever influenced them, that it is no wonder they
could know nothing of it. Differ as they might in many things, the
Saxons and the Britons were all alike in their love for battle and the
deep, undying hatred which they felt toward an invader of their homes.
The British chieftain longed to die finally in battle, for his
religion taught him it was the one glorious thing to do, and the Saxon
chief was filled with the same desire, for the priests had taught him
that only in this way could he win entrance to Valhalla, the
Norseman's heaven.

But there had come to Britain from across the sea, many years before
the first Saxons landed on its shores, a little band of men who
neither were dressed in glittering armor, nor held in their hands the
cruel weapons of war, but who wore coarse garments such as the poorest
might have worn, and bore a banner on which was wrought the figure of
a dove, the emblem of peace.

They were Christian missionaries who had heard of the cruel religious
practices of the Britons, and their love of revenge, and they had come
to the island with the hope of winning them to a purer religion. Their
simple ways of life, their honest service to their faith, their
kindness to the poor, and the hope they gave of a better life beyond
the grave, made a deep impression upon their listeners, who admired
their courage in coming among a hostile people, sympathized with them
in their indifference to hardship and deprivation, and found a strange
pleasure in the thought that the new religion offered a strong field
for battle, though the fighting was not to be with sword or spear, but
against the strong powers of selfish courage and savage greed of
power, and with the weapons of self-denial and a love that seemed all
the greater because of its humility.

Many converts were won, and from this time Britain contained here and
there little bands of native Christians who tried to lead their more
savage brothers into gentler ways of living. Gradually churches and
monasteries were established and the Christian religion was
acknowledged by many, and Christian communities could be found in
various places; and so extensive was the conversion that British
bishops sat in the Council that was held in Arles, France, in 314, to
discuss matters of importance to the Church. When the Saxon tribes
came to Britain, bringing with them their religion of war and
bloodshed, and finally succeeded in driving the Britons away from many
places where they made Saxon settlements, the Christian religion
suffered greatly from the change, and many of the British Christians
went back to their ancient faith. Still, in the north of England,
where the Church was too firmly established to perish before
heathenism, the invaders gradually adopted the religion of the
conquered, and the country became gradually re-christianized. Long
afterward Christian priests from Rome came to the Saxon settlements in
the south and preached the new religion of love and mercy, and in time
their doctrines won favor and the southern Saxons began again to
accept Christianity and to dream of another life than one of continued
fighting and feasting. Perhaps the listening warriors remembered the
story of Beowulf, and how his great battle was fought with other
weapons than they knew anything of, and how he met death gloriously
while trying unselfishly to serve the people he loved; perhaps they
remembered that their great gods Odin and Thor, whose service was
fear, were after all less loved by them than the gentle Baldur, whose
service was peace, because all nature loved him. At any rate, from
whatever reason, the new religion gradually spread from one part of
the island to another, heathen temples were pulled down, heathen gods
were forsaken, and there came at last a day when England could be
called a Christian land from shore to shore. And then all over the
country arose monasteries and churches, and the people were more
firmly united than they had ever been before, for the new faith bound
one and all, high and low, in the perfect brotherhood which the monks
meant to establish when they told the story of how the new faith was
first preached, not to great kings or mighty warriors, but to the
humble shepherds who were watching their flocks on the hillsides
around Bethlehem.

This great change could not take place without affecting the nation in
many ways. War ceased to be glorified, and was looked upon as a
fearful necessity and not the object of life. And the old war-songs
and battle-chants gave place to Christian hymns, and it became more
common to hear the sweet voices of nuns singing matins and vespers,
than to start at the sound of the war-trumpet. And so it is not
strange to find that about the same time that the story of Beowulf was
written to please the warlike chieftains, another great poem should be
sung by a Christian monk, to glorify the mission of the Church of
peace, and should have for its subject the stories and incidents which
are found in the Bible.

The author of this poem, known to us as Caedmon, from the name given
to him by the monks when he was received into the monastery of Whitby,
was born in 625, and had been perhaps, before his entrance into the
community, a tenant-farmer on some of the abbey lands. In those days
the lowliest born and the highest were alike in their love for song,
and when we consider that their lives were for the most part spent in
hard, monotonous labor, or warfare, and that what is called the
beautiful had very little share in them, we do not wonder that they
cherished the gift of song as the one bright thing in their existence.
And so common was this gift among all classes, that it was looked upon
as a reproach not to be able to sing.

According to a popular legend, Caedmon had not the gift of song at
all, and felt his deficiency deeply, and this sorrow grew upon him so
that he used to rise and leave the room when the harp was passed
around, so that no one should see how deeply he was hurt. Thus his
life was very lonely, and often sad, and as he wandered with the
cattle over the meadows and heard the lark beginning the day with its
sweet song, or listened to the music of the nightingale singing in the
dark, when he sought to escape from the jeers of his companions, he
felt that all nature had a voice and that he alone was dumb. But one
night, when his friends were even merrier than usual at the feast,
and the harp passed rapidly from one to another, Caedmon arose as was
his custom and left the room. It was his turn to watch over the cattle
during the night, and he lay down on his bed of straw and closed his
eyes. But as he lay sleeping, a stranger with a face and form more
beautiful than he had ever seen before, came to him in a dream, and
touched him, and said, "Caedmon, sing." And Caedmon answered, "I
cannot." But the stranger insisted and said, "Thou must sing." And as
Caedmon looked on him he felt the birth of a new power in his soul,
and his heart leaped with joy, for his visitor had brought to him the
thing that he had desired above all others--the gift of song.

Then he was as eager to sing as a captive bird to use its wings, and
he said to the stranger, "What shall I sing?" And he answered, "Sing
me the origin of all things." Then in his dream Caedmon sang words and
music that he had never heard before, in praise of the Creator of the
world. And when the dream left him he still kept the music in his
mind, and in the morning told the vision to an officer of the town,
who led him to the Abbess Hilda, who had charge of the monastery, and
who was so well beloved that everyone called her Mother. Hilda
listened to Caedmon's song, and then called together all the learned
men of the Order to determine the nature of his gift; for in those
days it was often believed that anything uncommon might bring evil to
its possessor. But as Caedmon sang, the holy men at once decided that
his gift had come from heaven, for the music seemed to them divine.
Then they read to Caedmon some portions of the Bible, and asked him if
he could turn them into melody; and the next day he came again to the
monastery and sang the words that had been given him, turning them
into such sweet music that the abbess became convinced that he had
been called by God to another way of life. So she persuaded him to
become a monk and received him into the minster, and bade the wise
among the company teach him the words of the Bible, so that he might
sing the Scriptures and thus bring greater glory to their religion.
Caedmon listened to the accounts from the Bible and turned them all
into song, so that a great part of the Scriptures became known to the
people of that community through his singing, which was so unlike
anything that had ever been heard before that he was looked upon as
being especially endowed with the divine favor.

Caedmon lived in the monastery until he became an old man, loved by
all the Order and the people of the neighborhood, and his fame spread
abroad throughout all England, and many strangers came to Whitby,
attracted only by the wonder of his voice. The monks wrote his songs
down carefully, and they were learned by all the people, and became as
familiar as the war-songs and love-ballads that were sung at their
feasts. And though many other minstrels tried to sing of heavenly
things and rival Caedmon, they could not, for his gift was the
greater, and was considered by all to be divine from the manner of its
coming to him. So his fame remained unrivalled, and after many years
death came to him at last as the monks were singing nocturns, and so
he had sweet music till the end.

Without accepting the miraculous part of this tradition we may easily
see how the idea of paraphrasing the Scriptures may have come to
Caedmon in a dream; and it has been conjectured that his never having
sung before was due to religious scruple, fostered by the
missionaries, against encouraging the warlike and unchristian feelings
aroused by the minstrelsy of the time, and that he used his native
gift as soon as he conceived the idea of singing the praises of
religion with it. He was deeply religious, he lived where there had
been the greatest mingling of the British and Saxon races, and though
we cannot say positively that he was of Celtic blood, it is certain
that he was inspired by the Celtic and missionary spirit, and was
hostile to the traditions of the Saxon bards, who celebrated the
victories of their chiefs and the deeds of Norse heroes.

Although the subjects of his verse were not original with him, yet in
his Paraphrase Caedmon showed himself a true poet, at a time when the
English race was considered almost as barbarian by the more
enlightened nations. The literature of any other country was quite
unknown to him, and it is from this fact that his poetry is peculiarly
valuable, since we are sure that whatever beauty it possesses belongs
to Caedmon alone.

Besides their literary value, his works are important because of the
influence they exerted over the English nation at a time when all
books were written in Latin, and Caedmon's verse alone could reveal to
the unlearned both the glory of the new faith and the possible beauty
that had lain theretofore almost unrevealed in their own language.




CHAPTER IV.

THE VENERABLE BEDE.


One day, in the latter part of the seventh century, there came to St.
Peter's Monastery at Wearmouth, a little boy of seven to be admitted
to the school as a pupil. The good monk who entered his name little
dreamed that the child before him was destined to become so famous
that his fame would one day spread to all the learned nations. But
such was the fact, for the boy was no other than the young Bede, who
stands at the head of the early English writers. In those days the
only schools in England were attached to the monasteries, as education
was not common, and few of the people knew how to read and write. Such
a state of ignorance was considered no disgrace, for the English race
at that time was busy about things that were then of much more
importance than studying from books, for they were building a nation,
and trying to make a united people out of many different elements.

And so the men who were quick in thought, brave in action, and
resolute in will, were the most needed in England at that time, and
very little attention was paid to books. The noble and wealthy classes
were as unlearned as the peasants, and many a king ruled over the
English nation who could not even write his name. Learning was almost
entirely confined to the monks, whose profession kept them away from
war, and whose peaceful lives held some chance for study.

But although kings, nobles, and peasants were alike thus ignorant of
the knowledge that may be had from books, they were by no means
unappreciative of the learning of others. They held knowledge in great
esteem, and many a haughty earl who could command obedience from an
army by a look, would bow in honest admiration and deference before
some passing priest, whose murmured blessing seemed all the more
valuable because delivered in Latin, the language of the learned. The
monasteries were generously endowed, and the schools attached to them
were presided over often by scholars who were not unknown among the
learned of other nations; and so it was possible even then to get what
was considered a good education in England, though it was a rare thing
to devote one's life to it.

School life in the monastery was for the most part pleasant, and the
children and youths who lived there as pupils could not have had
better training for the part they were to play in after-life. The
monks were unselfish, truly pious, and often learned, and the example
of their kindness to the poor and sick, in an age when strength was
the law of life, could not but exert a noble influence on their
pupils.

In these schools the pupil combined the study of books with various
offices performed for the monks, and the young student would often be
summoned from his books to ring the bell for prayers, or give alms to
some beggar, or perhaps to take part in the reception of some noble
whose gifts to the monastery commanded respectful and loyal attention
for himself and his retinue.

Bede, entering Wearmouth at the age of seven, could have known very
little of life outside the walls of St. Peter's, and as just at that
time a more active interest than ever was excited in education, it is
no wonder that the child easily imagined that learning was the chief
thing in life, and even at that early age gave signs of the unusual
brilliancy of his mind. With the other pupils he sang the offices of
the church, performed the household duties required, worked in the
gardens and fields with the monks, and gave his share of attention to
the visitors at the monastery; but his heart was really bound up in
his studies, and he found true pleasure only in them.

At that time a book meant simply a written copy of a manuscript, that
was perhaps itself a copy, and all the writings of the ancients, or
the works of those who were then living, were only preserved in this
way. The writing was done on parchment made of the skins of goats,
deer, or sheep, the leaves being sewed together and the covers made of
boards. As the parchment was prepared by a slow and careful process,
only the most perfect pieces being used, and the manuscripts were
copied by hand, the making of a book was very slow work. And as this
work was done entirely by the monks and their pupils, only assisted
sometimes by laymen who resided in the monastery, it came about very
naturally that the monasteries held all the libraries in England. Some
monasteries were very rich in books, possessing five hundred or a
thousand; others had often only twenty or thirty. In every monastery
there was a room called the Scriptorium, which was set apart for the
making of books, and here the monks and their assistants worked
diligently. The utmost care was taken to copy the text exactly, and
the alteration of the shape of a single letter could not take place
without the consent of the abbot. Sometimes it happened that a monk
had won such a reputation for carefulness and workmanship, that he
would be allowed to copy in his own cell, but more often all the work
was done in the Scriptorium.

It is an easy thing to call up a picture of one of these old rooms,
and see the workers seated at their desks, bending over their work
with loving care, the silence broken only by an occasional footfall in
the corridors outside, and the sombre colors of the monastic habits
brightened by the white tunics and fresh young faces of the pupils.

And the actual copying was not the only element in book-making, for,
not content with copying the exact words of the authors, the monks
followed the examples of the ancients in making their manuscripts as
beautiful as possible, by adorning the margins with illustrations, and
introducing initial letters of intricate and graceful designs. The
illustrations were done in gold leaf and brilliant water-colors, and
the parchment was often colored in violet to enhance the effect.
Nearly every page of the manuscript would contain some specimen of the
illuminator's art, and the English and Irish monks won such a
reputation for beautiful work in this regard, that other nations were
glad to learn from them. Pictures in green, purple, gold, blue, and
silver, flashed from the pages, either illustrating some incident
mentioned in the chapter, or showing only the exquisite fancy of the
illuminator, who was able in this way to prove and cultivate his love
of the beautiful.

The pages so illuminated were deemed worthy of beautiful binding, and
we find that the wooden lids were covered with leather or velvet, and
adorned with jewels and designs in metal, the clasps being of gold and
silver. Plainer volumes were tied by thongs of leather. Copies of the
Bible, books of prayer, and legends of the saints were most frequently
made, though the Greek and Latin classics and books of poetry,
history, and romance were also sometimes copied.

Thus we see that a monk's life in those old days held a great many
interests outside of religious matters, and as young Bede had early
decided to give his life to study, and since all the books were found
in the monasteries, it is not strange that he remained in a monastery
all his life, going when he was ten years old from Wearmouth to the
just finished convent of Yarrow, where he lived the rest of his days.
His learning included every branch of knowledge that was then known,
and we have only to look at his writings to see how far the world had
advanced in his time. He wrote principally in Latin, for in that way
he was sure of having his works understood by all learned men, as
Latin was the language of scholars all over the world.

Although his books on theology, science, and grammar showed his
acquaintance with the wisdom of all ages, and won for him a great
reputation at the time, it is his history of England that has given
him his place in English literature, for it is to this book that we
owe more than to any work that was written for hundreds of years
after. Bede called it the _Ecclesiastical History of England_,
because his real purpose was to write the history of Christianity in
England; but as at that time the history of the Church was the history
of the people, the work is invaluable because of the information in
regard to the growth of the nation, and its pictures of the every-day
life of the people. It was written in Latin, and in its pages are
found recorded all the events of national interest up to his time. It
is here, indeed, that we read the story of Caedmon's life, and it is
perhaps due to this fact alone that the old poet was not utterly
forgotten. But Bede enshrined Caedmon's song in the pages of his
History as carefully and lovingly as one picks the first spring
flower, and thus the earliest note of English poetry comes to us still
as clear and sweet as when Caedmon sung it in the aisles of Whitby
Chapel.

As his History was the most important, it was also almost the last
effort of his life, for after it was finished he undertook no great
work, but spent his last years content with the usual routine of a
monk's duties. There was one service, however, which he wished to
render to those who could not read his Latin treatises, for although
he was one of the most learned men of the age he was still an
Englishman, and had a loyal interest in the common people. Therefore
he desired to translate some portion of the Bible into the
mother-tongue, and chose for this purpose the Gospel of St. John,
thinking no doubt that this message of love would be understood by
all.

We can see him then, in his old age, seated in the Scriptorium which
he had first entered as a child, surrounded by his pupils, who gave
him a love far beyond the common affection, and reading perhaps in
their young faces the same eager hope that had filled his own breast
when, as a novice, he had looked upon those treasured volumes, and
sighed for the wisdom that lay between their jewelled covers.

The work of translation would have been an easy one to such a scholar
as Bede, even though the language of the people was not yet perfectly
formed, but he was old and enfeebled by sickness, and had it not been
for the love he felt toward it he must have given up the task from
very weakness. But he persevered, dictating day after day to his
pupils, and only pausing when suffering compelled him to. He grew
weaker as the work proceeded, and one day, feeling that the end was
near, called his helpers to him and bade them write quickly, for he
did not know how much time would be given him. And as the day wore on
his strength failed so rapidly that his assistants feared the task
was too great, and one of them said: "Most dear master, there is still
one chapter left; do you think it troublesome to be asked more
questions?" But Bede answered, "It is no trouble, write on." And so,
with some intervals of resting, the day passed, and they were still at
the task when, as the dusk gathered, the same pupil said, "Dear
master, there is one sentence yet not written." And again Bede
answered, "Write quickly." And when the boy had finished, we are told
that Bede laid his head in his hands and, saying the Gloria, departed
to the heavenly kingdom.

It is recorded by the monks that the title venerable, which is always
attached to the name of Bede, was given by an angel who bent over the
brother who had fallen asleep while writing his master's epitaph, and
supplied a missing word. And the legend well illustrates the love and
esteem in which he was held by the monks, who thought no honor too
high to be paid to the beloved master whose presence had crowned their
monastery with enduring fame.




CHAPTER V.

KING ALFRED.


About a hundred years after the death of Bede, which occurred in 735,
a little prince was born in England whose name was in time to be as
celebrated as that of the great teacher.

This was Alfred, son of Ethelwulf, king over all England, and as the
little prince was the youngest of Ethelwulf's sons there was small
chance of his ever coming to the throne, even in an age when the right
of the eldest born was often disputed. England at that time was in a
state of trouble that may well be compared to its condition when
invaded by the Saxons, and the cause was of the same nature; for a
foreign foe was again on the soil, and an enemy from across the sea
again threatened the land that had known so much warfare.

These were the Northmen, a seafaring race like the Saxons, called in
England Danes, and in France, where they also ventured, Normans, and
whose custom it was to descend upon any foreign shore, murder the
inhabitants, burn the houses, and carry away captives and treasures,
just because they liked the excitement of adventure and the wealth and
power it brought them. The coasts of France and England were their
favorite places of resort, and the dwellers by the sea had learned to
regard the visits of these marauders with horror, and shrunk from them
with a dread that was considered no shame; for England was honestly
trying, in the midst of many domestic quarrels, to become a peaceable,
law abiding, and civilized nation, and the Danes, who, when away from
home on these marauding expeditions, laughed at law, despised peace,
and found pleasure in burning churches and plundering monasteries,
were rightly thought the enemies of all progress in civilization.

For nearly a hundred years they had harried England, and the people
were never sure of peace for a month at a time. Sometimes they were
defeated, sometimes they were bribed with gold to depart in peace,
sometimes after a successful raid they would go off of their own
accord to plunder other places, but one never knew when they might not
return; and, as after a while they not only came, but declared they
had come to stay, the English found that the matter was very serious,
and that, if England was to remain the land of the English, the Danes
must be driven away utterly, or else held in such fear that they would
be content to stay in the country without fighting for the control of
it.

So the wars went on more fiercely than ever, and neither side could be
said to win, for although the Danes did not conquer England, neither
were they driven away, and the whole land was full of trouble because
of their presence.

Little Prince Alfred was born just at a time when the contest was at
its fiercest, and his earliest recollections were connected with the
dreadful deeds committed by his country's enemies, and his heart was
thrilled with horror many a time as he listened to the story of their
terrible outrages against the lives and property of the English. At
his father's court the highest attention was paid to the training that
would fit men for soldiers and military leaders to fight the Danes,
and Alfred was taught to ride and fence as soon as he was old enough
to sit a horse or hold a sword. And as he watched his father depart on
some expedition against the Danes, and saw the white banner of the
Saxons, with the figure of a horse embroidered upon it, floating
proudly in the wind, he no doubt longed for the time when he too
should follow that banner and be able to fight for his country.

The English court at that period was held with all the magnificence
that could be commanded, and the palaces of the king and nobles were
furnished with all the rare and costly articles that could be
obtained. In the king's palace were golden tables, beautiful carved
oaken chairs ornamented with beaten silver, tapestries and curtains of
silk embroidered with gold and silver, and jewelled goblets from which
the royal family drank their mead. Dress, too, received much
attention, and the wealthy had garments of silk embroidered with
golden flowers, and beautiful cloaks fastened with clasps of gold and
silver, and set with precious stones. Rings were worn also, and heavy
necklaces called neck-rings, and bracelets heavy and jewelled, and
even the shoes were sometimes set with jewels. In the midst of such
surroundings Alfred passed his early years, receiving such instruction
as was common for a king's son, and profiting by it so well that at
hunting, horse-racing, hawking, leaping, running, wrestling, and all
other games, he easily outstripped his companions and showed the true
qualities of a leader.

But, although he was thus accomplished in all the things that were
then deemed necessary for the education of a prince, there were many
others which interested him, for he was a thoughtful boy and
keen-sighted, and very little escaped his observation. Among other
things he pondered much over the beautiful books which he saw in the
monasteries, or which were chained to a table in the halls of the
palace; and, as he studied the pictures and lingered over the
exquisite illuminations, he often wondered how it would seem to be
able to read, and find out what the stories were about; for, although
he was expected to grow up and be a great prince, it was not thought
necessary that he should be taught to read, for, why should he learn
to read when it would not help him to govern? And in all England then
there was scarcely a noble who knew one letter from another.

Many a time, as Alfred sat in the hall of feasting and listened to the
Saxon gleemen singing of Beowulf and other heroes, or heard some
wandering Irish minstrel chant the old songs of Taliesin, he felt a
great wish to be able to open the wonderful volumes that he had seen,
and perhaps find in them other stories as fascinating as those he was
listening to. But this could not be, and the only thing he could do
would be to go to the queen's apartment sometimes, and beg her to read
to him out of the books whose treasures seemed more inaccessible to
him than fairyland. Once, as he was bending over his mother while she
read to him, and admiring the beautiful book, she told him that it
should be the property of whichever of the four brothers should first
be able to read it. The other princes cared nothing for this promise,
and smiled to think of a Saxon prince bending over a book like a monk;
but to Alfred the words brought the fairest hope he could have had.

He set himself about learning to read with the same eagerness that had
made him famous among his companions as a wrestler and runner, and in
a short time, considering the difficulties that lay in the way, he was
able to call the beautiful book his own. And then it seemed to him
that the things he had known before could not be compared with the
knowledge that might now be his, and his new gift was held as precious
as the magician's wand that could open vast treasure-houses at the
master's touch.

Alfred's love for music was great, and he was a skilled player on the
harp, and knew by heart all the old songs that the harpers sang; but
from the time that he learned to read he began to look at life more
seriously than he had ever done before, and he felt that there were
other things in life than war, and hunting, and pleasure, and that a
nation, to arrive at true greatness, must believe this. But although
his knowledge of books went far toward forming his character, he had
other advantages which were denied generally even to the sons of
kings.

His father Ethelwulf had sent an expedition to visit Rome, which
Alfred accompanied, though at the time he was only five years old, and
thus he learned early that his own country was only a small portion of
the world, and that a Saxon King, though brave in battle and strong in
governing his country, might still have much to learn from nations
whose greatness did not depend entirely upon the sword. Ethelwulf, on
a second expedition to Rome, took Alfred with him again, and as the
boy saw the costly presents--consisting of silver dishes, golden
images, silken robes, a jewelled sword, and a crown of pure gold
weighing four pounds--which his father gave to the Pope, he was again
impressed with the idea that greatness included other things than
personal courage or strength; for, as a mark of favor, the Pope
promised Ethelwulf that thereafter no Saxon should ever be bound with
iron bonds in Rome; and no soldier in Rome would have dared to disobey
that order, though it came from one who had never carried a sword or
stood on a field of battle.

By the time he was seventeen, Alfred was considered the most promising
of all of Ethelwulf's sons, and he had already seen more than one
battle with the Danes, who were as full of determination as ever to
conquer England. More than once they had promised peace and signed
treaties, but the English had learned that the word of a Dane could
not be trusted, and the land was as full of trouble as ever.

When Ethelwulf died he was succeeded in turn by his three elder sons,
who all fought the Danes, and when Alfred came to the throne, in his
twenty-third year, he knew that hard work lay before him. The year
before his accession he fought in eight battles against the enemy, and
yet peace seemed as far off as ever. For six or seven years the war
went on, in the old ways, the Danes sometimes suing for peace,
sometimes gaining victories, and sometimes accepting money for their
promise to go away; and toward the latter part of this time the
English had become so disheartened that it seemed to them they would
lose their country in spite of their brave resistance; for their army
had dwindled down to almost nothing, the whole country was overrun by
the Danes, and King Alfred himself was a fugitive from his court, and
was hiding with a few loyal followers among the marshes. But hope did
not forsake the king even in such a sad plight, and he was resolved to
make one more great effort to rid his country from the enemy.

Chief of the Danish sea-kings at that time was Guthrum, whose name was
held in horror by all England because of his zeal in plundering towns,
burning monasteries, and killing women and children. Alfred knew that
there would be no peace for England so long as this great chief
remained unconquered, and besides, there was a tradition among the
English that Guthrum was not only the fiercest of the sea-kings, but
also the noblest in character, and the least likely to dishonor his
plighted word. So it would be a great thing for England if, by defeat
or other means, Guthrum could be made to consent to peace, and Alfred
determined to bring this about if possible.

His camp, in the midst of wide marshes, was unknown to the enemy, who
only knew that the Saxons were in hiding somewhere; for it was the
habit of the king's men to sally forth from the camp and fall upon any
small bands of Danes that might be passing near, and after a skirmish
in which the Saxons were generally victorious, carry off provisions
and arms to the king. The camp was well secured from intrusion by the
nature of the soil, and so expert did the English become in harassing
the enemy, that the Danes learned to look for a lurking Saxon in every
clump of alder, or group of willows that fringed the streams which
encircled the little island where Alfred had made his dwelling-place.

The Saxons for miles around knew the secret, but they kept it well,
and it was not generally known even among themselves that it was the
king who was at the head of the camp. But they learned that they could
still trust the honor and courage of their king, even though he was a
fugitive and slept in a hut made of logs and rushes instead of the
royal palace.

And so, when the time came for action, the king found that the
English, as a nation, were still loyal to him and their homes, and he
had not much trouble in getting together an army. Messengers were sent
from city to city and village to village, bearing the naked sword and
arrow, the symbols of war, and the Saxons responded with right good
will, giving the messenger God speed, and promising help when the time
came. Then every Saxon heart thrilled again with hope, and at night
every eye watched for the signal for action.

There is a story in the old histories which says that, in order to see
the Danish camp, Alfred made up his mind to visit it himself rather
than send any messenger, no matter how reliable or sharp-sighted he
might be. Accordingly, he disguised himself as a wandering minstrel,
and taking his harp, approached the Danish camp and began to sing
some of those old songs for which the gleemen were so famous. The
Danish sentinels were glad enough to have the beautiful voice of the
singer and the exquisite tones of his harp break in upon the monotony
of their watch, and they encouraged him to sing song after song, and
finally admitted him to the camp. Alfred passed from tent to tent,
charming the soldiers with his music, and one of the chiefs was so
pleased with his skill that he insisted on leading him into the
presence of Guthrum himself.

And so the rival kings met face to face, and Guthrum, at whose name
all England trembled, forgot for a while that he was a great warrior
and that his chiefs were looking to him to conquer a nation, and
listened to Alfred's singing, which no doubt brought up old memories
of days in which warfare had no part. But although Alfred used his
voice with such good effect, he did not forget that he had come there
to use his eyes more, and when he left Guthrum's presence, loaded with
the gifts that it was customary to bestow upon the gleemen, he bore
away with him a very good idea of the Danish forces and resources, and
could calculate pretty fairly how a battle might go.

And so, when he returned to his camp among the marshes, he called his
chieftains together, and kneeling down under the great Saxon banner,
drew on the ground, by the light of the torches, the plan of the
Danish camp, and declared that the hour had come and he was ready to
strike one more blow for English liberty. The signal spread from point
to point, and such an army gathered that Alfred was able completely to
surround the Danish camp, and repulse every attempt of the enemy to
break through. At last, after a two weeks' siege Guthrum was willing
to agree to peace and accept Alfred's offer of friendship, and his
permission to remain in England so long as he respected the English
nation's rights.

Guthrum was so impressed by Alfred's generosity to a conquered foe,
that he did not find it difficult to believe him when told that this
kindness to any enemy was taught by the Christian religion, which
forbade making war for its own sake and commanded instead acts of
mercy and forgiveness. And this doctrine, which was so powerfully
preached by Alfred's conduct, seeming to Guthrum more noble than his
own faith, he consented to be baptized, King Alfred becoming his
sponsor; and as his army followed his example, the Danes in England
were considered thenceforth as Christians.

The defeat of Guthrum was one of the most important events in early
English history. It saved the English nation at the moment of its
greatest peril, and helped the work of civilization, which must have
been put back for a long period if the Danes had been successful. And,
although Alfred had still much trouble from other bands of sea-kings
who descended upon the coasts, and the Danes and Saxons did not trust
each other fully for many years, the supremacy of the English remained
in full force, and the country finally became so peaceful and law
abiding, that it was said that golden bracelets might be hung upon the
landmarks along the highways without fear of their being stolen.

Although this, of course, could not be true, it may still illustrate
the difference between the condition of the country then, and its
state during the years when the Danes prowled around like hungry
wolves, and no man could leave his home in the morning without the
fear that when he returned at night he might find only the ruins left
by the hands of a relentless enemy.

Outside of the saving of the nation and the comfort which peace
brought, the defeat of the Danes had still another important and
lasting effect upon the history of the people. And this was the
preservation of the libraries, which enabled the progress of
literature to continue uninterrupted. If Guthrum had really conquered
England, and Alfred had been slain or forced into exile, there is
little doubt that the Danes, following their usual custom when dealing
with a conquered enemy, by destroying what was considered most
precious, would have burned monasteries, destroyed books, and forced
many scholars, both among priests and laymen, into exile in France or
Italy.

Thus learning would have suffered greatly, and England would have been
almost illiterate again until such time as the two races had become
one, and knowledge had been brought from abroad. And this would have
taken a long time to accomplish, and the literature arising from such
a state would have been quite different in character from our early
English writings. But the Saxon gained the day, kept the domestic
arts, taught the Dane how to till the ground and gather the harvest,
build houses, and respect the laws; and hardly had the first flowers
bloomed on the old battle-fields when Alfred was busy again with his
interrupted studies, inviting scholars from abroad to his court, and
forming great plans to make an intelligent and educated people out of
the rough material he had to deal with.

His own love of learning was so strong that he could not help but
impart an interest in it to others, and in order to make this interest
more active he founded schools which he ordered all children to
attend, and formed the plan of having the knowledge which was locked
away in Latin manuscripts brought to the reach of all by having it
translated into the common tongue.

His own work in this respect is the most important of the age, and he
is no less famous as a scholar than as a king and warrior. His most
important work was the translation of Bede's History. This being in
Latin, was of course unfamiliar to the common people, and Alfred
desired above all things that the history of the country should be
known to all. He therefore transcribed the Latin into English, so that
all who could read might become familiar with it, and learn the
lessons which Bede tried to teach, that the true glory of a nation lay
not in ceaseless war, but in cultivating the arts of peace; and that
the names of mighty warriors, however brilliantly they might shine,
would always be dim beside those which stood for noble manhood and the
progress of the race. It was through this translation of King Alfred
that the English people first became interested in their own history,
and thus his service may be considered as equally valuable to his age
with that of Bede, to whom succeeding generations have owed so much.

King Alfred also translated a book called the _Consolations of
Philosophy_, by Boethius, a Roman writer who lived some four
hundred years before his time. Boethius wrote his great work while in
prison on a charge of treason, which finally led to his death. The
_Consolations_ were written in five books, which taught that God ruled
the world and was the source of all good, that even the most miserable
of mankind can find comfort by fixing his mind on divine things, and
that as seen from above only the good are happy. The Christian monks
saw so much good in this work, which was written from the heart of one
who had suffered the saddest experiences, that they regarded it as
well worth their study, and valued it so highly that it was used
almost daily in all schools and monasteries.

Another interesting translation by Alfred was that of the writings of
Orosius, a Spanish monk who wrote a history of the world from the
creation, and whose work was used as a text-book of history and
geography in the schools. Although Orosius had lived in the fifth
century, the knowledge of geography had not increased very largely
since his time, and as Alfred desired to make additions to this part
of the book, he sent messengers to various parts of the world to
gather all the information they could about distant countries; one of
these embassies had even journeyed as far as India, and Alfred added
the information they brought to the writings of Orosius. He also
entertained at his court all the great travellers he could induce to
come there, and listened to their descriptions of strange nations, and
by adding the knowledge thus gained he gave the book a much greater
value.

Travelling in those days, when there were no railroads or steamers,
and when there was constant danger to life from man and beast, as well
as from the perils of unfamiliar ways, was a thing seldom indulged in
except from necessity, and the traveller was held in great honor
always, as one of strange experiences who had had his courage tested
in the sharpest way.

Two of the most celebrated travellers at that time were Wulfstan and
Othere, who had travelled far north, and their fame reached the ear
of Alfred, who invited them to England and heard their adventures from
their own lips. Othere, who was a Norwegian, had sailed round the
North Cape into the White Sea, and Wulfstan, who is supposed to have
been a Jute, had ventured far north in the Baltic, and Alfred also
added their accounts to the book of Orosius. Thus, when he finally
gave the work into the hands of pupils of the school, it contained as
accurate an account as it was possible to obtain of the geography of
Europe at that time.

These translations, which held much of the knowledge that was then
taught, being taken from their Latin dress and put into English, could
still be used as text-books in the schools where English was being
taught, and thus were of great importance.

But, besides these and other translations, Alfred will also be
distinguished for his own wise laws, which secured such peace to the
country and which were so just, that they can still be quoted as
authority. And the love of liberty and justice can never be seen more
clearly than in the life of this great man, whose power of command
might easily have been put to the most tyrannical uses if he had so
willed. His place in English literature is important, because he
preserved books and learning at a time when civilization seemed to be
passing away from the land, and his place in English history is
equally important, because in an age when might so often made right,
he proved that justice was greater than power, and forgiveness nobler
than revenge. And so, whether as king, soldier, or scholar, his name
must forever be connected with the first true progress of the English
nation.




CHAPTER VI.

THE ROMANCE OF KING ARTHUR.


Alfred's efforts to keep England for the English could only preserve
peace during his own life-time, and hardly had he died when the
troubles began again, and king after king ascended the English throne
to spend his life in fighting with the Danes. This lasted for a
hundred years, and finally England was conquered by Swein, king of
Denmark, and the Danes held the country for forty years. But after
that the English gained the power again and held it for the next
twenty-five years, during which time the Danes in England were brought
nearer and nearer to their old enemies by ties of marriage and
friendship, and by those common interests which must exist between two
races living in the same country, however bitterly they might hate
each other in the beginning; and at last when Harold, the last
English King, came to the throne, Danes and English considered
themselves as one people, and were ready to stand by and fight for
each other like brothers, if occasion demanded.

And it was well that this was so, for England was approaching a time
in her history when she would need braver and truer hearts to defend
her than she had ever needed before. Harold was the son of Godwin,
once a Saxon peasant who began life as a cow-herd, but now the most
powerful of the English earls, and although his mother had been a
Dane, he felt himself only English, and was determined to bring back
the lost splendor of the English crown. But he had for an enemy
William, Duke of Normandy, who had long looked with covetous eyes on
England, and whose strongest ambition it was to become the ruler of
the island kingdom. He claimed that he had a right to the English
throne because he was a cousin of Edward the Confessor, the last king
before Harold.

Edward, called the Confessor because of his piety, had spent his early
years at the Norman court, while a Danish king was still on the
throne, and during that time he had learned the French language and
had grown so fond of French customs that it was said by the English he
was more Norman than Saxon. His subjects were bitterly jealous of the
Norman favorites he always had around him, and longed for the time
when they should be sent back to their own country. Harold's accession
to the throne made the court English as well as the country, and the
people were rejoiced at the change. But their joy was short, for no
sooner had the news reached France than William of Normandy began to
make preparations for the invasion of England. He offered to his
noblemen the castles and lands of the Saxon earls, to the soldiers
"good pay and the pillage of England," and his terms were eagerly
accepted.

The Norman barons set to work with a will: armies were raised as if by
magic, and ships were built, armor, lances, and swords forged, and
banners embroidered with the emblems of the different lords who
dreamed of the day when they should see them floating over the Saxon
castles. Numbers of men-at-arms in France and Germany flocked into
Normandy and offered their services to the man who had promised them
the booty they might make, and camp-followers polished armor and
spurs, sharpened swords and spears, pikes and javelins, and waited
impatiently for the hour when they might descend on the English coast.

England, unhappily, was threatened with other foes than the Normans at
that time, for the king of Norway had landed on the northern coast and
was ravaging it at the very time that Norman and Saxon met at
Hastings, near where William had disembarked. On October 14, 1066, a
battle was fought which proved one of the most memorable events in
English history. The contest, which may be said to have begun with the
song which the first advancing Norman sang as he rode forward and was
met by a Saxon knight, raged the long day through, and at night Harold
lay pierced through the brain with a Norman arrow, and the fate of the
English throne was decided.

William the Norman, called in history the Conqueror, was crowned at
Westminster, and England became a land ruled by a foreign despot, who
parcelled the country out to his favorites, made laws that best suited
his own designs, and above all, ordered all business to be transacted
in French, which he made the legal language in the hope that the
people would be forced to use it and in time forget their mother
tongue. But the people refused to acknowledge William king in their
hearts, though they were forced to do so outwardly. And they cherished
a desperate hope that fortune would again place the crown upon the
head of a Saxon king.

This hope sustained them in those dark hours when they saw their homes
taken from them and given to the Normans, and knew that justice
existed only for their enemies. And as William well knew the temper of
the people, his reign was by no means a peaceful one, and he could
only look forward to a dark future for the sons who were to reign
after him. The use of the French language at the court, in all
schools, and in the halls of justice, together with the unsettled
state of the country, had the most disastrous effect upon learning and
literature. English lads who should have been studying in the schools
were roaming about the forests, harboring only thoughts of revenge
against the king they had been taught to hate, and as the Saxons were
looked down upon by the Normans as an inferior race, even the clergy
had little respect paid to them, no matter how learned they might be.
Thus among the English people the love of learning which Alfred had
tried to instil was gradually slipping away, for they chose to be
ignorant rather than to get knowledge through the language of the
foreigners that they hated. And it was only when the two races had
become somewhat reconciled that it was possible for literature again
to be looked upon with interest.

During the years which followed immediately after the conquest all
books which were written--and as a rule it was only the clergy who
wrote--were in Latin if they were prose, while the poetry and songs
which the Normans brought with them from France were written in
French. What is known as popular literature, the literature of the
common people, did not exist in those days of violence and bloodshed;
for the Saxon, whether he were earl or peasant, could only think of
defending his home from his enemies, and his dependents from the most
cruel oppression.

But in the reign of William Rufus, the son of the Conqueror, an event
occurred which so influenced the thought of the people that it gave
rise in time to a new literature. This was the First Crusade, an
expedition undertaken by the nations of Western Europe to recover the
Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem from the Turks, who were then ruling in
Palestine. The Christian Church thought it a disgrace that the tomb of
Christ should be in the possession of an infidel nation, and sermons
were preached by the monks all over the Christian world, urging men to
join the crusade. This appeal was responded to with such enthusiasm
that hundreds of thousands of soldiers were soon on their way to
Jerusalem, and from this time on, for nearly two hundred years, there
was scarcely a period in which a crusade was not being carried on.
Sometimes the crusaders were successful, and sometimes their enemies,
but the chief work of the crusades was after all, not the taking or
keeping the Holy Sepulchre, but the effect that they had upon Western
Europe. The French and English and German nations were brought into
contact in the East with the Greeks and Arabs, two nations that were
celebrated for their learning, and this had a great influence upon
their civilization. Knowledge began to gain more friends, and out of
the darkness which had settled over literature a light began to shine.
In England this was especially true, and while the crusades were
considered by many as chiefly beneficial because of the wealth that
came to the country from commerce with other nations, the more
thoughtful saw that contact with other civilizations was just the
thing that was needed to bring out their own powers more fully, and
turn their thoughts toward higher things than battle or conquest.

During the time to which the crusades belong the children of the
nobility had a careful training, although books played a small part,
for they were taught the customs and practices of chivalry. The
education of a boy of gentle birth began in his seventh or eighth
year, and was supposed to end only when he had obtained the honor of
knighthood, which was usually conferred some time after he was twenty.
The castles of the great barons were the schools in which these
children were taught. Here would come the sons of the lesser nobles,
with those of the class called gentle, who were not of necessity of
noble blood; while often would be found in the company the little son
of one of the most powerful lords, who was sent there to be taught
because his father was brother-in-arms to the chief of the castle. The
pupils were called pages, and were taught the use of arms,
horsemanship, strict obedience to their superiors, and courtesy to all
women. Their training was strict and often severe, but developed that
courage, grace, firmness, and gentleness which were supposed to belong
to every true knight.

Sometimes in the same castle would be found also the daughters of the
nobles and gentry, who were in charge of the lady of the castle, who
had them taught embroidery, weaving, sewing, housewifery, and the care
of the sick; and it often happened that a little page would be placed
in attendance upon one of these young girls, and have for a part of
his duties serving her in every way possible; for it was thought that
in this way could be best taught those fine and gentle manners which
characterized the age of chivalry.

The ceremonies which ended the education of a youth and admitted him
to knighthood were very solemn and impressive, and could not fail to
leave a mark on his character. On the eve of the day on which he was
to be consecrated the candidate confessed his sins to the priest, and
then kneeling before the altar, passed the night in prayer. In the
morning, after mass, he laid his sword on the altar to signify that
his life thereafter would be devoted to the service of the good, and
after a benediction had been pronounced upon it he received it again.
Then a slight blow was given him on the cheek or shoulder, as the last
insult he should ever receive submissively. Then followed the oath,
in which the new knight promised to maintain the right, relieve the
poor and distressed, and act on all occasions worthy of his
knighthood.

This was the last act in the education of a youth in the days of
chivalry, an institution which had such an influence over the minds of
the nation that it is not strange to find that the deeds of knights,
their wars, tournaments, adventures, always filled all hearts with the
greatest interest, and made almost every act of life depend in some
way or other upon them.

Following both the English and Norman customs, the deeds of chivalry
were recounted and sung by minstrel and troubadour in the baronial
halls, just as the Saxon gleeman had chanted the old war-songs in the
mead-hall of his chief. The fondness of the Normans for story-telling
was as great as that of the old Saxons, and they brought into England
many stories of Roland and other popular heroes, which the people at
large became familiar with as the years went on. And although there
were some great scholars among churchmen and laymen who wrote learned
books in Latin, yet the first popular book after the invasion of the
Normans, the book which first took hold of the hearts of the people,
dealt with the romance, the tales of adventure, and songs of love
which were the literature of the age of chivalry.

The book was called the "History of the Britons," and was compiled
probably about the year 1147, by a monk named Geoffrey, called in
literature Geoffrey of Monmouth, because he was educated at, and
afterward became a priest of, the monastery at Monmouth.

The first part of the book relates the history of Britain from the
earliest times; but it was the second part, which cannot properly be
called history at all, which stirred the fancy of the people and made
literature once more popular. Into this second part Geoffrey
incorporated the more or less fabulous life and adventures of Arthur,
king of the Britons, who represented in his person all the glory and
nobility of knighthood. And although its origin was in great measure
due to Norman thought and manners, yet it was after all an English
book, as it described English sights and scenes. The rivers and hills,
the meadows and the birds that sang therein, the flowers by the
wayside, the May day festivals, and even the bloody combats, were all
English.

King Arthur, who was supposed to have lived in the sixth century, was
a king of the Britons after they had been converted to Christianity.
Geoffrey's story tells how Arthur's father, Uther, had a wonderful
dream in which he saw a comet, one ray of which ended in a fiery
dragon out of whose mouth proceeded two other rays of light, one
reaching out over France and the other over Ireland; and the
interpretation of the dream was that he should have a son whose power
and glory should reach to the uttermost ends of the earth. Therefore,
in remembrance of the dream Uther had two dragons made of gold, and
one he gave to the cathedral at Winchester and the other he carried
with him in all his wars, and gained many victories thereby, being
called from that time Uther Pendragon. And when he came to the throne
he ruled wisely, and fought many great battles in which he subdued the
enemies of the land. And when the wars were over, wishing to raise a
monument to the soldiers who had been slain in battle, he called
together all his wise builders and told them of his design. But
Merlin, the magician, hearing of this, came to the king and told him
that a fitting monument would never be raised until they brought the
Giants' Dance from Ireland.

Now, Merlin was the greatest magician in the world. Before the reign
of Uther, and while another king ruled, he had come into the kingdom
because the story of his skill had reached the court and the king was
desirous of seeing him; for he was in great trouble about a palace
which he wished to build in a certain place, and which disappeared in
the ground every evening after the workmen had gone home. The king's
wise men said that this would continue to be so until the ground was
sprinkled with the blood of Merlin, who was then living in a distant
place; but when Merlin came into the presence of the king, he
astonished the court so by his wisdom that it was at once seen that
he was greater than all the magicians present. He told the king that
the ground swallowed up the palace every night because underneath it
was a magic pool, over which were two hollow stones each holding a
sleeping dragon. And the king ordered his men to dig down into the
ground, and they found that it was just as Merlin had said. One of the
dragons was red and the other white, and as soon as they were released
from the stones they began a furious battle, and the scene was so
terrible that even the bravest warriors dreaded to look upon it.

And when the king asked what this signified, Merlin prophesied a
wonderful prophecy, and foretold all the events that would happen to
that kingdom through all future time. The prophecy related the
after-glory of Britain, but it was also so full of coming woes that it
terrified the people even more than the battle of the dragons; for
Merlin foretold how the rivers would be turned to blood, and the
fruits of the trees to ashes, how the cities would vanish in a night,
and how a great serpent, whose length was coiled around the whole
island, would work dreadful destruction upon the inhabitants, and how
even the stars would change their places in the sky and bring great
evils upon the land.

From this time the greatest honor was paid to Merlin, who remained at
the court and in the time of Uther was still considered the greatest
of magicians, whose advice must always be followed. And so, when he
told Uther to have the Giants' Dance brought from Ireland, the king
was greatly puzzled, for it seemed an impossible and yet necessary
thing to do.

The Giants' Dance was an immense structure on top of a lofty mountain
in Ireland, and was built of magic stones which had been brought from
the farthest coast of Africa when giants inhabited the land. These
stones were formed into a huge bath and possessed such healing
properties, that whoever should step into the water they enclosed
would be cured of all diseases. And although many pilgrimages were
made thither by those who wished to see them, yet it would have been
counted as easy to move the mountain itself as the mighty structure
which it held, for the people were entirely ignorant of the mechanical
arts by which such things were done. But as Merlin insisted, Uther
sent an army of workmen into Ireland who honestly tried to move the
stones, though ropes and cables were as ineffectual as silken threads
would have been, and it was only when Merlin used magic that the deed
was done. And so the Giants' Dance was removed and was set up as a
monument for the dead, and was considered the greatest marvel that had
ever been known in Britain.

On his father's death Arthur came to the throne, being in his
fifteenth year, and then we have the account of the battles he fought,
and of the great deeds he accomplished, and are told that in one
battle he slew over four hundred men with his own sword. And then is
related the story of his coronation, in the City of Legions, known now
as Caerleon on the Usk, which the book says was washed on one side by
the beautiful river, and was chosen for the coronation because the
kings and princes from across the sea might have the pleasure of
sailing right up to the city without leaving their ships. On the side
away from the river, we are told, Caerleon was beautiful with meadows
and groves, and the magnificence of its royal palaces, with lofty
gilded roofs, made it rival even Rome, which was considered the most
magnificent city in the world. We also read about the great rejoicing
and gay festivities that signalized the event, and see Arthur in his
coronation robes, preceded by four kings each bearing a golden sword,
and accompanied by Queen Guenever bearing four white doves, on his way
to the cathedral, where he was crowned with great solemnity, the
ceremony being accompanied by music of such exquisite harmony that the
like had never been known before.

Then follow the adventures of Arthur with neighboring and foreign
powers, and at last we have an account of the treachery of Mordred, a
kinsman whom Arthur left in charge of his kingdom while away on a
foreign war, and who basely seized the kingdom for his own. And then
comes the story of the last battle fought by Arthur, in which there
was such slaughter as no battle-field had ever seen before. But
although Mordred was slain, Arthur likewise received his death-wound,
and was borne away by unknown hands to the vale of Avallon, and his
people saw him no more.

Geoffrey's book ends here, but later on the story of Arthur included
many other strange adventures, and tells how he founded the Round
Table, that glorious company of knights whose deeds were recounted all
over the civilized world, and of the wonderful deeds which Arthur
accomplished with his sword Excalibar, which shone so when it was
brandished that it gave a light equal to thirty torches, and blinded
the eyes of all who looked upon it. For it was a magic sword, and
Arthur had received it from a hand which rose up from the waters of a
mystic lake, and was assured that no harm could come to him so long as
he kept the scabbard safe.

And then there are descriptions of tournaments and journeys and
adventures of all kinds, all written in such a way that the reader
could almost see the figure of Arthur, taller than other men, in his
magnificent armor, and Excalibar flashing lightnings all around, and
beautiful Guinevere (or Guenever, as Geoffrey calls her) his queen,
and the ladies of the court, and the brave knights, and the great hall
of the Round Table with its costly and splendid adornments, and the
Round Table itself, surrounded by seats on which were written the
names of the knights in letters of gold, and all the strange and
wonderful scenes which belonged to that knightly court.

And these later stories relate that after Arthur had received his
mortal wound in battle with Mordred, he was carried away by three
queens to the vale of Avallon to be cured of his wound, when he would
come again to rule over Britain. This tradition remained among the
people for hundreds of years, and old legends relate that many times
the foresters saw at noontide, or under the full moon, mounted knights
flitting through the trees, and heard the sound of horns and the
baying of hounds, and knew that it was Arthur and his knights of the
Round Table out hunting; and so general was this belief among all the
nations who heard the romance of Arthur that it was universally
believed he would return; and far away in Sicily the peasants claimed
that they could see at twilight the mystic vale of Avallon shining
through the dusk, and the palace where Arthur had been borne to be
cured of his wounds.

These later stories, which were written after the appearance of
Geoffrey's book, and which also contained the stories of the knights
of the Round Table, made the story of Arthur more complete, but the
great credit belongs to Geoffrey of Monmouth of first presenting the
stories in such a way as to win immediate popular favor. Geoffrey
wrote his book in Latin, asserting that he had translated it from an
old book of British tales, but it won such favor that it was
translated into Norman French by Wace, a writer of popular romances,
who added a continuation connecting the British with the ancient
Trojans. In this form, and in the original form as written by Geoffrey
of Monmouth, it was the favorite book of the nobility and all
educated people. During this time of its great popularity, it was in
the reign of King John put into English verse, like that of Beowulf,
by Layamon, a priest at Ernley in Worcestershire, who doubled the
length of Wace's form of the poem by adding what he knew of West
Country tradition. The story, as told by Layamon, was incorporated in
his translation of Geoffrey of Monmouth's Chronicle of Britain, and
was called _Layamon's Brut_, and is very important because it
contains the fullest account of the traditional history of Britain.
Besides these forms of the poem, with the Trojan legends, there was
still another version which has had a great influence on English
thought, and that was the Christianized and moral form of the
Arthurian legends made by Geoffrey of Monmouth's friend and
contemporary, Walter Map. Map added the beautiful legend of _The Holy
Graal_, and the spirit of his version is continued in our own day by
_The Idyls of the King_, of Tennyson.

And although many doubts were cast upon the truth of these romances,
and the writer was censured for giving as history what was believed to
be only legend, yet the book was read by old and young, far and near,
with the greatest delight, and became such a favorite that for a time
no other book was so much read; and old authors relate that he who was
ignorant of it was considered to be no more accomplished than a clown.
But its greatest value in literature is the influence which it had
upon succeeding writers--an influence which has not yet died out, and
to which we owe some of the masterpieces of English literature. And
that the romance of King Arthur as we have it now, with the stories of
Lancelot, Percival, Galahad, and all the great company of the Round
Table, is much more complete and beautiful than the book of Geoffrey,
does not in the least detract from the value of the old story which
thrilled the hearts of the people for whom it was written, and made
books and bookmen more popular in England than any other book that had
been written since the Conquest.




CHAPTER VII.

ROBIN HOOD: THE HERO OF THE PEOPLE.


Besides the stories of Arthur and his knights, the English songs
during the century following the Conquest also included the ballads of
Robin Hood, a popular hero about whom numerous songs were composed,
both during his life and later on. These ballads represented the
feeling of the people as the stories of Arthur did those of the
nobility. Robin Hood and people of his class rose naturally from the
condition of society during those years; for, while the Norman barons
were taking possession of England, dividing the land among themselves
and building hundreds of castles all over the country, not only did
the dispossessed nobility suffer, but the common people, the Saxon and
Danish peasants, many of whom had been driven from their homes, or
forced into a condition almost like slavery, were also falling into a
way of life that had been almost unknown in England before the
Conquest.

One of the first acts of William the Norman had been the setting apart
of great tracts of forest lands for his own hunting grounds. And not
content with this, he even destroyed villages and laid waste farms in
order that the land thus obtained might be planted with trees and made
fit for the habitation of the deer and other animals which he loved to
chase. These royal forests were under the protection of the king
himself, and the laws concerning them were among the strictest of the
realm, for William loved hunting next to fighting, and considered one
tree of more value than the lives of a dozen Saxon peasants.

Each forest was divided up into different portions called walks, which
were in charge of keepers and their assistants, and there were as many
rules and regulations to be observed as in the management of the court
itself. The royal foresters wore a certain uniform, or livery, which
was recognized everywhere, and demanded the same respect as was shown
to other officers of the king; and in fact, the deference which they
received was really greater than that paid to an officer of the court,
for the foresters had to deal directly with the people, and life and
property were often taken from the peasant who dared to offend one of
these keepers.

The foresters went their rounds at stated times, and then woe to the
unlucky person who should be caught transgressing the forest rules,
which were so numerous that it was almost impossible to remember them.
All persons found walking through the forests followed by dogs were
subject to arrest, unless the dogs were held in leash. Every man who
wore a cloak, under which might be concealed weapons, was also liable
to arrest. No man might even enter the forest carrying a bow, unless
the string were first detached. If a poor peasant went there to cut a
few pieces of turf or peat for his fire, he must do it at night or in
the dusk, and in this manner try to escape the eye of the officer, who
would have taken him to prison for the offence; while the setting of a
trap was looked upon as the greatest crime, even though the king had
reduced the peasants to a condition of beggary by his cruel laws.

Thus the foresters and the peasants were at open warfare all the time,
and each class tried its best to outwit the other. The lives of the
keepers depended upon their fidelity to the king, and the peasants
would never acknowledge that the Norman had any right to English
property, and considered that they were doing a meritorious act if
they could bring down a bird, wound a deer to the death, and secrete
it in some hidden place where they might come at night and bear it
away, or snare some of the smaller game which was so abundant. And,
considering the vigilance of the officers, this happened pretty often,
and still more often the offender escaped and was able to tell a merry
tale of the adventure to the gay company seated around the fire,
waiting for the feast which the busy housewife was preparing, and
which would be enjoyed all the more because the viands were obtained
in such a manner.

And after a while, as the oppression increased, and the times seemed
to grow worse instead of better, the people became even more daring
and lawless; for the poverty of the people was bitter, and often there
was only a choice of death by starvation or the chance of death by the
law; and they chose the latter, and made daring expeditions into the
forests, while the king and his keepers were at their wits' end to
find ways of bringing the transgressors to justice. This was, indeed,
hard to do. Outside of the forests stood the halls of the barons,
frowning from some height, or commanding wide stretches of pleasant
country, and never far away could be seen the convents, and both
castle and convent were held by Norman influence and were friendly to
the king. But away from these lived the great mass of people who loved
to call themselves Saxon, and who felt themselves the rightful owners
of the soil, though they lived in huts with mud walls and thatched
roofs, and were often hungry, and always oppressed. And in spite of
his mighty army, and his servile courtiers, and fawning priests,
William found that he could not really conquer this Saxon people
whose ignorance he despised and laughed at; and although he stole
their lands, and denied them justice of every kind, he knew that their
spirit was still unsubdued, and he could no more conquer it than he
could control the wind or the waves.

And what troubled him most was that his beautiful forests, that he had
laid out and protected with such care, should be the cause of the
greatest annoyance of all. For he could no more keep the Saxons out
than he could keep the birds out, and he knew that the very game that
he watched so carefully was looked upon as lawful spoil by the
peasants, who enjoyed it more often than he did himself.

From occasional visits to the forests, the people came gradually to
form the habit of staying there longer, and many a little camp was
made in the deep woods, and many a merry company gathered there
unsuspected by the foresters. These camps were principally formed of
men who had transgressed the law in some way, for the Saxon's chief
refuge in time of trouble was the fens and woods, which he knew by
heart. The Norman laws, so strict and numerous, were constantly being
broken by the peasants, either intentionally or unintentionally, and
then, as they knew they could get no justice from the law, they would
flee to the fens or forests and feel moderately safe, knowing that so
long as they kept away from the highway or open country the king's
officers would have a hard time to find them.

These refugees gradually formed themselves into bands, having separate
hiding-places which were known only to friends, and as time went on
these companies became so large that they were very formidable to deal
with; for they no longer kept close to the forest, but would venture
out into the highway or surrounding country, terrifying travellers and
demanding money and alms. These bands were called highwaymen and
robbers by the Normans, but the Saxons called them the merry men of
the greenwood, and were proud of their exploits, and were always ready
to shelter them in their homes, and protect them by misleading the
officers who were in search of them.

This life became so popular that the outlaws were regarded almost with
envy by their soberer-minded countrymen. Every family almost could
boast of some relative or friend who had taken to life in the
greenwood, and every fireside was familiar with the tales of the
daring adventures of the merry men, while the deeds they did, and the
songs they sang, became a part of the history of the time. These bands
of adventurers held their own in the king's forests for so many years,
that they came to be regarded almost as a necessity, and as time went
on the bands were recruited; and at last, when the original outlaws
had all died, the place they had made was still filled by other bold
spirits, and thus, for over a hundred years the royal forests were
held to be the lawful homes of these adventurers.

One of the boldest of the merry men was Robin Hood, who is supposed by
some to have lived during the reign of Henry the Second, the grandson
of the conqueror, though others assert that he lived at a much later
time. It is almost as hard to find out the dates of this period as to
give the exact date for the birth of Taliesin or King Arthur, but the
important thing to know is, that Robin Hood was, in all probability, a
real hero and the chief of the merry men, and to remember that the
songs and ballads which relate to him and his gay company have an
important place in English literature; for it was while the songs of
Robin Hood were being sung that the English nation was incorporating
with it the Norman element. A new language was gradually being formed,
and thus its legends in regard to the merry men give us true pictures
of the lives of the people at that time.

And just as in the stories about King Arthur we learn how the great
barons and knights lived, and see them in their wars, and at the
tournament and chase, and in the halls of the castle, so in the
legends of Robin Hood and the men of the greenwood we see the life of
the common people, and hear their songs and see their games; and both
pictures are equally interesting and important, for both tell us, as
nothing else can, the life of those far off times when the knight
lived one life and the peasant another, so different that it hardly
seems that they could have belonged to the same race. Therefore,
whether Robin Hood was born in the year 1160, as some books say,
matters little, for whenever he was born he stands for a type of a
class that represented the Saxon during the time of Norman power, and
as such he is of the greatest value. The same authority that gives
1160 as his birth, says also that he was of noble blood, and could
have claimed a title if he had wished.

But this also matters little, for his life was that of the common
people, however noble his birth, and he liked no title so well as that
which made him prince of the Merry Men of the Greenwood. The
particular place that he chose for his exploits was Sherwood Forest,
one of the royal forests, and forever after celebrated as the scene of
most of his adventures. Here he lived with a hundred brave spirits as
bold as himself, and the deeds that he did speedily made him a
favorite with the common people, while his name was equally dreaded by
the king and nobles; for Robin Hood knew no respect for rank, and
would have stopped even the king himself on the highway, and demanded
largess for himself and band, and alms for the poor and sick; for he
was the kindest-hearted highwayman, and devoted a good share of his
plunder to the unfortunate peasants.

His band consisted of a hundred picked men, all skilful archers, and
so celebrated that no force dare attack them unless they were
outnumbered at least four times. Some of these men were so renowned
that their names are as well known as that of Robin Hood himself, who
took great pride in his band, and it was said would never receive a
new member until he had fought a round with him and had tested his
mettle.

Chief among the band was the celebrated Little John, who received his
name, it is said, from his great stature, and who is also sometimes
called John Nailor. Little John was Robin Hood's chief counsellor and
reliance always, and of all the band was the one who approached most
nearly to the character of Robin Hood himself. In many ways he was
said to rival the great chief, and in his use of the bow he was
considered his equal. Hundreds of years after the merry men of
Sherwood Forest had passed away, there were still shown at Whitby
Abbey two pillars which, it was said, had been set up in commemoration
of Robin Hood and Little John, who on a visit to the Abbot sent their
arrows a mile away from the abbey, in order to show their host what
fine archers they were. As Robin Hood boasted more of his archery than
of any other accomplishment, it may be easily seen from this how
Little John would be his prime favorite; for Robin Hood loved best the
men whom he found it hardest to outshine in the games and sports and
adventures which made up the life in the forest.

Another celebrated member of the band was Will Scarlet, whom tradition
says Robin Hood bound to him by the strongest ties; for meeting
Scarlet in the woods and finding him low-spirited and forlorn, because
his promised wife had been taken from him by her parents and given to
another suitor, Robin Hood promised him help, collected his band,
descended upon the village just as the wedding-bells were ringing, and
in a short time, much to the astonishment of the company, had the
marriage ceremony performed with Scarlet for the bridegroom, and thus
won his faith and gratitude forever. Among other favorites of Robin
Hood were also George  Green; Pinder, whose name signifies that he
was a pound-keeper; Much, a miller's son; and Friar Tuck, a jolly monk
who, for some reason or other, preferred the life in Sherwood Forest
to one in a convent, and whose exploits are almost as famous as those
of the celebrated leader himself.

With this congenial fellowship, Robin Hood spent merry days in the
forest, hunting the king's deer, keeping the royal foresters in
constant dread of his pranks, and issuing forth into the highway at
times to gather spoils from luckless travellers. But although he and
his band were outlaws, and had a price set upon their heads, they were
such general favorites that the whole of England might have been a
shelter to them in time of trouble; for, far beyond Sherwood Forest
had their renown spread, and everywhere the name of Robin Hood and his
merry men was spoken with fond pride by the common people.

In his way he was considered as irreproachable as King Arthur himself,
for in some ways the laws of the merry men were as ideal as those of
the Round Table. No sick, or poor, or unfortunate ever appealed to
Robin Hood in vain, and it would have been considered a disgrace to
the band to have made war upon women or children. And so good was the
reputation of the band in this respect that Robin Hood was looked upon
as the knight errant of the people, bound to succor the distressed,
battle for the right, and relieve all women in trouble. It is true
that he robbed the rich, but he said expressly that he did it in order
to give alms to the poor, and no one was so ready as he to imperil his
life for the innocent or afflicted. It was also believed by the people
that he was truly religious, and followed the life of a highwayman
from a sense of duty, and as a protest against the unjust laws of the
land. Indeed, one of the favorite anecdotes in regard to him is that
which relates how, on one occasion, the officers of the king coming
suddenly upon him while his band was celebrating mass, he refused to
stir out of reverence for the sacrament, but waited for the priest to
conclude the ceremony, and then falling upon the officers with great
zeal, utterly routed them, giving the ransoms and spoils which he
obtained to the church as a thank offering.

Thus lived Robin Hood and the merry men who looked upon Sherwood
Forest as their rightful home, and from the first hour of the day,
when they would be up and away to the hunt, their green coats
indistinguishable from the glistening forest leaves, and their horns
leading the foresters a merry dance through the thicket, to the time
of retiring when they lay down on their leafy couches, they kept good
consciences, feeling that they had spent the day well if by chance
they had had the luck to rob a wealthy merchant, or a pompous abbot,
or an officer in the king's livery. Whenever a particularly
interesting encounter occurred, it was repeated from village to
village and shire to shire, until the whole country was familiar with
it, and the village poet would straightway put it in rhymes which
would be sung everywhere. Thus all the adventures of Robin Hood came
gradually to be sung by the people, just as in the earlier times the
bards sang the songs of Taliesin; and although these ballads were not
written down or collected for a long time afterward, yet they
represent the life of those times so truly that they are more valuable
in that respect than the books which were then being written in Latin,
and which dealt with philosophy and religion.

And in the literature which followed this time we see how deeply these
ballads had impressed the mind of the people--an impression which
lingers to this day in localities which claim to hold some memento of
the people's hero. Here we find Robin Hood cairns, crosses, penny
stones, wells, chairs, and trees, Robin Hood's bed, and his stable,
and the chasm across which he leaped; while many of the popular games
of England are said to have originated in a desire to perpetuate his
memory. For centuries there was a special Robin Hood Day which was
celebrated all over the country, and which was held in as great esteem
as more important holidays. It occurred in May, and became in time a
principal part of the spring festivals. On May Day, the youth would
rise immediately after midnight and go to the adjoining woods, where
they would cut fresh boughs, and adorn themselves with wreaths and
flowers. At sunrise they would return home, hang garlands on the doors
and windows of the houses, and then erect the May-pole which had been
brought home by twenty yoke of oxen, each ox having nosegays of
flowers tied on the tips of his horns, the May-pole itself being bound
with wreaths of flowers from top to bottom and tied with banners,
flags, and gay handkerchiefs at the top. After it was set up, the
ground around was strewed with green boughs and flowers, and bowers
and arbors were erected near. Then followed the dance, which was
joined in by old and young, after which came feasting and merrymaking
until night, when bonfires were lighted and all the company played
games in honor of Robin Hood.

Later on Robin Hood and his men came to be the heroes of many plays
and dramas, in which the great hero himself, Little John, Scarlett,
and Friar Tuck lived again before the people and delighted their
hearts, as they had delighted their ancestors in the days when the
merry men were real personages. And a study of the literature of
England for long afterward reveals the large place which the Sherwood
Forest outlaws held in the popular heart. When the ballads were
finally collected--probably about the last of the fifteenth
century--it was found that, as far as their influence on literature
was concerned, they had done their work centuries before, and that,
like the stories of King Arthur, they were making the popular
literature while yet unwritten, except in the hearts of the people.




CHAPTER VIII.

LANGLANDE--GOWER.


The Norman conquest exercised an influence over England for nearly two
centuries and a half, during which time the country could not really
be called English, as the laws, books, language, and religious
instruction were all in French. This period is often spoken of,
therefore, as the Anglo-Norman period, showing that although the kings
who reigned, and the nobility who flourished, were all French in their
education, yet they, with the mass of the people, were English in many
ways of thinking. The fourth king after William the Conqueror had a
Saxon mother, and this did more to reconcile the people to the
reigning power than anything else could have done, though they yet
suffered greatly from the tyranny of the upper classes.

During this time of change, when the country was neither French nor
English, and everything was in an unsettled state, we have seen that
the people cared very little about books. And although there were
learned men who wrote works in Latin about religion, philosophy, and
other deep matters, yet the only literature which attracted the people
was the popular legends of old British heroes, such as the story of
King Arthur by Geoffrey of Monmouth, and as it was added to later on
by other writers, the songs of Charlemagne and other French heroes
whom the Normans loved, and above all the ballads and stories which
related to the people's hero, Robin Hood; these last being so
thoroughly English in the hatred which they show to the tyranny of the
nobility, that they may be said to express the very voice of the
people during the Norman supremacy. But this time of unrest and change
came to an end at last, and left the Saxon race still ruler of
England, for in spite of laws, religion, oppression, and injustice of
every kind, the people would not become Norman. They would not speak
French, they would not learn to read and write it, they would not
tolerate French ways; if a Norman married a Saxon he had to learn her
language, and their children spoke the mother's tongue, while the
peasants would rather have their children wandering like outlaws
through the forests than to see them attending French schools.

And so gradually the country became almost entirely English again, the
French influence upon the mass of the people having been so slight
that, though the upper classes retained many French characteristics,
at the beginning of the fourteenth century the English peasant was
very much the same as the Saxon peasant during the time of Alfred,
being a stalwart, robust fellow, very fond of plenty to eat and drink,
faithful to his friends, generous to his foes, and quite unable to
understand how any foreigner should dare to look upon England as
anything else than the country of the English.

This change became so universal that there was no more question as to
the position of England among the other nations of Europe, and indeed,
before fifty more years had passed away Western Europe was called upon
to see France itself defending its crown from an English sovereign
who professed to have a claim on it through his mother, Isabella,
daughter of Philip II. This was Edward III., tenth king from the
Conqueror, whose greatest boast was that he was an Englishman, and
whose reign is signalized as one of the most important in English
history.

Edward III. came to the throne when he was but fourteen years of age,
and as he reigned for fifty years, the history of his reign is really
the history of England for a half century of wonderful development. In
the beginning of his reign French was still the language of the court,
though it was hardly known among the common people, and his education
had been in every respect that of a royal youth during the latter part
of the Norman period. Society was still divided into classes
consisting of the nobility, knights, tradesmen, and yeomen, and each
class differed in its ideas of educating the young. The education of a
gentleman was said to be complete when he could hold and use a spear
gracefully and effectively, fence, hold a hawk on his wrist in the
approved fashion, ride fearlessly, dance well, and carve cleanly;
while book learning was "left to louts." Fine dressing among the
knights and nobles was carried to the greatest extravagance. Velvets,
silks, and fine cloth, embroidered with seed pearls, gold, and silver,
formed the mantles and robes, supplemented by fancy shoes and
stockings, hats and bonnets ornamented often with feathers and
precious stones, and in the case of the ladies elaborate
hair-dressing, the hair being often twisted through with gold threads
and jewels. The castles were furnished with all the magnificence that
the owner could afford, the great hall showing by the rests for armor,
spear, and sword, and the perches for bird and hawk, what was
considered the chief business in life.

The peasant wore leather breeches, a woollen frock, rough shoes of
untanned hide, and was taught chiefly to be always ready at the call
of his lord for service in war. The practices of chivalry were still
kept up throughout England, and during the reign of Edward III. it
seemed as if the days of King Arthur and his knights had returned,
for the English court became celebrated throughout Europe for its
magnificence and chivalry. Even before the king's name had become
formidable on account of his deeds in the French war, his court was
thronged by adventurers and the oppressed of other nations who flocked
to England to ask his support; and alliance with the English throne
was courted by all the little kingdoms of Europe which feared the
power of the great empires.

The love for pageants and display of all kinds was uncontrolled, and
one festival only succeeded another. In one year Edward proclaimed
fourteen tournaments, some of which lasted three weeks. Not satisfied
with this, he proclaimed a Round Table, or great international
tournament in honor of King Arthur, and gave orders for the building
at Windsor of a house to be called the Round Tower, in which the
knights should banquet. This tower had to be built in great haste, and
messengers were sent all over England to impress workmen into the
service. These men dug out stone, felled trees, prepared lime and
sand-pits, and carried on the work with such a will, that soon the
tower arose fair and strong, and it seemed to the people that their
king had the gift of the magician and could do whatever he would. Then
Edward sent all over Europe, inviting the free knights to come to the
tournament, and they responded willingly, all but the knights of
France, who could not come because their king forbade them. And the
magnificence of this tournament--during which time the streets of
London were strewed with sand daily to prevent the horses from
slipping--raised the fame of Edward III. even higher than before,
until it seemed that for glory and magnificence he could rank with
Arthur himself.

Besides the love of great pageants and military displays, the English
still kept a great fondness for the chase, and the royal hunting
expeditions were very fine affairs. For days before the hunt bridges
were repaired, paths opened, and all persons forbidden under a heavy
fine to disturb the game; while the court was all astir with
excitement, for every detail was carefully attended to, great care
being taken to sound the horns musically, while even the voices of
the dogs were skilfully matched so that the cry of the whole pack
would be melodious. And every event was in like manner made the
occasion for as great display as possible. When Edward's bride,
Philippa of Hainault, came to England to be married and crowned, every
city through which she passed received her with great pageants, and
when Edward visited France his interview with the French king was a
gorgeous ceremonial, in which even the dressing played a great part,
Edward wearing a robe of crimson velvet embroidered with golden
leopards, a crown of jewels on his head, a jewelled sword, and gold
spurs; while the French king wore a robe of blue velvet embroidered
with fleurs-de-lis of gold, and all the courtiers and knights were
likewise attired in great magnificence.

Yet, in spite of the splendor of the court, life in England at that
time was very primitive in many ways. There was no postal system,
although the king was general of an immense army, and if knight or
noble wished to send a letter he was obliged to send a squire or page
on horseback, even though the distance extended from one end of the
kingdom to the other. And although velvet and silk and jewel were used
in robing knight and lady, and in trappings for the horses, yet the
floor of castle and hut alike was strewn with rushes; while, except
for the blazing fires and the presence of a few wax tapers, the
dwelling of the noble was as dark at night as the hovel of the peasant
who went to bed by the light of the first stars.

Rich and poor alike rose at sunrise, and dined at nine o'clock in the
morning, in the castle the family being summoned to the meal by the
blowing of a horn. As each one entered the hall he was served with an
ewer and towel for the washing of his hands. On the table there were
no forks or plates, but between each two guests were placed large
slices of bread upon which was placed the meat. As each course was
finished the bread was thrown into the almsbasket for the poor. After
the meal the minstrels were called in, and the company listened to
songs, stories, puzzles, and games. Supper came at five o'clock, soon
after which it was considered bed-time.

In those days hospitality was considered one of the chief virtues, and
every stranger who craved admittance at the castle was warmly
welcomed, it being thought the greatest rudeness to inquire his name
or business, or to pry into his affairs. As a traveller or wayfarer,
he received courtesy and kindness according to his station, whether he
were guest of master or servant, and if he chose he could go his way
without revealing even his name.

Such was life in England during the time of Edward III. But this
reign, which was distinguished for the magnificence of the court; for
its thirty-three years war with France--a war signalized by some of
the most brilliant military achievements in history--for the loyal
defence made by the Scotch for their country, which Edward tried his
whole life to conquer; for the growth of trade in England, so that
manufacturing cities may be said to date from that time; and for the
many excellent laws passed by the parliament in regard to the rights
and needs of the people, is also supremely celebrated as the
birth-time of modern English literature.

Whatever may have been the influence of Norman thought upon the
English mind, from this time forth the literature of all Englishmen
was purely English, and although French and Latin were somewhat used
by the writers who founded modern English, yet the spirit of the
greatest work done then was English, and the writings of that period
so firmly fixed the English language that it has changed very little
since, excepting in outward form.

In England, the work of fixing the language in permanent form was not
due to one writer alone--as in Italy, for example, Italian was
measurably fixed by the great poet Dante--though it is sometimes
considered that, among those who contributed to this result the poet
Chaucer should have the greatest honor; but it seemed that the
different classes into which society was divided was each to have a
representative. Thus one man--Chaucer--spoke the voice of the court.
Another--Wickliffe--represented the learned scholar of the day; and
another--Langlande--was the people's voice, and answered back to
Caedmon across the interval of eight centuries as clearly as if the
antiphon had never been interrupted. These three men, together with
two others of less importance, Gower and Mandeville, formed the great
group of writers from whom modern English literature dates. Each had
his own part to do, and each performed it well, as men conscious of
the great task before them.

Of the poet Langlande, but little is known except that he was a poet,
and gave to English literature, while still in its infancy, one of the
greatest allegories in the language. He was a priest, and is said to
have been the son of a free man; but although this may have mattered
at the time when to be the son of a free man meant certain important
liberties, it matters little now, when the world knows Langlande only
as a man who, amid the glittering magnificence of Edward's court saw
still the poverty and misery of the people, the oppression of the rich
and powerful, the dishonesty of a large part of the clergy, and all
the dreadful ills which beset a nation which believes that men are
born unequal, and that brotherhood is but a name.

Langlande's poem is called _The Vision of Piers Plowman_, and
relates, under the form of a dream--a form allegorical writing was apt
to take at that time--all the misery that England was then suffering,
though if one looked only on the outside of things, as seen in the
splendor of the court, it would appear a happy and prosperous time.


Langlande tells us that as he was wandering, one May morning, on
Malvern Hills, he grew weary and lay down in the grass to rest himself
with sleep. And while he slept there came to him a vision of a fair
meadow, to the east of which was a height on which stood a tower, and
to the west a valley full of mists and shadows. And the meadow was
full of people of all kinds, rich and poor, high and low, priests,
beggars, palmers, minstrels, pilgrims, tradesmen, farmers, friars,
waifs, and strays, who all went wandering through the meadow pursuing
their several callings, as was the manner of men in life. And the
poet perceived from this that the meadow represented the world, and
that all these people were men and women come in the likeness of a
dream. And from the castle on the height there came to him a fair lady
and said--"Why sleepest thou?" And he was afraid of her, although she
was so beautiful, but yet he gathered courage and asked her what the
vision meant; and she told him that the tower on the hill was the
abode of Truth, which would lead man into all good ways; and that the
dark vale held the castle of Care, where Falsehood dwelt; and that the
meadow signified the world; and that all who did well and lived nobly
should after death go eastward to abide forever in heaven, where Truth
was enthroned; and that all who did ill and lived wickedly should at
the end of their lives go westward, and dwell forever in the valley of
mist and shadow.

Then he knelt on the ground and asked her to show him how he should
know Truth from Falsehood, and she told him to look on his left hand
and there he would see Falsehood, who was in appearance a beautiful
woman richly clothed, wearing a crown on her head, and wearing rings
set with rubies and other precious stones--which meant that he that
does wrong may in this life meet with great honor, but still he will
come at last to the vale of darkness. And then the fair lady left him,
telling him to find out the meaning of the rest of the vision for
himself. And then the dreamer saw that every man and woman in the
meadow represented some vice or fault by whose name they were called.
If a man were proud of his station, he was called Pride; if envious,
he was called Envy; if fond of money, Avarice, and so on; and in his
dream Langlande saw all the things that they did, and knew that the
vision was true; for as these people acted in the meadow, so did the
people act in the world, where the rich oppressed the poor, and the
strong took advantage of the weak.

But after a while some of these people grew tired of their way of
living, and went to a palmer and asked him whence he came. And he told
them he came from the East, and had visited Alexandria, Damascus,
Babylon, Bethlehem, and Sinai. Then they asked him if he had ever
been to the dwelling place of a saint called Truth, for they had heard
of him and wished to find him. But the palmer answered that he had
never heard of this saint, and never before had met anyone who
inquired of him. But at this, a plowman who stood by spoke up, and
said that he had known Truth for forty years, and that he would gladly
show them the way to his dwelling. This plowman was the Piers after
whom the poem is named, and his humble station in life showed that he
who did his duty bravely and truly could be the friend of Truth, no
matter how lowly his lot. Then Piers told the company that whoever
would reach the dwelling of Truth must choose death rather than commit
any sin, and at all times do unto others as they would have others do
to themselves, love their enemies, and give alms to the poor; for he
who did not these things could never keep in the path that led to the
castle of Truth, but would lose his way continually, because the
nature of the ground was such that all who committed sin would
straightway lose their reckoning and not know whether to turn to the
right or the left, to turn back or go ahead; while he who did right
would see the path ever before him, and come at last to the place of
his desires.

Then the poem relates all the adventures and misfortunes of the people
in the meadow, introducing all the evils that England was then
suffering from--the selfishness of the rich, the poverty of the poor,
the ceaseless wars, the heavy taxes, the covetousness of the clergy,
the famine caused by the failure of crops, and the great pestilence
called the Black Death, which had just swept over England and
destroyed in some places half the population. All these evils were
introduced into this wonderful allegory with a skill so marvellous
that the poem has a priceless value, as showing the condition of
society at that time, and is considered the best picture of that
period that can be obtained.


Piers Plowman was popularly supposed to typify some exalted hero or
saint, whose pure life should be an example to others, and thus lead
them to better things. This is what the hero meant to those who read
the book when it was first written, though it is evident that
Langlande himself saw in Piers Plowman only the yearning for the noble
and good which still remained in the English people, and strove to
make it plain that, only by following this impulse for the right,
could a purer national life be reached. The poem is remarkable for its
form, which is like that of the old Saxon poems written before the
Conquest, when rhymes were not used, and alliteration distinguished
poetry from prose. Thus it shows, as no other work had done, how
little the common people had been affected by the Norman influence;
for Langlande wrote entirely for the people, and appealed to them in
the way that would soonest reach them. In using the language of the
masses, in introducing again the old metres, and in the deep
seriousness of his subject, Langlande departed entirely from the
French ideas of poetry, which demanded musical words, easy rhymes, and
subjects that would amuse the hearers, who wanted only to hear of
romance and gay adventures. Thus Piers Plowman was really a Saxon
poem, and pleased the English heart which loved to be stirred by deep
emotions and serious thoughts; for that was natural to the race which
loved fighting, and conquest, and glory better than anything else, and
which laid the foundations of England's greatness in its love of
justice and respect for duty, even while it was yet heathen, and knew
of no better lot than continual fighting both in this life and after
death.

Thus it is by the character of his poem that Langlande connects
English literature with Beowulf and Caedmon; and at the same time his
was one of the first voices to speak the evil that was flourishing in
the state and church, and to point out the necessity for reform. That
the poem reached the heart of the common people is shown by its
immense popularity with the nation at large, and by the fact that many
succeeding writers tried to gain a hearing for their works by
producing works similar to _Piers Plowman_.

Nothing can better show the great change made in the English language
and literature during the fourteenth century than the works of John
Gower, whose first important book was written in Norman French,
because that language was yet spoken at court, and whose last, written
toward the close of a long life, was in the English of the period.

The first of these books, called _Speculum Meditantis_--_The
Mirror of Thought_--was devoted to a description of the vices and
virtues of the age, and pointed out the way by which wrong-doers might
return to the path of duty. This book was widely read by those
familiar with its language, that is, by the upper classes, but it made
no lasting impression, and was not as fine in a literary sense as some
French ballads of Gower, which showed him at his best as a poet. The
_Speculum Meditantis_ is now entirely lost, and the only
importance attached either to it or the ballads lies in the fact that
Gower was the last poet of any consequence who wrote in French.
Another work in Latin (the scholar's language), called the _Vox
Clamantis_--_The Voice of One Crying_, is much more valuable,
as it shows the bitter feeling which then existed between the common
people and the higher classes. If other historical evidence were
wanting this book would be invaluable, as showing the condition of
England at that time.

His last book, written in English (the popular language), although it
had a Latin title, was called _Confessio Amantis_--_The
Confession of a Lover_, and consists of a number of stories of
romance, the whole book being not unlike the collections of tales for
which the French and Italian writers were famous. It was written,
indeed, at the request of the king for something for his own reading.
So that its use of the English language for court literature is really
a very notable event, which marks an important date in the history of
English literature.

All of Gower's works show that he was a man of immense learning, and
that he felt the stir of the times; but he had not the genius to give
the real feeling of the day a voice, and so his writings made no
impression upon the people at large, though he was popular with
writers and thinkers, and those to whom literature meant the setting
of a love-tale to smooth and easy rhymes. His chief importance rests
on the fact that he was among the first to recognize and make use of
the newly-formed English language, and give it a place in the
literature which attracted the upper classes.




CHAPTER IX.

SIR JOHN MANDEVILLE.


As we have seen, the books most popular with the English people after
the Norman invasion were principally written in poetry, and the
stories of adventure and tales of bravery, which the nation chiefly
delighted in, were all in the form of songs or ballads, or the long
poems called metrical romances, whose length prevented them from being
sung, and which were written in Latin and French as well as in
English. But during this period, when the people cared more about
being amused than being instructed, there was one book, written in
prose, which the nation at large found so delightful and fascinating
that it may be said to have been the chief means of creating an
interest in something outside of poetry, and by some it is considered
to be the real beginning of English prose literature.

This book, which so affected the national taste, was written by Sir
John Mandeville, and was a history of his travels and adventures in
various parts of the world. Mandeville was born in the year 1300,
nearly two hundred years before the discovery of America, and at a
time when the ignorance of Western Europe about the rest of the world
was something amazing. A great traveller was such a curiosity in those
days that his name was known equally well in France, Spain, Germany,
Italy, or England, no matter in which of these countries he had been
born, and the most incredible stories he could tell were eagerly
believed by the readers of his book. This was owing partly to the fact
that people were really anxious to learn all that they could of
foreign countries, and partly to the love of the marvellous, which is
found to be greatest always where there is least knowledge.

The first reason accounted for the honor in which all travellers were
held and the respect that was shown them, and made kings and princes
become their willing entertainers; while their journey from one court
to another, after their return from a foreign tour, was almost like a
triumphal procession. And thus it happened that a traveller could very
easily deceive his listeners or hearers, for in their eagerness to be
instructed they received everything that he said as truth. Indeed, it
would have been a hard matter to have done otherwise, as travelling
was a pleasure indulged in by few, and no matter how incredible the
story told by the traveller, he was almost always sure that there
would be found no one with sufficient knowledge or experience to
gainsay it.

The crusades had widened men's minds in regard to certain portions of
the world, and Western Europe had ceased to think that Arabs and Turks
were monsters, only half human, and in league with supernatural
powers. But this only seemed all the more reason to suppose that there
were in other parts of the world just such creatures as they had once
believed the Arabs and Turks to be, for the love of the marvellous
dies hard, and it was easier to believe that there were races with two
heads and one eye living somewhere, than to believe that the traveller
who had first reported their existence should have been deceived
himself, or capable of deceiving his listeners.

To travel in those days required the same leisure and wealth that had
been necessary four hundred years before, in Alfred's time, when only
the most adventurous spirits ever left their native land, for the
conditions were almost exactly the same. Men still traversed the sea
in slow-sailing vessels, and travelled on foot or by horse all over
every land that was not desert. It was still as necessary to be
provided with a band of courageous followers to protect the traveller
as in the days when Wulfstan and Othere related their adventures to
Alfred's court. And the East, that region of the marvellous, where all
impossibilities seemed possible, was just as much a source of wonder
as it had been before the crusades had shown that man is everywhere
very much the same, and that a Mohammedan was as capable of serving
truth, honor, and justice as the Christian foe who came to oppose him.

And so, when Mandeville was born at St. Albans, the world as known to
England was still a very curious place. The western continent was
unknown, and undreamed of; Eastern Asia, though known to exist, was
regarded almost as the fancy of adventurous travellers, and the
Atlantic Ocean was supposed to reach from Western Europe to the
outermost edge of the earth, which was thought to be flat and to be
peopled with monsters and demons. St. Albans, known in the history of
the Church as the place where the first Christian martyr met his
death, was an unimportant place, and it is almost impossible to find
any records of importance relating to Mandeville's early years. The
few books that tell anything of his childhood relate that from his
earliest years he showed a great fondness for study, and that he was
"ravished with a mightie desire to see Asia and Africa." This wish, he
says himself, came to him first when as a child he listened to the
stories told by one who had travelled all over the world. Perhaps,
too, the condition of the country at that time had some influence upon
the boy, for the spirit of the crusades was still strong in men's
minds, and only a little more than twenty years before Mandeville's
birth, Edward I., the pride of England, had won golden laurels in
fighting with the Turk.

And while Mandeville was studying hard at theology, philosophy,
medicine, and natural science, he must also have spent many an hour in
poring over the romantic stories which were then so popular, and in
which knight, lady, and esquire played such an important part; he must
also have listened to the tales of crusaders returned from the Holy
Land. Strange stories had they to tell of Saracen and Turk, of the
great battles fought around the walls of Jerusalem, of the brave deeds
of knight, and soldier, and page under the banner of the crimson
cross, and of the equally brave deeds of Moslem chieftain and serf
under the banner of the silver crescent; of the beautiful mosques and
temples where the pagans worshipped, and which were considered too
holy for a Christian to enter; and of the land itself, with its fair
skies stretching over forest and stream, and hills and meadows,
forever sacred to the crusaders because they had known the presence of
the Master in whose service they fought.

And it is not strange that the impressions received during his
childhood should have been of such a lasting character as to affect
Mandeville's whole life, for the times in which he lived were full of
the unrest which war always brings, and to a child listening to the
talk of his elders, it could only seem that peaceful staying at home
was but a part for women and children, and that the sphere of true
manhood was on the field fighting gloriously, or following adventures
which only brave and knightly hearts could take pleasure in. When he
was about twenty-two years of age, Mandeville left England, and was
absent over thirty years travelling in the East, and it was after his
return home that he wrote the book which made his name so famous.
Still influenced by the supreme place which the Holy Land had always
occupied in the English mind since the beginning of the crusades, he
called his book _The Way to Jerusalem_, adding that it also
treated of the marvels of India, with many other strange isles and
countries.

Strange indeed were the wonders related in this old book of Tartary,
Persia, Ethiopia, Egypt, India, China, and the Holy Land, called by
the author the "most worthy and excellent land, the lady and sovereign
of all others, and passing all in beauty and promise." Here were
accounts of great rivers, fed by mountain streams, which rushed into
the sea with such power and speed that the waters were fresh twenty
miles out from land. And of mountains which passed the clouds, and
whose shadows stretched three score miles away, while the air above
them was so clear that no wind ever blew over them, and letters traced
by the fingers in the dust of the rocks would be found there a year
afterward untouched by rain or breath of wind. And there is also an
account of some of the marvels that were seen, such as a pit of
shining gravel of which beautiful vessels of glass were made, and
which always remained full, no matter how much was taken away from
it, because it was supposed to be an outlet of a sea of gravel which
rose and fell with the tides.

And then he relates all the marvels that he saw in the Holy Land, and
all the historic places that he visited. He tells of the tree which
dropped its leaves at the time of the Crucifixion, and which was never
to be green again, until Jerusalem was taken from the infidels; and of
a convent where the monks kept plenteous supply of olive-oil, which
was made entirely from the olives which the birds brought there every
year as offerings; and of tombs of saints, altars, relics, and other
things of interest to his readers, who were all devout believers in
the traditions that had been gathering for centuries around the Holy
Land.

But it was outside of the Holy Land that the greatest marvels were
seen. And we have descriptions of gardens in Egypt having some trees
which bore seven kinds of fruits, and others which bore a fruit called
apples of Paradise, because no matter into how many parts the apple
was divided, each piece would always have in its centre the figure of
the holy cross. And in Ethiopia there were wonders also--men with only
one foot, which was so large that they could shade themselves from the
sun in the heat of the day by using it as an umbrella, and tribes that
were of different colors at different ages, and rivers full of great
emeralds, and monsters and other strange sights calculated to delight
the hearts of his readers.

Then there are stories of India and the islands of the sea, and we
hear of mines of diamonds and sapphires and other precious stones, and
of the strange people of every color, and of the idols which they
worshipped, and of the forests and their fruits, and of wells whose
water would cure the sick and prevent future trouble, and other
marvels equally fascinating. But it was of Cathay or China that
Mandeville chiefly delighted to talk, for here he stayed over a year
with his fellow-travellers at the court of the great Khan. And he
describes with delight the greatness of the country, and its beautiful
cities which were visited constantly by merchants from every part of
the earth, who came to buy the spices and jewels and silks which were
the products of this wealthy land. And we are told the number of the
great cities, and the size of their walls and palaces, and how they
were all connected by fine roads, and how the king's messengers passed
from one city to another constantly, so that news was carried to all
parts of the kingdom regularly and efficiently, the couriers being
entertained along the way at certain houses owned by the king and set
apart for that purpose.

Mandeville related that the court of the great Khan was the most
magnificent in the world, and gave a full description of it in his
book. The capital of the empire possessed the most wonderful palace
that had ever been known, the walls of which were two miles in extent,
and the gardens so large that within them was a great hill on which
was built another palace; while all about the hill and palaces were
trees bearing all kinds of fruits, vines, hanging full of grapes,
lakes wherein swam white swans and ducks with beautiful plumage,
streams bordered with trees and flowers and crossed by ornamental
bridges, birds of wonderful beauty and with voices of exquisite
sweetness, and in fact everything that could gratify the taste. A part
of the garden was set aside for a menagerie, and here were gathered
wild beasts from every part of the globe, the enclosure being so
arranged that when the king wished he could witness the combats to
which the beasts were trained without leaving his window.

The hall of the great palace was of unusual magnificence, the roof
being supported by twenty-four pillars of fine gold, and the walls
covered with the skins of beasts dyed blood-red, and so highly
polished that Mandeville gravely declared that when the sun was
shining a man could scarcely look upon them. In the centre of the
palace was the king's seat, wrought of gold and precious stones, the
four corners having four serpents of gold twined around them, and the
whole covered with silken nets strung with great pearls. At the end of
the great hall, which was also used as a dining-hall, was the
emperor's throne, made of precious stones, bordered with pure gold,
studded with jewels, the steps leading up to it being also of gold and
jewels. Lower down was the seat of the emperor's first wife, which was
made of jasper and bordered with gold and precious stones; and still
lower down the seats of the second and third wife, of the same costly
materials, which were followed by the places of the great ladies of
the land in the order of their rank; while on the opposite side sat
the emperor's son next to the throne, and beneath him the great lords
of the realm in succession. And before each seat was placed a table,
the emperor's being of gold and jewels and crystal, and the others
decorated in like manner. All around the tables and the throne, and
along the walls, twined a vine made of fine gold having clusters of
white, red, black, green, and yellow grapes hanging from it, the fruit
being made of crystal, rubies, onyx, beryl, emeralds, and topazes, and
the imitation so perfect that Mandeville declared that it seemed a
true vine bearing real fruit.

All the vessels which were used at table were of fine gold studded
with precious stones, the drinking-cups being of emerald, or topaz,
or sapphire; and during the feasts the king's magicians would bring in
great tables of gold on which were placed peacocks and doves, and
other birds, made of gold nicely enamelled, and these were made to
dance, and clap their wings, and perform various tricks; for the
magicians of Cathay were the most wonderful in the world, and knew of
tricks and juggleries that were quite unknown to other nations. Under
the emperor's table sat four clerks whose business it was to take down
every word that was said, whether it were good or evil, for it was the
law of the land that the king might never change or revoke any word
that he ever said; and before the throne stood the great lords and
barons, who served him and might never speak until the king gave them
permission; for all had to keep silence, except the minstrels and
players who were appointed to amuse the court while at table.

The dresses of the lords and ladies were in keeping with the rest, and
were so costly that Mandeville said that if a man in England had but
one robe such as those worn by the great nobles of Cathay, he would
never be poor again. Four thousand nobles were chosen as governors of
the great feasts, and these were divided into companies of four, each
company being dressed in a different color. One had robes of cloth of
gold and green silk, wrought with precious stones; the second company
were dressed in red silk broidered with gold and pearls; the third
were robed in purple, and the fourth in yellow, all glittering with
jewels, and these nobles proclaimed the opening of the feast by
passing before the emperor two and two, being followed by the
minstrels with music and songs.

And in order to show the respect that was paid to learning in that
country, all the great scholars and philosophers were given places of
honor at the feast, and each one sat before a golden table on which
were placed the instruments of his profession. Before some would be
vessels of gold full of burning coals, before others vessels of
crystal filled with water and wine and oil, before others golden
spheres, astrological instruments, crucibles, time-pieces, and every
kind of instrument showing the advance and the wonders of science.

And then there were keepers of wild beasts who brought in lions, and
leopards, eagles, vultures, fishes, and serpents, who were trained to
do reverence to the emperor. And these were followed again by more
enchanters and jugglers, who did great marvels, making the sun and
moon to shine, and then to fade away, so that it was day or night as
they pleased; and then there was jousting and hunting of boars and
deer, and hounds running through wild forests, all brought before the
people's eyes by enchantment; and there was dancing, and feasting, and
merriment until the feast was over, when all returned home singing the
praises of the great khan whose riches and fame and generosity were
beyond those of any other sovereign.

During the time that Mandeville passed there he travelled all through
this famous country, and saw everything that it was possible to see;
for he was a favorite with the Khan, who delighted to do him honor.
After this he travelled to other lands and saw many strange sights,
particularly in the realm of Prester John, a mysterious personage who
was much talked of in those days, and who was supposed to rule over a
Christian community in the midst of heathen lands, and who, when he
went into battle, had no banners borne before him, but only three
crosses made of gold and precious stones; and when he rode on messages
of peace he had borne before him a platter of gold full of earth to
typify that great kings must turn at last to dust, and another vessel
full of gold and jewels to signify his might; for he was proud of his
great kingdom and fought as bravely as any heathen to defend it in
war. And the gates of his palace were of sardonyx, and the great tower
had two great disks of gold whereon blazed two carbuncles of such size
and brilliance that they shone out on the night like crimson stars.
And the tables off which he ate were of emerald and amethyst and gold,
and the steps leading to his throne were of onyx and jasper and
sardonyx and cornelian, and the footstool was of crystal bordered with
fine gold and precious stones. In fact Prester John was almost as
magnificent a sovereign as the great Khan himself, though he bore
before him in all his journeys a little unpainted cross, to show his
humility and meekness.

And so Mandeville travelled from one place to another, coming to Rome
at last to do honor to the Pope and receive absolution for all the
sins he had been obliged to commit while wandering in strange lands.
And when he got back to England he knew of nothing more worthy than to
sit down and write over the history of his travels, the book being
received with such favor that, although it is supposed that the first
copy was in Latin, it was speedily translated into French, English,
German, Italian, Flemish, and other languages, and was considered the
most interesting book in prose that had ever been written for the
people. The wonders that were related in this book were not all
unfamiliar to the people of Western Europe, but this perhaps only
added to its value, for it was delightful to be assured by such a
great traveller that there were countries inhabited by griffons and
dragons; and mountains which sent out rivers full of precious stones;
and places where trees would begin to grow from the seed at sunrise,
bear fruit at midday, and sink back into the earth again at night; and
of a sea of crystal which rose and fell with tides, and on which no
craft might pass to discern the land on the other side; and many other
marvels too numerous to record. Perhaps not the least wonder was the
fact that the people of these strange lands had letters and books
unlike those of the Europeans, for more than once Sir John writes down
the alphabets of these languages in order that his readers may compare
them with their own.

Many doubts have been held as to whether Mandeville really did travel
all over the countries that he pretended to have visited, and some
scholars claim that his book was merely a compilation of other books
of travel, and that there was perhaps no such person as Sir John
Mandeville, and that his travels only existed in the imagination of
some other writer. But however that may be, the fact remains the
same, that a book known as the travels of Sir John Mandeville did
make its appearance in England at this time, that it was received by
various nations as the authentic records of an English traveller, and
that as a book it made a deep impression upon the minds of the people,
and first gave to English prose a charm that it had not possessed
before. That the author, following the custom of other travellers,
should people the places he did not visit with monsters and dragons,
and give ear to many idle tales in regard to other wonders, added, of
course, to its fascination in a credulous age.




CHAPTER X.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.


The greatest writer of the fourteenth century, and one of the noblest
poets in English literature, was Geoffrey Chaucer, who was born in
1328, one year after Edward III. came to the throne.

Very little is known of his life, and although London is supposed to
have been the place of his birth, even that has been doubted; but the
little that we do know tells us that he was probably a page at the
court, and thus became early familiar with all the gorgeous
ceremonials that distinguished the English court at that time. We also
know that he was made a knight, that he fought in the French wars, was
made a prisoner in France, held a place in the government, and married
a maid of honor, whose sister was afterward the wife of one of the
king's sons.

Thus there is no question about his position in society, and we must
suppose from this that his family was one of importance, as it was not
usual for any but the sons of gentlemen to be admitted as pages at
court, and to the society of the nobility. His works show that he had
the best education which the day could give, and that he was not only
familiar with all the literature of the time, but had also studied
mathematics, logic, philosophy, divinity, and perhaps some magic.
Besides this, he must also have passed well in those branches which
were the pride of the court, namely fencing, horsemanship, the use of
arms, and all knightly accomplishments.

We can easily picture him as a boy, listening to the talk of those
adventurous spirits which surrounded Edward III., and whose chief
conversation would be of their own heroic deeds; for in those days
there was not a little boasting, and the free lances, who loved to
linger at the English court, were never backward in sounding their own
praises. These free knights were men who had usually seen service in
every country of Europe, and their talk was always of war and the
glory of it, for they loved nothing else. And particularly while at
the English court, they loved England, and desired to see her triumph
over all her enemies. Their stories of adventures in German towns and
Flemish cities, on highway and in castle, on coast and at sea, must
have held a strange fascination for young Chaucer.

Then there were tales of the Scotch, who had dared to claim that
Scotland should be free of England, and whose brave deeds in defence
of their country were familiar in every English home, very few of
which could not point to some chair left vacant since Edward's army
had met defeat, and his generals had learned what sort of men were
bred on Scottish moors and hills. And above all, there was talk of the
French wars, and prophesies of England's greatness when her king
should wear the crown of France, and of the promise of the king's son,
afterward known as the Black Prince, the most daring knight in
England, who was about Chaucer's age, and must have been regarded by
the future poet as a worthy pattern for every loyal English boy. And
in the intervals of fighting there were the grand tournaments, where
knights jousted and ladies smiled on the winners, and jewels sparkled,
and the whole scene was like a dream of fairy land, and one could
scarcely believe that he was in England, whose people were suffering
from hunger and disease and injustice; though of this Chaucer knew
nothing then, as he had not yet received the poet's gift of seeing the
bond which unites all men in brotherhood.

To a mind easily impressed, such as that of the young page, England in
Chaucer's youth must have seemed the home of every virtue, for to be
successful in arms, learned in chivalry, and accomplished in the
graces of knighthood was considered the greatest thing in the world,
and the English court and its circle of knights represented the very
grace and flower of chivalry. Thus Chaucer had the advantage of seeing
this side of life in its most glowing colors, and saw knighthood
crowned and glorified; and this was an advantage he did not fail to
make good use of when he began his work as a poet, later on.

And apart from these things, there were others which must have made a
lasting impression upon his young mind, for being well born and well
educated, he could command, and had a taste for, the pleasures of a
realm too often neglected by his companions--the realm of literature;
and in the chronicles of Geoffrey of Monmouth, the ballads of Robin
Hood, and the old war-chants of the Saxons, he must have learned many
a lesson of what life had meant in those days when the English nation
was being built. And so life must have seemed to him very much like a
succession of pictures, some sad, some inspiring, and some gay; and
long before he reached manhood he must have realized something of the
meaning which lay beneath the scenes, and wondered why one picture was
so gloomy and another so full of brightness.

If it had been known from the beginning that Chaucer was to be the
greatest poet that England had produced up to that time, and that his
greatness was to consist, not so much in his rich imagination and fine
fancy, which are indeed great, but in his knowledge of human nature
and the portrayal of it, there could not have been a better education
given him to fit him for his office than that which he received; and
his poems are as true pictures of the times as if the scenes he
represented had been painted on canvas. To one, therefore, who wishes
to know what England was during the fourteenth century, Chaucer is a
true guide; while his genius as a poet will make his works prized for
their literary value as long as the English language endures.

When Chaucer first began to write, his poetry, as was natural, showed
the influence of the impressions he had received in his youth, and he
chose for his themes subjects familiar to the writers of the
Anglo-French period, differing in this from his great predecessor,
Caedmon, and his contemporary, Langlande. Among these earlier writings
_The Romance of the Rose_ is considered the most important. It
was a translation of a part of a poem by that name which was famous
all over Europe, and which every poet, minstrel, and courtier quoted
continually. It was an allegory, written under the form of a dream, in
which the hero starts out on an adventure having for its object the
gathering of an enchanted rose, and relates how he was aided by some,
and hindered by others, in his search for the magic flower. Those who
aided him are persons who represent nobility and goodness, and those
who hindered stand for the evils of the day, such as the poverty of
the people, the dishonesty of the clergy, and so on.

But although this poem, and others of the same kind, made Chaucer
instantly popular as a poet, they would have given him no lasting
fame, and it is to a series of poems quite different in character that
he owes his reputation. Familiar in his youth with the life of the
court, military glory, and the delights of the student, he came also
to know England in other ways ere he had grown old. And as his first
knowledge of life had been like a series of brilliant pictures in
which all seemed sunlight and glory, and flash of jewels, and ladies'
smiles, so afterward he found himself looking on other pictures, in
which he saw hungry faces of little children, wretched men and women
living in filthy poverty, well-fed priests taking money from the hands
of the poor, and the rich and strong taking advantage of the weak and
suffering.

All these things made a deeper impression upon his heart than the
splendid pageantries of Edward's court, and the serious work of his
life was to portray England and English manners as seen in the nation
at large, and to teach, if possible, some lesson that all might learn
and profit by. And so his great work of all shows the true feeling he
had, for he wrote it seriously and from his heart, thinking only of
the work itself, and not whether it would please the knights and
ladies of the court. And being a true poet, he put into it so much
grace and beauty and noble thought that it could not help but endure,
just as the work of any poet or painter or sculptor must endure if it
be perfect and beautiful of its kind.

This work is called _The Canterbury Tales_, because the stories
are supposed to be told by a number of pilgrims on their way to visit
the shrine of Thomas  Becket, archbishop of Canterbury, who had been
murdered and buried there nearly two hundred years before. Becket was
considered a saint in the English church, and it was customary for
pious persons to make pilgrimages to his shrine, either as penance for
some sin, or to ask some favor, or to please their consciences with
good works; and as these pilgrimages were made from all parts of the
kingdom, it happened that many strangers met together on the road; and
as every station in life held some who delighted in pilgrimages, it
also happened that all sorts of people came together as the way
approached Canterbury.

Chaucer's pilgrims came from all over the country, and from all
classes, and represented high and low, rich and poor, all being equal
for the time, as all were engaged in the same pious work. It was
natural for these pilgrims to journey in companies, as the land was in
an unsettled state always and the highways were dangerous to all
travellers, who were at the mercy of any thieves or highwaymen who
should choose to molest them. Great preparations were made for these
pilgrimages, and as they were considered acts of great piety, the
pilgrims always took advantage of any chance for amusement or
entertainment that the journey afforded, feeling sure that their pious
intentions entitled them to all the good cheer they could find.

Chaucer's pilgrims were all of this class. They were going to
Canterbury on a very praiseworthy errand, and in the meantime they
would make the journey as pleasant as possible. One of the favorite
means of entertainment in all classes at that time was the telling of
stories, and Chaucer has his twenty-nine pilgrims all agree to tell
each a tale or more as they ride to Canterbury and return; and it was
decided that he who should tell the best story should be given a grand
supper when the pilgrimage was over. The twenty-nine pilgrims had met
at a certain inn, where Chaucer was stopping--for in the story he
supposes himself also to be on a pilgrimage to Canterbury--and the
host of the inn decides to join the company as they proceed, and to
be the judge as to which story is the best.

Among the pilgrims is a Knight, who had fought in the East among the
Saracens, and was therefore held in great honor, having been in
fifteen battles, and fought thrice in single combat for the glory of
Christianity, and whose sober dress and grave demeanor gave an air of
great distinction to the party. With him was his son, a young Squire,
with curled locks and fresh complexion, who wore a costume so gay that
Chaucer said that his cloak, with its embroidered flowers of white and
red, looked like a fair meadow; and the youth's spirits were so gay
also that he went singing and playing on the flute all the day, being
able to make songs as well as sing them. With these two was a Yeoman,
an attendant, dressed in coat and cap of green, like one of Robin
Hood's own men, bearing with him a mighty bow of ash, and having his
sheaf well filled with arrows, tipped with peacock feathers for more
gaudiness; wearing also sword and buckler, dagger and horn, and
having his cropped head--which Chaucer says was as round as a nut and
as brown--stuffed full of woodcraft, so that he must have been a
valuable travelling companion, being able to tell by signs infallible
the presence or absence of foes in the shadowy wood-paths, and knowing
by the pressed grass or broken spider-webs, that the deer had been
before them in their journey, and brushed the dew from the flowers;
and scenting in the wind and in the curled leaves of the trees the
promise of rain.

Then there was a gentle Nun, Madame Eglentine, whose voice sounded
divinely sweet as she sang the service, and whose manners at table
were a marvel to all beholders, being of such elegance that few could
hope to imitate them. She also spoke French well, and took great
delight in being courteous to all men, while her heart was so tender
that she would weep at the sight of a dead mouse. She was fair to look
upon, too, having a beautifully shaped nose of very aristocratic
outline, and a small mouth, and eyes as gray as glass. And she wore
fine, dainty clothing, and a brooch on which was engraved the
legend--_Amor vincit omnia_--Love conquers all things--to show
her kindness and great tenderness of heart.

Next came an Abbot who loved hunting above all things, and to whom the
sound of the bells jingling on the bridle of his horse was better than
the chapel bell ringing to prayers, and whose fine horses and fleet
grayhounds made him the envy of all other abbots who also loved
hunting. He was dressed as finely as an abbot need be, with his cloak
trimmed with fur, and his hood fastened under his chin with a pin of
gold curiously wrought; and altogether he was just such an abbot as
Robin Hood would have liked to meet in Sherwood Forest, and compel to
give up his fine cloak and his fine horse and the bagful of money that
he loved.

Then there was a Clerk, or scholar of Oxford, noted for his love of
learning, and preferring books to fine clothes or music, or anything
that money could buy, borrowing from all his friends in order to get
the precious volumes, and spending days and nights in reading them.
And there was a Parson, and a Plowman, and a Miller, and a Weaver,
and a Carpenter, and a Dyer, a Merchant, a Lawyer, a Sailor, a
Doctor--and in fact all callings were represented in this company of
pilgrims, for only in this way could there be a variety in the
stories. And having rested at the inn over night, they started off
gayly in the morning, for it was in the spring of the year, and the
air was soft and sweet with the perfume of blossoms and early flowers,
and the birds were singing, and all hearts were merry and glad. The
descriptions of these characters all occur in the prologue to the
stories, and are of great interest as true pictures of each class at
that time.

The first one to tell a tale was the Knight, and, as was natural for
so great a traveller, he did not speak of London, or France, or Italy,
which places might have been familiar to some of the company; but his
story was all about the East, and his heroes and heroines lived in
Athens, that wonderful city which seemed like a dream to common folk;
and in this way the good Knight was able to make his listeners fully
understand how wonderful it was to be a great traveller. And this was
his story:


Two young knights, named Arcite and Palamon, kinsmen and brothers in
arms, were taken prisoners by the great Theseus, the conqueror of
towns and people innumerable, and carried from Thebes, their home,
captives to Athens. There they were placed in a tower to dwell in
anguish and woe forever, for Theseus was so angry at the Thebans that
he had sworn that no prisoner should ever be released either by pardon
or ransom. Now, Queen Hippolyta, whom Theseus had married after
conquering her kingdom, had a sister, Emily, who had been brought to
Athens with them, and who was fairer than the lily, sweeter than May
flowers, and a rival in beauty of even the rose itself. And one May
morning Emily rose up with the sun, and put on her finest dress, and
braided her yellow hair, and went out in the garden to do homage to
the month of May; and as she walked through the garden she gathered
flowers and made a garland for her head, singing all the while in a
voice of such heavenly sweetness that it penetrated through the thick
stone walls of the dungeon, and came to the ears of Palamon and
Arcite.

And looking down through their barred window, they saw the beautiful
Emily walking in the garden, and they both immediately fell in love
with her, and had a fierce quarrel as to who should have her; and they
certainly would have slain one another in jealousy, had they not
remembered suddenly that they were both prisoners for life, and that
they had no swords, and that they might as well be friends, as the
fair Emily was not for either of them. But there came one day to
Athens a friend of Theseus, who loved him better than anyone else in
the world, and this friend Perithos was also a friend of Arcite; and
for love of Perithos, Theseus let Arcite go without price or ransom,
on condition only that if he were ever found in Athens again he should
have his head cut off with a sword.

But Arcite cared nothing for his good fortune, being so full of love
for Emily that he preferred his prison to his freedom, for there at
least he had a chance to see her, and envied Palamon bitterly. And
Palamon envied Arcite in return, and bewailed his fate that he was
left in prison and could do nothing to win his lady love. And thus it
went on for two years, when Arcite was suddenly advised in a dream to
go to Athens in disguise, and try and win Emily for his own. So he
came to Theseus's court and offered his service as a servant, and
finally came to be page, and then squire, and was well liked by
Theseus and all his knights. This went on for five years. And at the
end of that time Palamon, by the help of a friend, broke his prison
and escaped, and fled to a neighboring grove, intending to lie hidden
there all day and in the night make his escape to Thebes.

But it happened, that very morning, that Arcite came out into the
grove to gather a garland of woodbine and hawthorn, for it was again
May, and he wished to wear a wreath in honor of the season. And he
wandered up and down, singing happy songs to May; but suddenly his
mood changed and he began to be sorrowful, for he thought of Emily,
and how he was no nearer having her for his bride now than seven years
before. Then he began sighing and speaking his grief aloud, and
Palamon, who was watching him from behind a thick bush, knew him for
the first time--for Arcite had changed so that his features had seemed
quite strange--and came out of his hiding-place and fell to
reproaching Arcite bitterly, and the two took up the quarrel where
they had left it off, and only stopped long enough to agree to fight a
duel the next morning. And when the hour came they fell to right
heartily, and were in the midst of a brave piece of fighting, when who
should come riding up but Theseus himself, with all his company of
knights and ladies, Hippolyta and Emily among them, all clothed in
green and merry of heart, for they were on a hunting expedition. And
Theseus immediately rode in between the two combatants, and drawing
his sword threatened to cut off the head of the one who dealt the next
blow.

Then Palamon spoke out recklessly, and told Theseus that the squire
whom he loved and trusted was no other than the faithless Arcite, and
that he himself was Palamon, and that they were both fighting for the
love of Emily the Fair. At which Theseus was so enraged that he
threatened direful death to both, and only relented when Emily and all
the ladies fell on their knees and besought him to be merciful. Then
he yielded, and agreed that both Palamon and Arcite should come to his
court a year from that time, each with a hundred knights, and that
they should enter the lists, and whoso was victor should have Emily;
and with this they parted.

And then Theseus built a noble theatre in which the combat was to take
place, which was of such magnificence that it was celebrated all over
the world; for every kind of craft was called in to decorate and make
it beautiful. The theatre, which was unroofed, was a mile in
circumference, with walls of stone, marble gates, and temples of
Venus, Mars, Diana, and other divinities, wrought of marble and gold.
The walls were decorated with beautiful paintings and carvings which
represented events in history and mythology, the whole costing an
immense sum, which Theseus paid willingly, as he desired the theatre
to be as costly and magnificent as possible. And when the day of trial
came the company which assembled was well worthy of such a place of
reception, for the greatest kings and nobles and ladies came to see
the lovers, whose history had become famous, and the beautiful Emily,
who was the cause of such trouble between them. With Palamon came the
king of Thebes, in a chariot of gold drawn by four white bulls, and
followed by twenty white mastiffs, held with gold collars and leashes;
and this king wore upon his head a crown of gold as thick as a man's
arm, and studded with rubies and diamonds of priceless value. With
Arcite came the king of Lydia, riding upon a bay steed which was
covered with cloth of gold, and this king wore upon his head a crown
of laurel leaves, and held upon his wrist a tame white eagle, while
tame lions and leopards followed him around.

Theseus received his distinguished guests with great honor, and there
was feasting and great joy until the day of the combat. In the morning
of that day Palamon arose early, while the lark was singing its first
notes, and went to the temple of Venus, and promised to love and honor
her above all other divinities, and to sacrifice on her altar wherever
he should travel, if she would but grant him the victory. And the
statue of Venus trembled as he spoke, and he took it for a favorable
sign and went his way rejoicing. And Arcite went to the temple of
Mars, and made a sacrifice on the altar, and promised life-long
service if he had the victory; and the coat-of-mail on the statue
began to ring, and a voice bade him be of good cheer, and he too went
his way rejoicing.

And then there was great sound of preparation, polishing of shields
and buckling of armor, and music of pipe and drum, trumpet and
clarion; and at last all the company came to the theatre, and the
heralds sounded the trumpets, and Palamon under the white banner of
Venus, with his hundred brave knights, and Arcite under the red banner
of Mars, with his hundred brave knights, advanced to the combat. And
they fought fiercely and long, for Palamon's friends had sworn that he
should be victor, and Arcite's friends had sworn that he should be
victor, and the people cheered now one and now the other, being
equally willing to see either side win. But finally Palamon was
overborne and the victory was with Arcite, and the shouts went up to
the skies; and Emily smiled upon Arcite sweetly, for it was not in her
heart to refuse her favor to so brave a conqueror.

And all would have been over, had not Venus fallen to weeping and
wailing because her knight was overthrown, and the sound of her
lamentation filled all Olympus, and her tears fell in floods on the
earth, till at length good old Saturn, who could not bear to see her
suffer, bade her leave off crying, for she should have her will; and
he sent a fury, which rose from the ground and frightened Arcite's
horse, and the hero was thrown on the hard ground, and struck his head
and received his death-blow; for though they carried him to the palace
carefully and nursed him tenderly it did no good, and he died at
last, blessing Emily and bidding her to wed Palamon. And Theseus made
him a grand funeral, and all the lords and ladies threw jewels, and
gold, and perfume, and wine, and honey, and milk, and incense, and
wreaths of flowers upon the bier where Arcite lay, covered with a
cloth of gold, with a garland of laurel on his head, and his sword in
his hand, and Emily fired the funeral pyre with her own hand, as was
the custom for the chief mourner, and the flames mounted higher and
higher, and soon there was an end of brave Arcite. And after a proper
time had passed, Palamon and Emily were married, and thus the Knight's
Tale ended with the jingle of wedding-bells, which was what the
pilgrims all liked to hear.


Then there were other stories, some grave, some gay, and the pilgrims
discussed each as it was told, and compared it favorably or
unfavorably with the others. Among them was the story told by the
Clerk, or Oxford scholar, who sent his wits roving among all the
learned books he had read, and finally selected a tale from an
Italian poet, and put it into English dress and called it the Story of
Griselda.


Griselda was the daughter of a poor peasant, and supported her father
and herself by keeping sheep, gathering herbs, and doing other small
offices. But so beautiful was she and so sweet in manner that every
one who passed by was attracted to her and stood in admiration before
her. The lord of the land, whose palace stood not far off, had often
noticed the grace and beauty of the peasant maid, and he resolved to
make her his wife. But he said nothing of this to her, as he wished to
surprise her; but had beautiful clothes made, and bought gems and rare
ornaments to deck his bride when he should claim her. The people of
the land were rejoiced when he told them of his intention to marry,
and the wedding-day was appointed, and the guests all assembled, and
waited with great curiosity for the bride to appear. But the marquis
had kept his choice a secret, and everybody supposed he had won some
great lady for his bride.

Griselda hurried through with her tasks, and thought that she would go
with her companions and stand by the way-side, and see the grand
company pass by, and get a look at the bride who was coming to rule
over the land. But as she came in the cottage door, bringing with her
a pail of water from the well, she heard her name called and saw the
marquis standing near, and she went and knelt down before him and
asked him what was his will; and he said that he desired to speak with
her father and her apart, and first obtaining the old peasant's
consent he begged Griselda to be his wife, and she agreed, though
wondering greatly that he should choose one so humble as herself. Then
the ladies of the court arrayed her in the beautiful clothes that had
been made for her, and she was wedded to the marquis, and every one
said that for beauty and dignity she equalled the greatest lady in the
land, and that the marquis had made a good choice.

And all went well until it came into the head of the marquis to try
his wife's faith, and find out whether she loved him for himself alone
or for the great position he had given her. So he began to treat her
very cruelly; but Griselda did not complain, and said nothing even
when he took her two children from her and sent them away, telling her
that she had promised to obey him in all things and must not hinder
him in this. Griselda even thought that both her children were slain,
for they had been taken away by a man who was famous for his cruelty
and savage temper. But though year after year went by while the
marquis kept up his cruel treatment, Griselda was still patient under
it all, because of the promise she had made to obey him in all things.
And year after year the people loved her the more, and hated the
marquis, whom they thought a wicked husband and the murderer of his
children.

But the marquis had really sent the children out of the country to
live with a relative, and be tenderly nurtured, as became their rank;
and when the daughter, who was the eldest, had grown old enough to be
married, he resolved to give his wife's faith another trial still. So
he told her that he had grown tired of her, and wished her to return
to her own house, while he would bring a new bride from a distant
country. And he bade her first prepare the palace for his wedding, and
then go away forever. And Griselda said that she was ready to do his
will, according to her promise. And so he sent for his children across
the sea, and Griselda, when she saw them, thought she had never seen
so fair a maiden and boy, and she stood ready to serve the young bride
as well as she might before she went away. But the marquis, believing
now that her heart was truly his, and that she prized his happiness
more than the grand station he had given her, took her in his arms and
kissed her, and told her all. And Griselda forgot all the years of
cruel suffering in the joy of her children and her husband's love, and
so the story ended happily, as all stories should.


Then the Prioress, with the gentle manners and soft voice, was asked
to tell a story, which she did willingly enough, using such fair
speech and adorning it with such grace of delivery that all were
charmed. Her story was a sad little tale of a child who had been
cruelly murdered by the Jews, because they hated to hear the songs
which he sang to the Virgin as he passed to and from school. And
though the deed was done in secret, and the little body had been
thrown into a pit, yet his mother, led by her love, found the place
out and saw the child lying there dead; and as she looked, from his
lips there came forth such a beautiful song that it filled the whole
place, and all the passers-by wondered. And still he sang when they
bore him away to the abbey, and when the mass was said, and at last
the abbot asked him to tell him the marvel, and the child said that he
must sing until there was removed from his tongue a little grain which
the Virgin herself had placed there, and that then she would take him
to heaven. And so the abbot took away the grain and the song ceased,
and all the assembled monks and nuns wept bitterly because of the
death of one who was so beloved of the Virgin, and they put the child
in a little marble tomb, and his story was told all over the world for
a wonder and a miracle.

This story, which was thoroughly believed by all the pilgrims, was
much liked by the company in spite of its sadness, for the Jews were
hated all over England at that time, and the Christians liked to
believe all sorts of evil about them, though why this should be so is
not plain, since it was the Christians themselves who treated the Jews
most cruelly, defrauding them of their money, denying them justice,
and murdering them without mercy on the least occasion. Perhaps the
Prioress's tale eased their consciences a little, and thus made it
popular with the pilgrims.


Chaucer did not carry out his plan of having all his twenty-nine
pilgrims relate one or more stories as they went and returned from
Canterbury, as there are only twenty-five stories in all, and two of
these are by pilgrims who joined the party after they had left the
inn; but there are enough to show how rich were the imaginative powers
of the poet, and as all kinds of characters were represented in the
telling, the stories show exactly what each person considered
necessary to the telling of a good tale. The Miller and the Cook, the
Merchant and the Squire had the same chance as the Knight and the
Clerk, and thus Chaucer enabled his readers to look at life from the
point of view of many different characters. And it is this which gives
the stories their great variety and charm, as well as makes them
valuable pictures of the times which they represent.

Besides _The Canterbury Tales_ Chaucer wrote several other fine
poems, which are noted for their beauty. Among these are _The Flower
and the Leaf_, _The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_, _The House
of Fame_, and many others.


_The Flower and the Leaf_ is an allegory representing the strength
of truth and honor. A lady wanders out into a forest and seats herself
in an arbor. It is a beautiful spring morning and the world is alive
with fresh flowers and sweet perfumes--nightingales and goldfinches
are singing all around; and while she is listening to their music she
suddenly sees a band of ladies approaching. These are the servants of
the Leaf. They are clothed in white, and wear garlands of laurel and
woodbine, and they form a circle round one who is their queen, and
sing a beautiful song, called "Under the Leaf to Me," which is
interrupted by the sound of trumpets. Then appear nine knights, all
armed, followed by a train of cavaliers and ladies. They joust for an
hour, and then the knights lead the ladies to a large laurel-tree, to
which they make obeisance. Then a third band of ladies enter, dressed
in green, and led by a queen, and these do honor to a mound of
flowers, and one of the ladies sings a song in praise of the daisy,
which they had just made obeisance to, all the others joining in the
refrain. These are the servants of the Flower. Then followed sports
which were interrupted by the heat of the sun, which withered all the
flowers. Then came a shower of rain, which drenched the knights and
ladies of the flowers, but did not harm those who wore the leaf. Then
the ladies of the Leaf pitied the ladies of the Flower, and took them
by the hand and comforted them, and as the rain passed prepared a
supper for them, the Queen of the Leaf entertaining the Queen of the
Flowers in a friendly manner. And from the boughs above a nightingale
flew down and perched on the wrist of the Lady of the Leaf, and a
goldfinch came and folded his wings on the hand of the Lady of the
Flower. And when supper was ended they all went away again leaving the
lady in the arbor alone. The allegory shows that those who served the
Flower, which typified idleness, should be overcome by the trials and
storms of life, while those who served the Leaf, which signified
industry and strength, should stand firm in the time of trouble.


_The Cuckoo and the Nightingale_ is another allegory, and tells
how a poet was in love with a fair lady, and how his love gave him
only sorrow, for he did not know whether it was returned or not. His
trouble was so great that it drove sleep from his eyes, and as he lay
awake he remembered that there was an old saying that a lover who
heard the nightingale's song before that of the cuckoo should be
successful in his love. The poet was charmed to think that this old
proverb had come to him, for it was such an easy way to decide whether
his fair lady looked upon him with favor or not; and so he rose from
bed while it was yet dusk and left the house, for it was already the
third of May and time for the nightingales to begin their concert of
the year. He took a little brook for his guide, and it led him to a
fair land where all was white and green, the grass at his feet being
powdered with daisies, and the trees fresh with new leaves and the
flowers gleaming white among them; and being sure that the nightingale
could not help but choose such a spot to sing in, he sat down among
the flowers and waited. Up among the green boughs the birds began to
stir, and presently they left their pretty bowers and began singing a
glad song to the day, and to the season, for birds keep Maytime as
well as others. There were many beautiful voices among them, some
singing cheerily, some plaintively, as if they knew the poet's woe,
and others letting out their song full and rich from joy of living;
and with this sweet music the voice of the little brook chimed in so
melodiously that the poet was sure that there could not be heard finer
music in all the world. And from very delight he fell into a gentle
slumber and sweet dreaming, and in his dream he heard the song of the
cuckoo right over his head. And at this he awoke full of anger and
distress, for if the proverb were true the cuckoo's voice was only
singing sorrow to him. And immediately afterward a nightingale's voice
came out clear and beautiful from the neighboring bush, and this only
increased the poet's sorrow as he had heard it too late. And while he
sat there overcome with disappointment, he suddenly became conscious
that he understood the voices of the birds, and could tell what they
were saying to each other in their songs. And as he listened he found
that the cuckoo was ridiculing love and lovers, and so the poet was
glad that he had wished her to be burned with fire when her note first
fell upon his ears. But the nightingale was praising love and lovers,
her voice sounding so sweetly every time she answered that the poet
was in greater despair than ever on account of his fair lady.

But the cuckoo could not be persuaded that love was anything but the
greatest nonsense, and was so stubborn and disagreeable that at last
the nightingale fell into loud weeping and cried so hard that everyone
of her sweet notes sounded like a big tear falling on the ground, and
at this the poet became so enraged with the cuckoo that he caught up a
big stone and threw it at her, and drove her away, and told the
nightingale not to mind, for he had heard it all and was quite of her
opinion that love was the chief thing in the world; and then he sighed
so dismally that the nightingale was touched with pity, and in her
gratitude promised to be his singer all through the month of May, and
said that she knew of a charm that would undo the cuckoo's note, and
that if he used it well he might win his fair lady after all. The
charm was that he was to go and look every day upon the daisy that
held a magic power, provided those who looked upon it were good and
true, and would bring all their wishes to them if they were faithful.
And with this comfort the nightingale left the poet, and flew up and
down the green dale, and called all the birds together, and told them
how she had been treated by the cuckoo. And all the birds agreed that
it was a matter that needed serious attention, and they decided to
call a parliament of birds, choose the eagle for judge, and summon the
cuckoo to appear and answer the nightingale's charge. And they
furthermore agreed that the parliament should be held the day after
St. Valentine's day, and that the place of meeting should be in a fair
green maple-tree. And then the nightingale thanked them and flew back
to her hawthorn bush, and began singing again of love, in a voice so
clear and loud that the poet awoke.


_The House of Fame_ is a poem in the form of a dream, in which
Chaucer sees all the heroes and heroines of the world who had been in
any way famous. Chaucer dreams that he is standing in a temple of
glass, on the walls of which were golden images and portraits of all
those lovers whose histories were written by the old poets, for this
was the temple of Venus. And being bewildered with the vision he went
outside to find someone who would tell him where he was; and as he
looked upward he saw a great eagle, whose plumage shone like gold in
the sun, coming toward him, and it caught him up and bore him far away
from the glass temple and the shifting sands on which it stood,
carrying him high in the air, where he passed through clouds, and
mists, and snow, and hail, and rain, and heard the voices of the winds
and tempests, and saw the stars in their near glory, and other
mysteries of the heavens, coming at last to the House of Fame, where
the eagle left him. The House of Fame stood on rocks of ice, on which
were written the names of all who had wished for fame; and some names
were fast melting away, but others remained as fresh as when first
graven. The castle itself was of beryl, full of shining windows, and
crowned with turrets, in which stood Orpheus, and Arion, and all the
great musicians who once charmed the earth with their sweet music, and
with these great harpers stood crowds of other musicians, who made
constant music on horns, flutes, and reeds, so that the air was sweet
with melody.

And as he entered the temple, which was covered with plates of gold,
he saw a beautiful queen sitting on a throne made of one great
carbuncle, and so great was the majesty of her person that her form
seemed to reach up to heaven, and her winged feet rested on a
footstool of gold embossed with gems, and her eyes were like stars for
brilliancy and seemed to see even men's thoughts. And by her stood a
great crowd of heralds, whose cloaks were embroidered with the names
of the most famous knights in history, and the temple was full of the
music relating the great deeds they had done. And upon metal pillars
stood the statues of all the great poets and historians. Josephus, the
historian of the Jews, upon a pillar of lead; Statius, the historian,
upon a pillar of iron stained with tigers' blood; Ovid, the Roman, on
a pillar of copper, and higher than the rest, on a pillar of iron,
stood the great Homer. And then there was Virgil, and Livy, and
Geoffrey of Monmouth, and hosts of others, who all stood there for
sake of fame in song and story. And there came before the queen, who
was the Goddess of Fame, many different persons, who knelt and asked
boons of her, and some she granted and others she refused. Some who
asked for fame were denied; some who had done noble deeds asked to be
forgotten, as they had worked for Truth's sake alone, and this she
granted to some, and to others she refused, and had their deeds
trumpeted aloud through a golden clarion; and so on, for the queen was
continually hearing requests and granting or refusing them. And then
the dreamer was taken by the eagle to the House of Rumor, near by,
where every tale told of loss or gain, or sorrow or joy, in all the
world, was reported by messengers as soon as they heard it, so that
there was nothing that happened on the earth that was not immediately
reported here. And the noise of all this woke the poet up, and he saw
that it had all been a dream.


Chaucer wrote so many poems that it would take a whole book to tell
about them all; and although many of his stories were simply tales
from other writers retold in English, yet he put them to such
beautiful music and clothed them in such rich dress that they seem his
very own. _The Canterbury Tales_ are considered his finest work,
and show best his great power as a poet. His poems were written in the
English which was spoken by the nobility and upper classes, and thus
differs from that of Langlande who wrote the English of the peasants,
which was almost untouched by French influence. Yet because Chaucer
thus put his great poems into the language of the day, and gave it a
fixed form, he is often called the father of English poetry, though at
the time he wrote, the language he used was that of the court and
city, rather than of the nation at large. He died in 1400 and was
buried in Westminster Abbey.




CHAPTER XI.

WICKLIFFE.


The third great name in English literature during the fourteenth
century, that of John Wickliffe, belongs to the priesthood, and makes
the representation of each great class of life by some great writer
complete--Chaucer standing for the higher classes, Langlande for the
people, and Wickliffe for the Church.

_The Vision of Piers Plowman_, which showed in the form of a dream
all the evils that England was suffering, bitterly accused the Church
for the part it had in the troubles. And this was one reason of its
great popularity among the common people. The great nobles, and the
wealthy abbots who were supported by the toil of the poor, had to bear
in return the ill-will of those whom they oppressed, though as a rule
this dislike was often hidden through fear. It was only when some
song or word against the clergy became instantly popular and spread
all over the country like wildfire that this hatred and the great
power of it were perceived.

Thus in the ballads of Robin Hood, the people were always delighted
when some monk or friar was the object of ridicule, and nothing did so
much to make Robin himself a hero among the yeomanry and peasants as
his hatred of priests. This was because the Church, instead of
following the principles and practice of its Founder, was busy about
getting great grants of land, and building huge monasteries, and fine
churches, and cathedrals; and the priesthood, which had first won
England from barbarism by preaching love and kindness, and by lives of
self-denial and hardship, was now represented by men who thought only
of being well fed and well clothed, and whose sermons were often only
a means of getting money from the poor.

Langlande saw this, and his poem had its greatest power because it
seemed to speak right from the hearts of the suffering people, thus
showing him to be a true poet, for it is only such that can translate
a thought into words, and make just such a poem as the people
themselves would have made if they had had the gift of song. And
Chaucer saw it too, and while he wrote pretty allegories of birds and
flowers, and painted English life in _The Canterbury Tales_ in
colors that can never fade, he did not fail to show the selfishness of
the priests, and their love of ease and riches. But although things
were in this state they were not utterly hopeless, for there were yet
many men among the priests who loved truth and justice and lived noble
lives. Langlande himself was one of these, and there was another who
was equally famous both as a reformer and writer. This was John
Wickliffe, who was born in 1324, in the village of Wickliffe in
Yorkshire, and who died after a well-spent life sixty years after.

Among his other descriptions in _The Canterbury Tales_ Chaucer has
given one of a good priest, who was poor in worldly goods but rich in
"holy thought and work," and who, though learned and wise, devoted his
great knowledge to the winning of men from evil, who gave of the
little money he had to those who were poorer still, and who rode not
on a richly caparisoned horse, but, staff in hand, walked from house
to house of his widely scattered parish, bringing comfort to the sick,
brotherly kindness to the well, and good to all. And it has been
supposed that this picture of a noble priest was drawn from the
character of John Wickliffe. Whether this be true or not matters
little, the real interest in the description lying in the fact that
such priests were possible even in those times, and that it was by
their efforts the nation was saved from losing all faith in religion.

Nothing is known of Wickliffe's childhood, but if he belonged to the
family of Wickliffe who were lords of the manor from the time of the
Conquest, he must have had the careful nurture and training which was
usual in wealthy families. When he was about sixteen he entered Oxford
College, which had been founded by Queen Philippa a short time before,
and from this time his life was that of a student of books. And while
Chaucer was fighting in the army of Edward III., and practising a
courtier's arts at the court, and while Langlande was living in
poverty in London, and learning, by the experience of the poor, the
wants of the poor, Wickliffe was studying only books--books that had
been written a thousand and more years before by Greeks and Romans,
books that had been written hundreds of years before by Italians,
French, Germans, and Englishmen, and books that were then being
written by living men who were renowned for their learning. But as the
time came for Langlande to write the sad song which the people were
singing in their hearts, and for Chaucer to paint English society in
words which formed the English language, so it came for Wickliffe to
leave off his study of books and speak to the nation such words as
they were not used to hearing from the lips of a priest; and the time
found him ready. And though it is good to know that Langlande spoke
truth because he was a peasant and knew the peasant's life, and that
Chaucer spoke truth because he was a courtier as well as a poet and
knew that life, it is still better to know that Wickliffe spoke truth
because he was a priest, for it shows that even then, in those dark
days, the Church had not lost sight of the divine light which it had
first followed when it first preached the doctrine of the equality of
man.

Wickliffe's first important work as a reformer was his public protest
against the begging friars who were then overrunning England. These
begging friars, or, as they are generally called, mendicant
brotherhoods, came into existence about a hundred years before the
birth of Wickliffe, and at first did noble work for the cause of
religion. The Church at that time was very rich and powerful, and many
people had lost faith in religion because the priests led lives of
indolence and selfishness. It was then that a few noble souls saw that
Christianity would soon become a thing of ridicule to the whole world
unless some change took place in the priesthood. And so, as this
thought came to one and another, religious orders were formed which
consisted only of men who took vows of poverty and self-denial, and as
these orders thus practised what the first Christians had taught and
practised, they speedily became famous, and their numbers increased
rapidly. There is no doubt that the mendicant orders, when first
established, did a great service for the Church, for the brothers led
pure lives, kept strictly to their vow of poverty, and in all ways
showed themselves sincere followers of their Master.

But in the course of a hundred years the begging friars had become so
numerous and powerful, that they, in turn, almost forgot the old
precepts of their order, and many of them became as greedy of wealth
and as selfish in their lives as the priests they had first waged war
against. They had immense revenues, owned vast estates, and exercised
great influence in the affairs of state and of private life. They
robbed the poor by threats of future punishment, unless they gave them
their little earnings, and they promised forgiveness to the rich if
they would only give large sums of money to their order. Even the
Church itself at last grew afraid of the begging friars, and of their
bad effect upon religion, and took measures to lessen their power long
before the time of Wickliffe. During the time of Edward III. the
friars were exceedingly unpopular, and were doubly hated when it was
found that they had succeeded in persuading the students of the
universities to join their order in great numbers, as a result of
which Oxford alone had lost four-fifths of its students, who were
taken away by their guardians from an influence so undesirable.

Owing to this a law was passed that no youth under eighteen should be
permitted to join the mendicants, and this blow to their power was
followed by a crusade against them, which was led by the most
important and thoughtful men of the age. Wickliffe could not fail to
be among those who entered heart and soul into this great reform, and
his tracts against the mendicant orders soon made his name famous
throughout Christendom. His influence was most powerful because of his
great eloquence and masterly arguments, and because he was known to be
absolutely fearless in the cause of the right, and incapable of being
influenced by offers of wealth or power to abandon that cause. This
course had two very opposite results for Wickliffe. In the first
place, it gave him the position of the first reformer of the age, and
finally led to his appointment as Professor of Divinity at Oxford; and
in the second place, because he kept up his character of reformer, and
constantly raised his voice against all abuses, it led to his
banishment from Oxford when it was found that he not only attacked the
begging friars, but was equally ready to point out the wrongs which
existed in the Church itself.

But his banishment, which his enemies regarded as well-deserved
defeat, was really the means of enabling him to perform the great work
of his life. For although Wickliffe's writings against the corruptions
of the Church were of great value, and placed him among the world's
great reformers, it was work of another kind which has given him his
place in English literature, and a fame that grows brighter with every
age. This was the translation of the Bible into the English tongue, a
work which was a glorious crowning to the literature of the fourteenth
century. From Oxford Wickliffe went to the parish of Lutterworth, and
it was while in this obscure place, and while performing the duties
of a parish priest, that he began the great work which has been full
of such mighty results to the English race.

One of the chief causes of the great success of the mendicants lay in
the fact that they preached to the people in English, unlike the
regular clergy, who still kept up the old traditions of the Church by
delivering sermons in the Latin tongue. Wickliffe, while despising the
begging friars, still saw that they had taken the true way to reach
the hearts of the people, and followed their example in using English
in the services of the Church. And it was perhaps this which first
suggested to him the great gain that would follow to the cause of
religion if it were possible for the people to read the Bible in
English; for it seemed to him that the book which was considered to
teach the articles of the Christian faith should be open to all who
cared to read its pages. Up to this time but a small portion of the
Bible had ever been translated into the common tongue, though at
different times some portions had been made familiar to the people by
the _paraphrases_, or poetic renderings, and others by literal
translation.

Caedmon's paraphrase was the earliest attempt to put the Bible story
into English, and this was not a translation, but a religious poem in
which the events described were taken from the Bible. Bede and King
Alfred translated some parts of the Bible, and other writers after
them put various portions into the language of the people--Saxon,
Anglo-Norman, or English being used, according to the time in which
the author lived. These translations, or paraphrases, were often
written on finest vellum and beautifully illustrated, or illuminated,
with the gorgeous colored letters and pictures that the old monks
loved to execute, and they were regarded as great treasures by the
churches or monasteries which possessed them. But they still seemed
only meant to enrich the libraries of the monks, and were almost
unknown to the nation at large, which learned nearly all that it knew
of the Bible from the pictures in the churches and the stories of the
Gospels as repeated by some one familiar with Latin.

And thus the work of giving the whole Bible to the English people, in
such a way that it could serve for their guide in religion, was yet
undone, and this work Wickliffe determined should be his. And so he
found time, in the midst of many other duties, to retire every day to
his little study at Lutterworth, and give a portion of his time to the
translation of the Bible into English, finding more pleasure in the
thought that by so doing he might be the means of leading the poor
peasants to a higher life, than in the knowledge that the same pen
which put the simple Gospel stories into the common tongue, was feared
alike by Pope and clergy as the most powerful weapon that they were
called upon to resist.

This great work could hardly have been undertaken by Wickliffe alone,
for he was then sixty years of age, and his health was far from good.
It is probable, therefore, that he was assisted in his task by some of
the younger priests and laymen who were constantly around him,
attracted by the sincerity of his life and doctrines. The little
vicarage of Lutterworth, indeed, must have somewhat resembled the
scriptoriums of the old monasteries, where monk and novice wrought
their silent task, and Wickliffe, like Bede, must have sat surrounded
by his faithful pupils, who followed his instructions with loving care
and treasured his words beyond all the jewels that blazed on the
costly covers of the volumes that were valueless to the people because
written in the Latin tongue.

One would think that a translation of the book which the Church
professed to follow for her guide would have been eagerly welcomed by
all true Christians, but this was far from the case, and Wickliffe had
to endure greater persecution than ever, while the new English Bible
was denounced by the Church as an enemy to religion and all who read
it were looked upon with disapproval, because the Church claimed the
exclusive right of interpreting Scripture and therefore opposed
people's doing this for themselves. But Wickliffe only persevered in
his course, and sent as many Bibles abroad as his means would allow.
One copy after another was made, and his followers eagerly studied the
new message which it brought, and read it aloud to the people in the
little chapels where the disciples of Wickliffe gathered. And the seed
thus scattered bore such rich harvests that in ten years' time the
Church found it necessary to induce Parliament to pass a law
forbidding the reading of Wickliffe's Bible. But hundreds of persons
suffered imprisonment and death rather than obey this law, and from
the time of the first appearance of the English Bible its influence
remained unbounded, in spite of the powerful opposition of the Church
and the hatred of Wickliffe's enemies.

Wickliffe was greatly assisted, both in proclaiming his views of
reform and in spreading the Bible, by a class of men whom he called
his "poor priests." These were not always regular priests, but were
generally sincere and earnest men who wished to spread the truth
abroad and who took every opportunity to preach the doctrines of
Wickliffe. Their numbers increased rapidly, and, like the begging
friars, they wandered over England from place to place for the good of
their cause. Only, unlike the friars then, though like them as they
were at first, they really gave up their lives to poverty and
hardship, having no rich monasteries to retreat to when their
working-days were over, and scorning to take from the poor that which
they needed for their own support. These men wore coarse clothing, and
lived on the poorest fare, were always ready to deny themselves of
even the necessaries of life if they found another's need greater than
their own, and looking upon churches and temples as of little account
if they were not the refuge of the poor, they preached their faith in
the halls of private houses, in barns, or on the highway, at fairs and
market-places, and wherever they could find men and women to listen to
them.

It was a new thing to England at that time to have religion offered
free, and the "poor priests" became instantly popular among the
people, winning both their respect and love by their brave and
self-denying labors. And among the many pictures which England showed
in the fourteenth century there was none more interesting and full of
vital meaning than that of the great fair or market-day, where, amid
buying and selling, bargaining, horse-trading, singing, shouting, and
the exhibitions of jugglers and showmen of every kind, there could be
seen the figure of one of Wickliffe's "poor priests," his coarse robe
in strange contrast to the holiday garments of the others, and his
face lighted up with holy enthusiasm, as he spoke to a little circle
of curious listeners, and told them of the new doctrine of a free
religion, of the gift of Wickliffe's Bible, and above all of the
equality of rich and poor in the true brotherhood which was preached
by the new faith.

As might have been expected, the "poor priests" met with much
opposition and persecution on account of the doctrines they taught.
The church tried in every way to suppress them, and even the people
themselves were not always willing to listen to their preaching, and
believed that anything that the church proscribed must be wrong, no
matter how reasonable or just it might seem. But in spite of threats,
and cursing, and stoning, they kept on with their work, and by their
unremitting toil Wickliffe's doctrines and the English Bible became
familiar throughout all England, while their numbers increased so
rapidly that it became a common saying that a man could not meet two
people on the road without knowing that one of them was a "poor
priest."

Besides the effect which the English Bible had upon the character of
the English nation at one of its most important periods, its influence
upon the language is inestimable, as it helped fix it in the highest
form it had reached, and if no other book had been written in English
during the fourteenth century, it alone would have been sufficient to
give permanence to the mother tongue, and raise it from a dialect to
the place that it thereafter held.

And if to Chaucer belongs the honor of having given to the English
language a strong, beautiful, and living body, to Wickliffe belongs
the equal glory of endowing that body with a soul whose divine
presence has never ceased to turn the hearts of men to pure ideals and
high purposes. The Bible is the one book to which, through all
succeeding centuries and in the midst of powerful rivals, the English
race has turned as its hope and inspiration, and which has moulded
the thought of one of the greatest nations of all time. And that this
is so is due largely to the efforts of Wickliffe, who, in his study at
Lutterworth, thought only of giving to the English peasants the Bible
in their native tongue, little dreaming that the seed he was sowing
should yield such rich harvests. In the sixteenth century, Wickliffe's
Bible was made the basis of two versions by the reformers Tyndale and
Coverdale, and these, in turn, were the foundation of the version
authorized by King James in 1611, and which is still in use.




CHAPTER XII.

CAXTON.


During the century that followed the death of Chaucer no writer
appeared who could worthily be called his successor, and it seemed
that English literature, which had risen to such a height in the
fourteenth century, was destined in the fifteenth to remain almost
stationary, as far as the writing of any great book or poem was
concerned, although men knew that the music which Chaucer had sung
must in time be carried on by other voices, perhaps as melodious as
his.

For nearly a hundred years the cloud of civil war hung over the land,
and the best blood of England was poured in lavish measure on the
battlefields which marked the progress of the Wars of the Roses. The
splendid pageants, courts of love, tournaments, and chivalric
amusements which distinguished the Court of Edward III. gave place to
the confusion and strife of contending aspirants to the throne, the
noise of fateful battles, and that unrest, discomfort and misery which
abound even in palaces when a nation is divided against itself; for
not only did the people suffer as greatly as when their woes were sung
by Langlande, but the nobility now felt the touch of a cruel fate, and
the whole of England was overborne by the weight of a trouble
unrelieved even by such a show of gorgeous colors as had tinged the
courtly side of society when Wickliffe and Langlande undertook to lift
the lower classes into fairer ways of life. But yet, strange as it may
seem, although the men who in time of peace might have been holding
the pen were wielding sword and battle-ax, and English literature,
like an unfinished song, was awaiting some one to take up the
interrupted melody, it was at this very period that an event occurred
which gave to books and education an impetus that carried them into
wider ways than any they had yet found and by which book-making
progressed at a rate unparalleled in the history of any other art.
This was the introduction of printing, which brought about a
revolution whose effects it is impossible to overestimate, and
conferred upon the common people a more priceless gift than any ever
bestowed by king or conqueror.

The oldest nations of which we have any record used some means of
preserving their histories long before written volumes existed, and at
a time when man had not yet thought of expressing his ideas in written
words. During these periods the methods used differed very much,
according to the nature and condition of the people, and if these
historical records could be all gathered together in one place they
would show so much individuality that it would be easy to distinguish
the work of different nations, and read their several histories, even
at this distance of time. But long before even the rudest attempts to
record history, each tribe or nation preserved its traditions by
transmitting them orally from one generation to another. This method,
of course, was very imperfect, as it was so liable to allow errors to
creep in. And so, almost from necessity, it became the custom, when
any event of great importance happened, to endeavor to record it in
some way less subject to change than oral tradition.

This would be done by those of the tribe who possessed the gift of
representing any natural object by drawing or carving, and as this
method became more and more popular there came to be a recognized
class of men whose chief business was to preserve the history of the
people by making pictures or rude sculptures of their battles,
victories, defeats, and other eventful episodes. This method was kept
up often long after the people possessed a language rich enough to
express every thought in a poetical way, for there was a great
difference between picture-making, which stood for some person or
event, and writing, which stood for spoken speech.

Thus the North American Indians, whose language was so rich that its
beautiful imagery charmed their European listeners, were content
always to write their histories in pictures, graven sometimes on
rocks, sometimes portrayed on tanned skins, but always limited to the
simplest representation which could be devised. Thus a great war,
which had resulted perhaps in the total extinction of a powerful
tribe, and which may have changed the history of these savage people,
would be represented perhaps simply by a picture of the conquering
chief holding in his hand the scalp of a warrior of the defeated
tribe, accompanied by some hieroglyphic signs to show in what year it
occurred, and giving no account of the meetings, war-councils, and
preparations which preceded the strife, though those very council
meetings gave rise to some of the finest of that oratory for which the
Indians were so celebrated.

The old nations had at first only this kind of picture-writing; but
from picture-making to word-making, though a very long process in
point of time, was but a simple one really. The first written words
stood only for the pictures that had formerly been used, and written
language at first was as unadorned and primitive as the picture
language, a whole word being expressed by a single letter, which had
been modified from the picture itself. These characters were imprinted
on implements, arms, coins, gems, public buildings, tombs, and
pillars, and, together with a rude painting or sculpture of some
important event, made up the recorded history of the early ages of
civilization. Gradually, however, a written language, corresponding to
speech itself, came into being, and then the making of books properly
began.

The first books were written upon many different kinds of material,
according to the time or country in which they were made. In some
places the leaves of the trees were used for writing upon, those of
the mallow and palm particularly, and these were sometimes pasted
together at the edges to form a larger surface. It is probable,
however, that leaves were not used for making historical records, or
for any writing that was meant to endure, as they were too fragile to
admit of such use; and these leaf-books were in all likelihood used
only for teaching, or for business purposes and the sending of
official messages. The bark of trees was also used for these first
books, the inner bark of the linden coming into such general favor
that its name, _liber_ in Latin and _biblos_ in Greek, came
to stand for the word book in both languages. But this was also, like
the leaves, subject to injury and decay, and the most important
documents were written on some other substance. Sometimes they were
graven on pillars in palaces and public halls, and sometimes on tables
of solid wood. These wooden tables, called _codices_, were used
chiefly for legal documents, and, as in the case of the bark, a set of
laws came in time to be called a code, from the _codex_, or table of
wood on which it was written.

Among the Greeks and Romans leaves and tablets of lead and ivory,
covered with wax, were also used for writing; the pen, which was
called a stylus, being made of iron, brass, ivory, bone, or wood, and
having the upper end flat for the purpose of scratching off the wax
when it was necessary. These tablets were always carried around
everywhere, and there is a statute of one of the Roman emperors which
forbids the use of the iron stylus, as it was sometimes used as a
weapon of defence or attack by its owner.

But the material which was, after a time, used almost universally by
the old writers was parchment, or prepared skin, called also
_pergamena_, from Pergamos, in Asia Minor, where it was largely
prepared. This was a costly material because of the expense and time
it took to prepare it. Pens made of reeds were used in writing upon
it, and it was possible, from the nature of both the material and the
ink employed, to erase the writing and use it for a new book.

These parchments were sometimes dyed red or yellow, and one of the
most ancient manuscripts of the Bible is upon crimson leather. The
skins thus used were cut into strips of the required length, sometimes
of one hundred feet, and these were connected together so as to
contain an entire work; they were rolled up and tied when not in use,
and our word volume comes from the Latin _volumen_, meaning a roll.
But during many ages the material most in use for making books was
papyrus, which formed the substance of nearly all books until paper
came in use, though parchment never went out of use; and, indeed, when
in time the supply of papyrus became exhausted, was still the
resource of the book-maker.

The papyrus was a plant which grew in immense quantities in the
stagnant pools that were formed by the overflowing of the Nile, and as
the Egyptians worshipped this river as a god, because its inundations
moistened the soil and brought their grain to perfection, thus
supplying them with the means of life, so they also regarded with
grateful veneration the gift which enabled them to preserve their
history; for of all the ancient nations they were the most given to
preserving the memory of their deeds and achievements. Their kings
built great tombs, sculptured sphinxes, and raised pyramids which have
been the wonder of all succeeding ages, to commemorate their glory;
and next to the wheat which ripened on the muddy bottoms left by the
subsiding Nile, they prized the plant which their priests and scholars
used for making books. For though every part of the papyrus was used
for something, the lower part being formed into cups and other
household utensils, the pith used as food, and the fibrous parts
formed into cloth, shoes, baskets, lamp-wicks, sails for ships, and
other articles, it was the paper produced from it that gave it its
chief value.

The process of preparation consisted in peeling off the coat its
entire length, moistening it with the juice which was expressed, and,
after laying it across a block of wood, placing another layer upon it.
The two layers, thus cemented by the juice, were pressed, dried in the
sun, beaten smooth with a broad mallet, and then, last of all,
polished carefully with a shell. It was then considered ready for use.
Papyrus was a source of great wealth to the Egyptians for centuries,
immense quantities being sent annually to Greece, Rome, and other
countries, and it is no wonder that the natives prized so highly a
plant which combined so many virtues, and which could be used either
as an article of food, made into a bed to sleep upon, or converted
into sails to bear the paper across the Mediterranean; while the
leaves from the same plant were woven into garlands and placed on the
shrines of the gods, with the prayers that the voyagers might come
safely home again.

The art of paper-making from papyrus was brought to the greatest
perfection by the Romans after the subjugation of Egypt by that power,
and they developed a paper of exquisite whiteness and smoothness. But
the greatest care could not discover a way of making this paper as
strong as parchment, and it became the custom to insert leaves of
parchment here and there between the brittle leaves of papyrus, the
most ancient books thus often being made of the two materials. The ink
used in writing these old books is supposed to have been made of soot,
powdered coals of ivory, and fine woods, mixed with gums. There were
also gold, silver, red, and blue inks, and a purple dye used for the
royal decrees, and called the sacred encaustic. Sometimes the titles
of the chapters were written in alternate red and blue, the marginal
notes in another color, and whole pages in gold and silver, thus
making the book look like a beautiful picture. The gold and silver
inks were chiefly used for religious books, and among the oldest books
is a copy of the Gospels written on purple parchment, with letters of
gold throughout, thus expressing the idea of the old scribes that no
medium could be too costly to convey the precious gift of thought.

The pens used in writing with ink were made of reeds and rushes
chiefly, though the quill was sometimes preferred. A pen of this kind
was called a _calamus_, from the Latin name of the reed used. These
instruments of writing often served as a sign of the profession of the
scribe; and the scalpel for trimming the pen, the compass for
measuring the lines, and the scissors for cutting the paper, were
always on the desks of ancient writers, and figure in all the pictures
relating to early book-making. After a time papyrus became very
scarce, and book-making, which was then a recognized art among all
civilized nations, was in danger of declining, owing to the lack of
paper. Parchment, which had always been a very expensive material,
increased greatly in value, and it became a serious matter to
undertake to write an entirely new book.

And besides this, another reason caused the making of books almost to
cease, and this was the political condition of Europe; for it was
during the period when ignorance abounded everywhere, owing to the
feudal system, which divided every country of Europe up into so many
military states, and left all arts, except that of fighting, to fall
into disuse and disfavor. During this time--between the ninth and
fourteenth centuries--a very curious custom came into use in regard to
book-making. Learning was almost entirely in the hands of the priests,
and books were the almost exclusive property of the monasteries, and
the scarcity of paper from papyrus, and the great expense of
parchment, led the monks to take advantage of the fact that writing on
parchment could be erased, and to put the old manuscripts to new uses.
Thus many valuable works were entirely lost when it was possible to
erase completely the original writing.

But, in spite of chemicals and scrubbing, the parchment often retained
the imprint of the earlier book, and a volume which had had the
curious experience of bearing first the imprint of some Greek or Latin
classic, and secondly the life of the favorite saint of some medival
scribe, was often deciphered long afterward by some earnest student,
and its first imprint brought to light.

Still, although books suffered in this way at the hands of the old
monks, it is to them alone that we owe the preservation of the
libraries during this time. And when learning had almost entirely
disappeared, the monasteries and religious houses still kept their
treasured manuscripts, and abbot and novice guarded alike, as their
most precious possession, the costly gifts of thought whose price
could not be valued in gold or silver. And it was fortunate that this
was the case, for in those times of disorder and change the
monasteries alone were secure from disturbance, and books were safer
there than they would have been in kings' palaces, from conquest and
revolution. And while one form of power succeeded to another, and
different dynasties passed away, the property of the monasteries still
remained in possession of the religious orders, and was passed down
from age to age undisputed, and guarded with loyal devotion.

And so the work of book-making went on in the midst of the tumult of
war and the darkness of superstition, and the old scribes copied
patiently and faithfully their appointed stint, and did it right
honestly, as may be proven by the fact that after a thousand and more
years the various copies, made at different times and places, show
only those slight variations which would be due to the mechanical part
of the work, and that the text remains, word for word, almost
identical, only the date at the end, and the name of the copyist and
king, giving distinction to the work. These monasteries were scattered
all over Christendom, and some of them became specially noted for
their work of transcription. Among the most famous places for making
books in those old times was Mount Athos, the whole sides of the
mountain being covered with religious houses; and when it came time to
trace out the history of the old manuscripts, and learn their date of
transcription, this place speedily became renowned for its valuable
literary treasures, a renown which it enjoys to this day.

In determining the age of these old manuscripts many different things
are taken into account--such as whether they were written on paper,
papyrus, or parchment; what kind of ink was used, and the character of
the illuminations; and so expert have students become in this branch
of research that it is almost as easy to determine the age of a
manuscript, buried perhaps for centuries beneath some ruined
monastery, as to reckon the relative ages of rocks by the fossils they
contain. And the antiquity of some of these books is indeed
remarkable, considering their fragile nature and the continual risks
to which they were subject, and much of the ancient learning must have
been lost to the world but for its preservation in this very way. For
when the famous libraries of Alexandria, Constantinople, Rome, Athens,
and other places were destroyed, the classic writers were so diffused
that they were known in all parts of Western Europe and Asia, and the
religious orders, holding this knowledge as their chief treasure,
transmitted it by copy to future generations, and kept alive the lamp
of learning which was so perilously near extinction during the Dark
Ages. Thus we owe a precious debt to these old monks, who, working so
patiently for the cause of knowledge and the glory of their order,
perhaps may have had a vision of the time to come when the walls of
their monasteries would lie in ruins, and they themselves be only
remembered by the volumes whose gold and jewelled covers still
glittered brightly, though the dust of centuries had hidden them from
view.

Just as the scarcity of papyrus and the costliness of parchment began
to be seriously felt in the art of book-making, an event occurred
which marked a new era in the manufacture of books, and made it
possible for every library to possess as many as the number and skill
of their scribes or copyists would permit. This was the introduction
of paper made from cotton, which had been used for some time in the
East, and which made its appearance in Europe at a most opportune
time, becoming comparatively cheap and within the reach of all when it
was discovered that it could be manufactured from old rags.

From the time that paper was introduced the number of manuscripts
increased at a more rapid rate than ever before, as one great cause of
their scarcity--the cost of material--was removed. But as learning was
still almost entirely confined to the monastic orders, the manuscripts
for the most part still remained the property of the monasteries.
Books were loaned from one college to another, and from one monastery
to another, only on condition that a duplicate of the work remained at
home; and if any great scholar bequeathed a few books at his death to
a favorite college, they were carefully deposited in chests and
jealously guarded by students set apart for that purpose.

The books in use were generally chained to the desks, and a curious
old college law of this time proclaims that no scholar shall have the
use of a book for more than an hour at a time, or two hours on a
special occasion. Even at this period of comparative cheapness, books
were so scarce that kings were glad to borrow them from the churches
and universities, and, if we are to believe the old records, they
were sometimes not returned; while an illuminated manuscript,
decorated with gold and silver pictures and initials, and bound in
velvet or silk, and adorned with lace, tassels, and jewels, was
thought to be the price of a prince's ransom, and to stand for the
most valuable booty taken in battle. Still, books were sometimes
bought and sold, and after a time there even grew up a custom among
the booksellers of having books to hire, though the reading class
still consisted almost entirely of priests and lawyers, and the people
at large regarded books as things entirely out of their line, and the
possession of learning almost of the same nature as the possession of
the black art.

But all this time the day was coming nearer when, in place of the few
books which were sent out at long intervals by the monasteries and
universities, there would be thousands of printing-presses all over
the world, sending out books in almost countless numbers, so that
whoever would might read, and the wisdom of the greatest scholars
become the property of the poorest peasant. There have been many
disputes as to what nation may claim the honor of the invention of
printing, and learned men have written books and treatises to show
that the glory belongs to this or that country. But it will probably
never be known who first conceived the idea of making a carved block
do the work of the hand, and imprinting from it words and sentences.
And as written language is the heritage of all civilized nations, and
arose probably among each one independently, so it is very likely that
the idea of a printed language may have occurred to more than one mind
at the same time, a thing which would be quite in keeping with the
histories of many other discoveries and inventions.

We know that the art of printing from blocks was practised in the
early part of the Christian era by the people of the East, for in the
year 175 A.D. the text of some of the Chinese classics was cut in
tablets erected outside the royal university, and that impressions
were taken from them. It is also known that in the year 675 A.D. a
Japanese emperor had a million toy pagodas made for the temples, each
of which contained quotations from the holy books, printed on paper;
and that in the eleventh century the Chinese knew the art of printing
with movable clay types.

It is maintained by some that the art of printing was brought to
Europe from the East by sailors, and that the West owes this, together
with the cultivation of the silkworm and many other gifts, to the old
Asiatic nations; but, however this may be, it is only idle to discuss
it, as the time is too remote and the proofs are too meagre to make
such discussion profitable. It is sufficient for us to believe that
printing, as a modern art, first appeared in Germany in the fifteenth
century, being invented by John Gutenberg, a citizen of Mainz,
assisted by John Faust, a fellow-citizen, and perfected by Peter
Schoeffer, son-in-law to Faust, though opinions vary greatly as to who
should have the greatest honor in bringing the new invention to light,
and each of the three has been at various times honored with the title
of inventor of printing.

Gutenberg had to build upon the printing of legends, texts, and
religious pictures from carved blocks, the stencilling of
playing-cards, and the making of _block-books_, so called because they
were little books of forty or fifty leaves, each leaf containing a
wood-cut or some extract from the Scriptures, the whole page being
imprinted from an engraved block of the same size. Each block
contained one page; thick ink was used, which did not spread, and the
two pages were often pasted together. These wooden pages took up great
space, and could be used for nothing else.

These processes were already in use and here was the germ of modern
printing, and Gutenberg had but to work from this to something larger.
The next step from an engraved or carved block, containing a legend,
would be the idea that, instead of a block with a whole word carved
upon it, there might be a block which had but one letter, and that
this letter could be used, with other single letters, to form, first,
a Scripture text; next, a line from the classic poets, and so on
indefinitely; and this process of having separate letters or movable
types contains the whole of printing.

It seems a very easy transition to look upon now; but it stands for
many years of toil and discouragement by the old wood-carvers who
worked at it so patiently. Gutenberg spent the best years of his life
and all his property in developing the idea, and but for the help of
Faust would have abandoned it altogether for lack of means; for all
the different experiments with wood, copper, and tin blocks and types,
cost much money, and in those days money was a rare possession for a
man in Gutenberg's class in life. It is said that the invention of
cutting the forms of all the letters of the alphabet, so that each
letter might be singly cast in copper or tin, belongs to Schoeffer,
who first cut the letters in wooden matrixes, and then had the whole
alphabet cast, keeping it a secret until the work was complete. At
first these metal letters were hardly as successful as the carved
wooden ones; but as at last a means was discovered of mixing the metal
with some substance which made it hard enough to stand the necessary
pressure, they came into general use, and the art of printing from
movable types was an accomplished fact.

The invention was kept a secret for a long time, every workman taking
an oath of secrecy; but after the sacking of Mainz, in the war that
soon followed, many of the inhabitants fled to different countries,
and among them were some of the printers, who continued to practise
the art in their new homes, and thus made printing universally known.
Printers' guilds soon sprang up in Rome, Paris, Lyons, Venice, and
other great cities, each city vying with the rest in the number and
beauty of its books, and everywhere the printer was received with
honor as the possessor of a marvellous gift.

These first printed books were sometimes very curious, and as far as
beauty was concerned were much inferior to the beautiful illuminated
manuscripts familiar to scholars. The pages were without title,
number, or paragraph, and the words were so close together that it was
difficult to read them. The letters were all of the same size. No
capitals were used for the beginning of sentences or proper names,
and blanks were left for the titles, initial letters, and other
ornaments to be supplied by the illuminator. These adornments
consisted of gold and silver letters, and figures of saints, birds,
flowers, and other designs in the margins, as in the old manuscripts.
When it was necessary to quote Greek, a space was left for the scribe
to perform this work, as there was no type to correspond. There were
no tables of contents, and when the printer's name was used it was put
at the end of the book, with a text from Scripture accompanying it.
The spelling in these old books varied with almost every printer, and
so many abbreviations were used that at length there had to be a whole
book written to explain them.

The art of printing was for a long time considered almost as magic
art, so deep a reverence did the people have for the new process of
multiplying books at such a rapid rate. There is a story told that
Faust, before the secret was divulged, printed a number of Bibles in
which the letters were so like hand-work, and the titles and capitals
so beautifully illuminated that they sold for an immense sum; but that
the honest burghers, finding a greater number of copies in his
possession than it would have been possible for many men to transcribe
in a lifetime, and the pages of each copy so exactly alike, arrested
him for sorcery, and it was only by disclosing the secret that he was
allowed to go. Whether this story be true or not, it might easily have
been the experience of one of the first printers, and well illustrates
the character of the times in which they lived, when a few manuscripts
were considered a worthy dower for a nobleman's daughter, and the
possession of ever so small a library implied a royal revenue.

This wonderful new art was brought into England by William Caxton, a
merchant, who was living abroad, and who, it is supposed, learned
printing from some workman of Faust or Gutenberg, who left Mainz after
its downfall. Caxton was born in the year 1410, in Kent, England, and
was the son of a yeoman. Although born after the death of Chaucer,
and therefore heir to the new-formed language which he did so much to
fix, Caxton's home was so far from London, and the great centres of
commerce and learning, that it is doubtful whether the English of
Chaucer was at all familiar to him in his youth; for the places remote
from London, and having but little communication with it, would be the
last to feel the influence of any new thought, and would keep to the
old ways long after they had fallen into disuse in the large cities.

Caxton himself said that the English which was spoken in Kent when he
was a boy differed very much from that used at the court; and when, in
after years, he found it necessary to put his thoughts and experience
into written language, or was engaged about translating the works of
others into his own tongue, he made continual allusions to his early
education, praying that all defects might be excused because of the
disadvantages which he suffered in childhood, when the Kentish country
people still used the old words and pronounced English so differently
from the people of the cities. But although the parents of Caxton
little dreamed that the boy who spent his first years running wild
over the fields of Kent would one day stand reverenced as the man
whose work had brought incalculable benefits to English literature,
yet they had a respect for learning and gave the boy all the education
that their means would allow.

And we may believe that young Caxton took wise advantage of this,
though he had no notion of becoming a great scholar, and can easily
imagine him lost to the world around while he bent over some valued
manuscript which contained the history of King Arthur, or Helen of
Troy, or that prime favorite, Robin Hood, little thinking, as he
turned the leaves of the precious volume, that the time would come
when he should make it possible for college libraries to unchain their
books and pass them freely to all who would read. So little did his
parents forecast the future, that when Caxton was eighteen years of
age he was considered learned enough for one in his station, and he
was therefore apprenticed to one of the wealthiest and most
influential London merchants, Robert Large, to learn his business.
The merchants of the fifteenth century were a very important class,
and had many other interests beyond those of mere buying and selling.
In many cases they owned their own ships, and when these were sent to
foreign countries it was the custom for the wealthy and noble classes
to commission them to obtain those rare and costly articles which were
not then considered regular articles of trade. Thus while the
merchants controlled the wool and silk markets, they also bought and
sold other wares of an entirely different nature. The master of a ship
sailing to the Mediterranean, for example, would be commissioned to
bring home with him spices, drugs, ivory, jewelry, and whatever else
any patron of the merchant might desire, and among these things it was
not unusual to see one or two of those precious manuscripts which were
counted of more value than gold or silver.

In this way the young apprentice would still be thrown somewhat in the
company of books, and from this time on Caxton found greater and
greater delight in such companionship, and thus, from his acquaintance
with the popular ballads and poetry which the wandering minstrels made
familiar to the country-people in his childhood and by the study of
the works of Chaucer and his contemporaries which his life in London
enabled him to read, Caxton came to have a very fair knowledge of
literature, even before his apprenticeship was over. The apprentices
in those days, when merchants and mechanics were all formed into
powerful guilds which even the crown treated with great respect, were
a not unimportant class. They shared some of the importance of their
masters, and were regarded as the inheritors of those privileges which
their class had obtained after many weary struggles with the nobility,
and in all public festivities they were accorded an honorable share.

Life in those times, when there were such sharp distinctions between
the rich and the poor, was not much of a holiday to the
working-classes, and their chief amusements were found in those great
pageants for which London was then so famous. Whether there had been
a great victory won abroad or at home, whether there was a king to be
crowned or a royal visitor to receive, or whether the merchants or
some other powerful guild wished to display their riches and
importance by a public parade, everything was made the occasion for a
grand pageant, in which nobles and tradesmen, rich and poor alike,
took supreme interest and enjoyment. On these occasions work was
entirely given over, and it was to such displays that the apprentice
in Caxton's days owed many of his holiday moments; and there can be no
doubt that these sights brought their own lessons to the thoughtful
lad from Kent, and that many of those grave sayings which came from
him later on, and in which he showed such knowledge of the world, may
have owed their birth to the thoughts which arose in him in his
apprentice days, when he saw such sharp contrasts in life, and could
easily read beneath the glitter of the show the feelings which held
the hearts of the lookers-on.

This period of Caxton's life was an important one politically, both at
home and abroad, and must have made an impress on the mind of the
country youth, and perhaps explains the interest which he always took
in public affairs. It is certain that life to this apprentice meant
much more than the knowledge which bounded his own calling, and it was
this susceptibility to other interests which so greatly influenced his
later life. It would have been an ordinary matter for the merchant's
apprentice to turn merchant himself, send his ships hither and thither
and gather for himself riches, and some honor in his calling, and this
was doubtless the destiny of more than one youth who shared Caxton's
meals in the house of the master. But Caxton could not stop at being a
merchant, he must take in other interests, and if any one of these
proved greater he must cease being a merchant altogether and follow it
wherever it led; such was the character of his mind, and such was his
actual experience.

When he was about thirty years of age his old master died, leaving him
a sum of money as a mark of his appreciation, and from this time
Caxton resided abroad for about twenty years. It is not clearly known
why he left London, whether he was deputed on business for his
brother-merchants, or whether he chose such a course for his own
pleasure. But we do know very well that the principal business that
Caxton was about during this time was connected with books and
book-making, and that he attained some popularity as a translator and
transcriber. At some time during the latter part of his stay abroad
Caxton heard of the new art of printing, and from then on never rested
until he made the wonderful secret his own. He does not mention in any
of the prefaces to the books that he printed, where he learned this
art or who was his teacher, and it is probable that he had great
difficulty in making the new discovery his own, for whoever held the
secret had a prize more valuable than the key to royal treasuries, and
it was not easy to persuade one to part with it.

Before the invention of printing, the copying of books had already
become a business carried on by others than the monks; and because
people who desired books had been in the habit of applying to
monasteries which had a reputation for making copies, laymen had come
to settle in abbey domains in order to carry on this business more
successfully by being near the great depositaries of books as well as
near those who desired to buy books. The demand for books was growing
and the business of making them was becoming profitable enough to
stimulate people's powers of invention to find some way of producing
them in large numbers in a short time. Everyone could see that this
would be profitable; but no one thought it would so increase the
demand for books that the more that were made and the cheaper they
could be made the greater the number of books that would be demanded,
so that, indeed, larger and larger sums of money would be spent every
year for books. And so the inventors of printing, and each man as he
learned how to print, endeavored to keep it a secret from everyone
else, so as to keep all the profits of the business to himself. At
that time a book made by hand--a manuscript, that is--cost eight
times as much as the first printed books cost; so it is clear that if
the first printers could have prevented others from learning the
business they could have charged as much as the hand copyists, and so
have earned as much in one year as the copyists earned in eight.
Caxton says that he learned the art of printing at great expense.

However, he came to this knowledge in good time, and when he returned
to England, somewhere about 1470, and set up his printing-press there,
it was at Westminster that he settled. For just as the lay copyists
settled around monasteries, so naturally did the first printers. There
is some doubt as to the first book Caxton brought out, both as to its
name and the language in which it was printed; and it is likely that
the very first work from Caxton's press may not have been the one that
gave him his first fame, but the first book printed in _English_ by
Caxton was the translation of the _Histories of Troy_, and it is
generally believed that it was printed at Cologne, where Caxton
probably learned the printer's trade. And then came a time of
unceasing work and anxiety, for the setting up of a printing-press was
no easy matter. As a rule, all the mechanical part of the work had to
be done by the printer himself, assisted only by workmen entirely
inexperienced, and often hindered by the enmity of the ignorant; for
in those days the unfamiliar was generally considered harmful, and any
new art or craft in which machinery was used instead of the labor of
men's hands was apt to meet with the hatred and condemnation of the
very classes it was calculated to benefit.

The first printing-presses were simply common screw-presses, worked by
hand. After the form of types had been inked, and the sheet of paper
laid on it, it was run under the screw, which was then brought down
upon it. This was very hard work and very slow work, as great care had
to be taken that the screw did not come down with too great force and
so injure the work, while still sufficient pressure must be used to
make a strong impression. The printers made their own ink, and the
balls by which it was applied to the types; these balls were made of
sheepskin and stuffed with wool, the skins being prepared and the wool
carded in the office; and as all these little details were understood
only by the master himself, it is easy to imagine the care and anxiety
that must have beset Caxton at every step.

After the books were printed they had still, of course, to be bound,
and this was also the work of the printer, who had to cover the board
sides with leather, silk, or velvet, as the case might require, and
ornament them with brass nails, gold, silver, precious stones, or
whatever else the fancy of the buyer might dictate. And, last of all,
the printer, after his books were printed and bound, had to turn
bookseller and sell them himself, though in many cases the selling was
done before the book was printed, as it was too great a risk to
undertake the expense of printing unless a certain number of
subscriptions were obtained beforehand.

Somewhere within the walls of Westminster Abbey, probably in the old
scriptorium, Caxton set up the first printing-press in England, and
began the great revolution in the art of book-making. As the priests
were still the greatest readers, they were the first friends to the
new art, and it is undoubtedly owing to the encouragement given it by
the religious orders that printing made such comparatively rapid
progress from the beginning; for the great mass of people could not
even read, and as the cheapness of printing consisted in having as
many copies made and sold as possible, it was an easy matter for the
old printers to have their stock of books outnumber their readers.
Many of the early printers, in all countries, only carried on their
art in the midst of the greatest privation and poverty, as the
materials were so expensive and the returns so small, and found their
only success in the knowledge that they were working for the good of
mankind.

And it was this same noble motive which actuated Caxton and which made
him do all that he did, not to his own profit, but to the glory of
learning and the benefit of his fellow-creatures. This same
conscientiousness was carried into every part of his work and is
noticed particularly in his translations, many of which he made
himself, and in which he always strove to reproduce faithfully the
words of the author. This was not an easy matter, as the manuscript
copies sometimes differed, and Caxton's greatest grievance in his work
was not the fear of pecuniary loss or waste of time, but the thought
that perhaps he had not been able, in spite of his care, to give to
the reader the exact language of the author.

As was natural in a state of society where reading was a rare
accomplishment and the public taste in literature lay in old ballads
and romances, many of Caxton's first books were translations from the
old tales of chivalry taken either from the French or English romances
or from the adventures of Greek and Roman heroes told in the classic
poets. These romances had been nearly all introduced into the French
by translation, and Caxton's work consisted in putting them into
English. His first book, _The Histories of Troy_, being the story of
the siege of Troy, was familiar to all the nations of Europe and had
delighted the story-loving English people for generations. No book
could have been better chosen to invest the new art with charm and win
the popular heart, and it was this very way of putting the old
romances into English that first turned the English into a nation of
readers, and thus accomplished the aim of Caxton much sooner than the
publication of religious or philosophical treatises in Latin could
possibly have done.

The first book which Caxton printed in England was _The Game and Play
of Chess_, which he translated from the French, and which was finished
on the last day of March, 1474. This curious old book was much read in
those days by kings, bishops, authors, and scholars of every kind, and
contained not only a treatise on the origin of the game, but also
allusions to law and morals; and, indeed, Caxton's thought in printing
it was not so much to popularize the book as to instruct the people in
morals. The book takes each piece in the game--king, queen, bishop,
knight, rook, and pawn--and deduces from their office, in playing, the
duties and obligations of the different classes of society, the eight
pawns representing the common people, who were divided into, 1st,
tillers of the earth; 2d, workers in metals; 3d, lawyers, scribes, and
makers of cloth; 4th, merchants; 5th, physicians; 6th, innkeepers and
sellers of provisions; 7th, city guards and receivers of customs; 8th,
messengers, couriers, players at dice, and gamblers. And Caxton, in
his dedication of the book, said that he hoped that both nobles and
common people would find instruction therein and learn to govern
themselves as they ought. The second edition of this book is known as
the first printed English book which contained wood-cuts to illustrate
the text.

Among the first books which followed these two may be mentioned the
_Confessio Amantis_ of Gower, _The History of Reynard the Fox_, that
delightful tale which had charmed Europe for three centuries, _The
Fables of sop_, _The Life of Jason_, _The Golden Legend_, a
compilation of Virgil called _The Book of Eneydos_, _The Poems of
Chaucer_, and some well-known books on religion, history, and science,
as well as various other works, which bring the number of books
printed by our first printer up to sixty-four. Among these old books
must be mentioned _The History of King Arthur_ and his knights, which
first delighted England when introduced by Geoffrey of Monmouth in his
_History of Britain_, and which after three hundred years, during
which time it had received numerous additions at the hands of various
masters, as already related, and had become familiar to Europe, was
translated from the French by Sir Thomas Mallory and printed by Caxton
in 1485.

From this list it is easily seen that Caxton made his English readers
familiar with the best books of all time, and that the Greek and Latin
poets, the old philosophers and historians, the medival romances and
the writings of Chaucer, were put within the reach of all who could
read. Caxton's last work was the translation of _The Lives of the Holy
Fathers_, which he translated when he was nearly eighty years of age
and which he left ready for the press, having finished it on the last
day of his life. His work was carried on by Wynkyn de Worde, his
principal assistant, whose devotion to his master and his art made him
a worthy sharer in the fame which belongs to the first English
printers.




CHAPTER XIII.

EDMUND SPENSER AND THE FARY QUEENE.


The early part of the sixteenth century was a time of such stirring
adventure and widening of thought that to the practical-minded it must
have seemed that the days of elf and fairy had returned. The work of
Caxton, begun in such a humble spirit and under the auspices of a few
scholars, had spread so far that thousands of books were printed all
over England, and the little light which had first burned so
unsteadily among the shadows of Westminster was regarded as the
guiding-star which would lead to new and wonderful gifts to the race.
And before the world had become accustomed to the presence of the
printing-press, and still looked upon the invention of Gutenberg as a
higher kind of magic, it was called upon to believe in a still greater
wonder, which came with such startling force as to overwhelm even the
most practical minds and make the unreal seem alone the real.

This was the discovery of America, and the consequent knowledge of the
true shape and size of the earth, which at once put aside all the
popular fables concerning a flat plane surrounded by impassable seas,
and brought to light the presence of another world beyond the
Atlantic, as beautiful as the old, peopled with races whose
intelligence placed them forever beyond those fabulous creatures which
were supposed to inhabit the outer shores of the "sea of darkness," as
the ocean was called, and, above all, showed the folly of associating
horrors and dangers with the unknown simply because it was unknown.

It was in this regard that the voyage of Columbus did much more than
reveal the existence of America and the Western islands, and from this
time, instead of shrinking from a knowledge of what lay beyond their
own shores, Europeans gladly took advantage of every opportunity to
increase their knowledge, and voyages were undertaken, both at public
and private expense, for no other object than to visit remote lands,
sail through unknown seas, and become familiar with the great
countries that Columbus had discovered. The fashion for exploration
took such hold on the public mind that the ships could not hold the
adventurers who thronged the wharves for a chance to ship to the New
World, and the returned navigator was sure of a more interested
audience than had ever listened to bard or minstrel, and people found
a greater fascination in these true tales than any possessed by story
of magic or knightly adventure.

This sudden widening of the physical boundaries of the world seemed to
expand men's thoughts in other directions, and suggested to many that
what had hitherto seemed impossible might after all be attained. And
then there came a time of curious study of all sorts, and alchemy,
astrology, and even magic, were pursued with great eagerness in the
hope that the unseen world would reveal to the students marvels as
unique as those which repaid the toil of Columbus. All sorts of
strange doctrines circulated among the philosophers and mystics and
the disciples and believers who followed them, and it was the creed of
the hour that time and patience would at last reveal all the mysteries
of the universe, and that in some way the knowledge thus gained would
prove such a benefit to the race that all the evils which beset
mankind would die away and the Golden Age of the old poets once more
be possible. Owing to these circumstances it is not strange that the
first important book written in English in the sixteenth century
should have represented the condition of people's minds at that time;
the diaries and records of the great discoverers were fascinating the
whole of Europe, and English literature could not fail to be
influenced by it. This book was written by Sir Thomas More, a great
scholar and one of the foremost men of the day, and describes an
imaginary country which the author named Utopia.

This land of fancy, situated in the fairest portion of the globe, had
the lofty mountains, magnificent rivers, great forests, beautiful
plains, and agreeable climate which were the characteristics of the
New World. But, more than this, it was inhabited by a race
intellectually and morally superior to any of the nations known in
history. The cities in this beautiful land were marvels of elegance
and comfort, and so thoroughly had the Utopians mastered the secret of
government that this beauty was nowhere dimmed by the squalor and
wretchedness of poverty, for in Utopia none were poor. Each child was
born to a heritage of health, education, and comfort, and the palaces
of the wealthy were the homes of any who suffered misfortune. In this
book More embodied all the ideas of a noble and free government, and
sought to portray a state of society in which misery was impossible,
because brotherhood was the law of life; and it was this which gave
the work its great power and turned it from a mere story of fancy into
a plea for the poorer classes of England, whose condition was hardly
more prosperous than in the days when Langlande and Wickliffe had
voiced the rebellion of the people, against the heartless magnificence
and cruel indifference of the nobility of Edward III. More's book was
widely read by all classes of people, who were amused by it although
they saw in it only a dream, and it has importance as the first
popular book of the sixteenth century in point of time.

But by the middle of the century many of the causes which had
interfered with the progress of literature had died away, and England
was occupying a position among the nations of Europe higher than any
she had ever attained before. The discoveries of English navigators in
the New World, the national progress, the presence of some of the
greatest statesmen and thinkers in the world, and, above all, the
establishment of schools all over the country for the education of the
people, placed England so high among European nations that all the
faults of government and the selfishness of her monarchs could not
detract greatly from her glory.

And it was just at this time, when the wealth of America had begun to
pour into the coffers of Europe and men's ideas of the world had
undergone a great change, that the next great English poet after
Chaucer came into the world. This was Edmund Spenser, born in 1553, in
London, of a noble family, and favored by the circumstances of birth
and education to study the condition of English society, while endowed
with that sense of justice which would lead him to put such knowledge
to good use.

Very little is known of Spenser's early life, but to a keen-eyed and
sharp-witted boy the London of his childhood must have been a very
interesting place. The talk of the French wars, of the martyrs to the
new faith which the Protestants had preached, of the trade and
commerce with the New World, and the great schemes of colonization
which were spoken of as impracticable dreams, must have been familiar
to Spenser in his youth, and there is no doubt that the day-dreams of
the adventurers and travellers who were found in every class of
society did much to fire the imagination of the boy whose genius was
to form one of the chief glories of English literature.

Spenser entered Cambridge when he was sixteen, and in the same year
gave evidence of his poetic gifts by publishing some verses in a work
which held the contributions of various writers. It was in his college
days that he formed some of those friendships which lasted through
life, and which somewhat brightened his sad fortunes; and when he left
Cambridge, six years after his entrance, he bore with him something of
more value than his degree, namely, the interest and affection of
those who were to fill high places in later life, and whose greatness
of heart well fitted them for the friendship of such an idealist as
Spenser.

After leaving college Spenser spent some time in the North of England,
returning to London with the manuscripts of several poems, and was
introduced by his college friend Gabriel Harvey to Sir Philip Sidney,
one of the most gallant courtiers of the day, and a man highly
renowned for learning and generosity. This introduction led to an
invitation to Penhurst, the beautiful home of Sidney, where all the
learned and accomplished men of the times were wont to gather. Here
were discussed all the political and intellectual events of the
times, and in this congenial society Spenser found the highest
inspiration for his literary career. The poems which he wrote received
the warmest praise from Sidney; and Sidney was considered one of the
best of critics, representing in himself the highest culture of the
age, and we may well believe that the years which Spenser spent at
Penhurst were among the brightest in his life.

Sidney's friendship led in time to Spenser's appointment as secretary
to the Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, a post which he gladly accepted, as
it at once relieved him from a position of dependence while it left
abundant leisure for his literary pursuits. He went to Ireland in
1580, and six years afterward he received a grant of land, which led
to his looking upon his new possessions as his probable home for the
rest of his days. During all these changes Spenser had been studying
the condition of England, its glory and its shame, and forming a plan
of a great work which should contain some remedy for those evils which
beset his country, and made it, even in that time of power and
success, worthy the reproach of many earnest thinkers. Thinking that
there is no teacher so powerful as a good example, he resolved to
write a poem in which the hero should be a pattern Englishman,
possessed of courage, courtesy, honor, and all true manliness, and his
story he thought might influence his readers to strive for noble
things, and not be content with ignoble aims.

And Spenser thought it wise to put his message to his fellow-men in
the form of a fairy tale, for, however men may be occupied, they are
always ready to listen to fairy tales. The poem was called _The Fary
Queene_, and this is the story:


Gloriana, Queen of Fairy-land, held every year a feast which occupied
twelve days, and to which the whole court was invited. Here were
assembled all the great lords and ladies of the kingdom, and the days
passed in feasting, merry-making, and all kinds of amusements. At the
beginning of one of these feasts there entered into the royal court
one morning a young man whose dress and appearance contrasted so
strongly with the rest of the company that the magnificently
apparelled courtiers looked upon him with surprise. But the new-comer
seemed not to notice the humbleness of his dress, and, going up to the
Fary Queene, fell on his knees before her and begged her to grant him
the boon of undertaking any knightly task which might be required
during the feast. Gloriana and her lords wondered much that such a
request should come from one so humble in looks, but she had to grant
his wish because such was the law of the feast, though she doubted
whether such a person would be able to bring any adventure to a
successful and glorious end.

Hardly had this petition been granted when there entered a beautiful
maiden, dressed in deep mourning and riding a milk-white ass, followed
by a dwarf who carried in one hand a heavy spear and with the other
led a noble steed which bore the arms of a knight. This maiden was the
Princess Una, whose father and mother had lost their kingdom through
the wickedness of a horrible dragon who ravaged the country and then
shut the old king and queen up in a brazen tower and kept them there
by enchantment. The old king offered his daughter's hand and half his
kingdom to any knight who would release him, and Una wandered up and
down the earth seeking for a hero to perform this deed. At last she
reached the court of Gloriana, and as she entered she fell on her
knees before the Queene and begged her assistance.

Then the man whose humble appearance had attracted the wonder of the
court came forward, and begged the Queene that the adventure might be
his; and because of her promise she was obliged to consent, though she
would have preferred some other champion, and Una herself looked with
distrust upon the uncouth stranger and told him that the adventure
might not be his unless he could wear the armor which she brought, for
no one could succeed in the enterprise unless the armor fitted him
perfectly. But this did not deter the young man, and everyone was
amazed to find that the armor fitted him as if it had been made for
him, and gave him such a fine appearance that he seemed the bravest
man present. He then received knighthood, and from henceforth was to
be known as St. George, the Red-cross Knight, from the red crosses
which gleamed on his breast and on his silver shield.

Then he mounted the warlike steed, and, followed by the beautiful
maiden and the dwarf, started out on his strange adventure. At first
their way led over a pleasant plain, so bright with flowers and fresh
with running streams that it made the travellers feel that the whole
world must be beautiful; but presently the sky was overcast, the
flowers drooped their heads beneath fierce gusts of wind, and Una and
her companions were forced to seek shelter from the sudden storm. This
they found in a little grove near by, whose thick canopy of leaves
hardly allowed the rain to enter, and where the song of the birds,
safe in the shady cover, was not interrupted though the storm raged
without. This place was so beautiful, with its many kinds of trees and
its grassy paths, that the travellers took great delight in wandering
through the leafy aisles, not noticing that the paths crossed and
recrossed, and twined in and out so as to make a complete labyrinth,
until they desired to retrace their steps and pursue their journey.
Then they saw that they could find no way out of the wood, for
whatever path they took seemed to lead them deeper and deeper in; and,
finally, as they were following one which seemed more travelled than
the others, they came to a hollow cave, in the midst of dense shadows,
and then they stood still in great fear, for they knew not what was
before them. But presently the knight gathered courage and entered the
dark cave, which was so gloomy that only his armor lightened the thick
shadows, and he saw there a fearful beast which rushed angrily at him,
and at first so desperate was the struggle that it seemed the knight
must be overcome. But at last he gained the victory and left the
monster slain at the entrance to the cave, and after this they at last
did find a path that led them out of the woods, and went on their
journey.

Toward night they met an old man of venerable appearance, clad in the
dress of a hermit, who led them to his little lowly hermitage, down
in a dale, hard by a forest's side, and begged them to rest there for
the night. They were very glad to accept this invitation, for they
were weary with the day's journey; but they might have much better
gone on their way, for the seeming hermit was no other than the wicked
Archimago, a powerful magician, all whose days and nights were spent
in devising schemes to hurt all who professed goodness, for he was the
sworn foe of righteousness and loved only evil. And no sooner had the
knight fallen asleep than Archimago sent to the cave of Morpheus, the
God of Sleep, who dwelt in the interior of the earth, and commanded
him to send a deceitful dream to the knight which should turn his
interest in Una to dislike; and by means of this dream and other magic
Archimago succeeded in his design, and turned the knight's heart
against Una, so that he left the cave, taking the dwarf with him, and
leaving Una behind him.

And as he went on his way he saw a knight and a lady coming toward
him, and the knight bore a great shield with the legend _Sans
foy_--without faith--written upon it, and the lady was clothed in a
scarlet robe, trimmed with gold and pearls, and wore on her head a
crown of jewels, and rode a palfrey whose trappings were of costly
design and whose bridle "rung with golden bells and bosses brave."
Sansfoy rushed to meet St. George and challenged him to combat, and
after a fearful struggle the Red-cross Knight conquered his foe, and
took under his protection the lady, who told him that she was the
daughter of a great emperor and that Sansfoy had carried her off
without her permission and kept her a captive. The two journeyed on
together until the heat of noon drove them to take shelter beneath two
wide-spreading trees, and as they were resting in the shade the knight
plucked a bough from the tree to twine a garland for the lady's
forehead.

But as he did so he was horrified to find the wounded tree dropping
blood, and heard a piercing shriek, and then a voice told him that the
two trees were two hapless lovers who had been transformed by the
magic of the great enchantress Duessa, and warned the knight to beware
of the cruel witch who had wrought them this woe. And when the knight
turned to look at his companion he found her in a swoon, for she
herself was the false Duessa, and she feared that the knight might
suspect her. But he did not doubt her, and, raising her up from the
ground put her on her palfrey, and they went on their way, the knight
still thinking her the fairest lady he had ever seen.

In the meantime the unfortunate Una had been wandering everywhere in
search of the knight, not knowing why he had left her and fearful that
some disaster had happened him. And on the second day, being very
weary, she alighted and lay down to rest in a quiet wood, which was so
full of shadows that her own face made all the sunshine in it; and as
she lay there, weary with her journey and with her heart full of fear,
a savage lion rushed suddenly from the wood, greedy for the prey which
he saw before him. But as he came nearer the sight of Una's pure and
lovely face tamed his savage heart, and instead of doing her harm he
came and fawned at her feet and licked her hands, and when she arose
to go he would not leave her, but followed her on her journey, the
loyalest champion she could have had, guarding her while she slept,
and when she woke reading her will from her eyes and performing it
with faithful service.

And as Una went on seeking her knight, through all the ways that she
thought he might have passed, her eyes were at last gladdened by the
sight of a noble-looking knight whose shield gleamed brightly beneath
the well-remembered red cross, and as he came nearer she saw the
features she had been seeking so long. It was not her knight, however,
but the magician Archimago, who had taken on the knight's likeness by
witchcraft, hoping by this means to lead Una away from her search and
keep her separated from her true knight. But Una thought it was St.
George, and the two journeyed on together until they met Sansloy, a
brother of Sansfoy whom St. George had slain, and who challenged
Archimago to battle. In this encounter the old magician was unhorsed,
and his disguise discovered, and Una had hardly time to recover from
this shock before Sansloy seized her as his captive, and, when the
brave lion came to the rescue, killed the noble beast with his sword
and so left Una quite unprotected.

Her shrieks for help brought out from a neighboring forest a number of
the satyrs, fauns, and nymphs who lived there, and these kindly
wood-gods drove away Sansloy and took the maiden to their own sylvan
home, where she lived peacefully for a long time, teaching her rude
friends the arts and customs of civilization, and regarded by all as
an honored guest. In the meantime St. George had had many strange
adventures, and had at last been taken captive by a cruel giant and
confined in a dungeon, and the dwarf, who had followed him all along,
seeing that he could be of no service in this new trouble, left him
and fled, in the hope of meeting the Lady Una. And in this he was
successful, for Una had left the home of the wood-gods under the
protection of a kindly satyr, and begun anew her search for the
Red-cross Knight.

The dwarf told her of his misfortunes, and they wandered through
forests and over hills and through many a valley, and just when their
hearts were despairing they met a noble knight whose majestic
appearance at once commanded their respect, and to him Una told her
sad story. This knight was no other than the great Prince Arthur
himself, whose golden helmet, infolded with the shining wings of the
famous dragon, flashed a brightness all around, and whose shield was
made not of brass or steel, but of one great diamond no human blade
could pierce. Arthur at once promised to go to the relief of St.
George, and they came at last to the giant's castle; and the Red-cross
Knight was once more able to see the light of day, and Una bore him
away with her to a palace where dwelt the three sisters, Faith, Hope,
and Charity, and here the knight was cured of his wounds.

And when he was once more able to travel, the knight and Una went on
again, and came at last to her own country. And then she showed him
the brazen tower in which her parents were confined, and they saw the
watchman pacing the walls, and looking far over the plain to see if
any friend might be in sight; for Una had been gone so long that her
parents were in despair and feared that even this last retreat would
be taken from them if help did not soon arrive. And as the knight and
Una stood looking at the tower they heard a dreadful roaring which
filled the air, and then they espied the dragon, stretched along the
side of a hill, his scaly form glittering in the sun, and his eyes
gleaming with the horrid light of hate, and in a few moments he spread
his wings and came swiftly toward them, and St. George had hardly
placed Una in a safe spot before he was at his side awaiting the
combat.

The Red-cross Knight and the dragon fought all day, and neither could
claim the victory, though both were sorely wounded, and when night
came the end seemed near, for with a dreadful stroke the dragon felled
his opponent to the ground, and Una thought that he was slain. But as
St. George fell under the dragon's charge he found himself lying in
the waters of a magic well which possessed healing virtues, and in the
morning he was again ready for the combat. And again they fought all
day, and again the dragon gave St. George a deadly stroke which
deprived him of all strength, and this time he found himself beside a
fair tree from which flowed a stream of healing balm, and the dragon
dared not approach it because of its sacred nature--and so the knight
rested there, and in the morning his wounds were healed again.

With the first break of day the fight began again, and then it seemed
that St. George had only gained strength in the preceding conflicts,
for he beset the dragon so vigorously and courageously that the
monster thought it best to end the fray at once, and, opening his
horrid jaws, advanced toward the Red-cross Knight, intending to
swallow him. But St. George only took advantage of this manner of
attack to thrust his faithful sword into the dragon's mouth with such
might that the life-blood came rushing out in deadly streams, and,
sinking back, the monster soon breathed his last. Then the watcher on
the brazen tower called down the joyful news to his lord and lady, and
the old king came forth and looked at his dead enemy and knew that his
trials were over at last.

Then the brazen gates were opened wide, and the trumpets sounded from
the towers, proclaiming joy and peace to all the land, and all the
prisoners were set free, and the liberated soldiery followed the king
and queen in grave procession, carrying laurels in their hands, and
accompanied by maidens bearing garlands of flowers, and they all knelt
before the Red-cross Knight and did homage to him as their deliverer.
And then began a time of feasting and merrymaking, which ended with
the betrothal of Una and her brave knight; and so the story ends.


This is the first book of the Fary Queene, and by it Spenser meant to
give to the world an allegory which should teach men to be faithful to
their trust and live righteously. The Red-cross Knight signifies
Holiness, and Una signifies snow-white Truth; the trials and final
victories of the knight typifying the struggles of the human soul
after righteousness. Spenser intended to have twelve books in the
poem, each book to portray the adventures of some knight who typified
one of the moral virtues. But this design was never carried out, as
only six of the twelve books were ever written. The five others which
were finished represent Temperance, Purity, Friendship, Justice, and
Courtesy, and in each book Prince Arthur comes in as the great helper
to the hero, it being the purpose of Spenser to represent the great
English favorite Arthur as typifying the sum of all the virtues, since
the hero of each book depends on him for aid.


In the second book the hero is Sir Guyon, who has been appointed by
the Fary Queene to destroy a wicked enchantress named Acrasia. He
left the court accompanied by his trusty palmer, and as they were
passing by a deep forest they heard a piercing shriek. This cry of
distress appealed to Sir Guyon, who was a true knight, and he entered
the forest hastily to see who might need his help. And there he found
a little babe by the side of its dying mother, while near by lay the
dead body of a brave knight. The mother told Sir Guyon that her
husband had been made a prisoner by the magic of Acrasia, and had met
his death through her enchantments, while she herself was dying from
her despair at his loss. This tale touched Sir Guyon's heart, and he
promised the mother that he would care for her child and wreak
vengeance on Acrasia, and he watched her faithfully till she breathed
her last, and then buried her and her husband, and swore by their
grave that he would never rest till he had avenged their wrong.

Then he took the child up gently and tried in vain to wash away the
blood-stains on its little hands; but this could not be done because
of enchantment, so he was obliged to leave them still bloody, for the
water was charmed and could not be stained by anything that touched
it. So Sir Guyon returned to the road where he had left his steed,
but found that it had disappeared, and, still carrying the babe, he
proceeded on his way on foot, and came before long to a castle, where
he had a battle with two faithless knights, whom he subdued, and where
he left the babe in the care of one of the ladies of the castle, who
promised to bring him up with all tenderness and care. As he went on
his way he met with many strange adventures while trying to find the
Idle Lake, in the midst of which, on a little island, dwelt the
enchantress Acrasia.

And in his journey he also met with many temptations. Once he was
taken down to the centre of the earth where dwelt the god Mammon, in a
house hewn out of the rock, and whose walls and roof and floor were
covered with gold and gems, and where there were chests filled with
such wealth as Sir Guyon had never dreamed of, and all this Mammon
offered him if he would leave his quest and serve him; but he would
not, and after three days of temptation he returned to the upper air
again, but could go no farther on his way that day, for he was weak
and faint from his trial and fell into a deadly swoon as soon as the
outer air touched his forehead. And there the faithful palmer found
him and tried to resuscitate him, but while he was thus engaged two of
Sir Guyon's old enemies appeared and attempted to rob him of his
armor, thinking that he was dead. Just then Prince Arthur appeared,
and after a great battle with the knights subdued them just as Sir
Guyon awoke from his trance.

And then, after a visit to the Castle of Temperance, Sir Guyon
embarked once more on the waters of the Idle Lake, and passed by the
Gulf of Greediness, which swallowed up all boats that came near it,
and the Magnetic Rock, which drew ships to its shores only to dash
them to pieces, and saw afar off the Wandering Islands, on which
whoever stepped should never return, but wander forevermore as the
islands themselves. And they passed also through rolling waves wherein
swam hydras and sea-satyrs and other dreadful monsters of the deep;
and the Bay of Mermaids, whose dwellers sang sweet songs to them and
tried to woo them from their purpose; and when they were past that,
innumerable monster birds came flying from the upper air and
surrounded the boat and uttered harsh screams to frighten the
travellers away.

But they held to their purpose, and at last reached the enchanted
island and landed safely, and when they found themselves attacked by
the savage beasts that wandered on the shores they still passed on
undisturbed, for the palmer's magic wand turned these ravenous
monsters once more into human shape and freed them from the
enchantment of Acrasia. And then passing through a beautiful garden,
they came to the bower where Acrasia dwelt, and Sir Guyon bound
Acrasia in chains of adamant and destroyed the groves and bowers and
palace, and left the place desolate, so that it should never more
tempt anyone to ruin. And then Sir Guyon departed, having achieved his
adventure gloriously, as became such a noble knight; and thus ends the
second book.

In the third book we have the story of the beautiful heroine
Britomart:


Britomart was the daughter of the King of Wales, for whom Merlin, the
enchanter, had made a magic mirror in which could be seen all things
that were happening afar off and all things that should happen in the
future. And this mirror was considered the glory and honor of Wales
and its chief defence, as no foe could ever attack the kingdom
unawares, because the king could always see the approach of the enemy
in his mirror, long before the borders of his country were reached,
and when the foe came they were met by such a force that they were
content to fly without offering battle. One day Britomart went up to
the magic mirror, and, looking in out of vain curiosity, saw in the
distance the vision of an armed knight, wearing armor of antique
design which was adorned with gold and had engraved on it the
legend--_Achilles's arms which Artegal did win_. On the crest of his
helmet was a hound _couchant_, and on his shield a crowned ermelin
which showed white against the azure field. And as Britomart looked
on the knight and saw his noble features and manly bearing, her heart
went out to him, and she felt that here was the knight who might win
her hand and rule the Kingdom of Wales when her father had passed
away.

But no one at the court had even heard of a knight by the name of
Artegal, and Britomart was in despair, and began to wonder if she
should ever meet him, after all; and under this despair she pined away
until Glauc, her old nurse, was alarmed, and gathered all sorts of
herbs and made tea for her to drink, and wove all sorts of charms, and
tried in every way to undo the spell, but could not. Then she took her
to Merlin's cave and begged him to give his advice, and Merlin said
that Britomart would surely wed Artegal at last, though she should
pass through many strange adventures before that time came, and said
that she must go forth in search of him and bring him back with her to
Wales. And so Britomart dressed herself in the armor of a beautiful
queen that her father had once captured, and, taking the magic spear,
stole forth from her father's court and started on her quest,
accompanied by Glauc, who was disguised as a squire, and did not rest
until she came to Fairy Land.

And while she was journeying she met Sir Guyon and Prince Arthur, who
had been wandering up and down after adventures ever since they left
the Idle Lake, and Sir Guyon, thinking that Britomart was a man,
engaged in battle with her, but was speedily disarmed because of the
magic spear. Then, as each one admired the other's bravery, they swore
friendship and went on their way together; but they soon parted
company, for Sir Guyon and the Prince left her in order to rescue the
beautiful Florimel, who was pursued by an enemy, and Britomart went on
alone. And presently she came to a fine castle, pleasantly situated
between a forest and a plain, and she saw on the plain six knights
striving against one. This aroused her indignation and she pushed
forward to help the one who was at such disadvantage, and with her
magic spear soon disarmed three of the knights, and the others
yielded, and invited the two strangers into the castle. The strange
knight whom Britomart rescued was St. George, who was on a new
adventure, and to him Britomart confided her secret and found out that
the Red-cross Knight knew Artegal very well, and that he was as brave
a knight as maiden ever loved; and when the new friends had to
separate, Britomart went on her way cheered by the thought that the
knight she was seeking was so worthy.

In the meantime Artegal himself was wandering through Fairy Land on a
certain quest, and, although Britomart did not know it, they were
coming nearer every day.

Artegal when a child had been under the care of Astra, the goddess
who taught mankind the laws of justice, and whose wise instruction had
made Artegal one of the greatest knights in Fairy Land. She had first
been attracted to him while seeing him at play with his little
companions, for his face was full of noble purpose even in childhood;
and so with gifts and winning words she induced him to go with her to
the cave where she dwelt, and for many years he lived there, learning
useful things. And when his education was finished Astra gave him
the sword Chrysaor, the most perfect sword in the world, garnished
with gold, and of such temper that it could cleave any armor. And she
gave him as his companion the sturdy Talus, who carried an iron brand,
and was often called the Lion-man; and the first adventure that
Gloriana gave him was to destroy the tyrant Grandtorto, who had taken
away the Lady Irena's heritage, and kept it while the distressed
princess had fled to the court for relief.

And Artegal and Britomart had many strange adventures before they met;
but they both came at last to a great tournament that was being held
for the prize of a golden girdle. Here were all the most famous
knights in Fairy Land, who all did such wondrous deeds that the
tournament was famed forever after. Here came Artegal, clad in uncouth
armor, and created a great sensation by his looks, for no one knew him
because of his disguise; and, brilliant as were the other achievements
of the festival, they all paled before the exploits of Artegal, who
would surely have carried off the prize had he not been challenged in
the moment of victory by another knight who had just entered the
lists. This knight unhorsed first Artegal and then many other knights,
and claimed the victory; and it was no wonder that success followed
him, for it was no other than Britomart, whose magic spear no one
could withstand. Artegal went on his way after the tournament, and
Britomart went on hers, not knowing that she had met her hero; but
they met again afterward as they were following their separate quests
and Artegal challenged Britomart to combat.

The struggle was so furious that Britomart had hard work to keep her
courage, even with her magic spear, and it was only when a hard stroke
from Artegal tore away part of her helmet, revealing the beauty of her
face, that her opponent showed signs of yielding; for some secret
power led Artegal to think that it would bring woe and sorrow to him
if he harmed such glorious beauty, and he begged her to discontinue
the fight. But she would not, and stood over him ready to strike,
when he raised his visor and disclosed the features of the hero she
had been seeking. The shock deprived her of all strength, when she
found that it was really Artegal and no other, but Glauc soon made
matters straight by telling Artegal of Britomart's vision, and the two
were soon after betrothed.

But Artegal had still to perform his quest of destroying Grandtorto,
and was obliged to leave Britomart for the time, promising to return
to her in three months. This mission Artegal was able to accomplish,
but not singly, for Britomart herself went to his assistance finally,
and also Prince Arthur, and at last the tyrant was subdued and Artegal
free of his duty to Gloriana.


The story of Britomart and Artegal, with many other incidents thrown
in, occupies the third, fourth, and fifth books of _The Fary Queene_,
and shows the triumph of Purity, Friendship, and Justice. Besides _The
Fary Queene_, Spenser wrote many other beautiful poems, some of them
before and some of them during the time that he was composing his
great poem. Among these may be mentioned _The Shepherd's Calendar_, a
collection of twelve poems, each celebrating one month of the year,
and which was one of his earliest poems, the _Epithalamion_, a song in
honor of his own marriage, considered the most beautiful of all
marriage-songs; some hymns in honor of Love and Beauty, many beautiful
sonnets, and various other poems. Of these minor poems the most
beautiful of all is that called _Astrophel_, which is a lament for the
death of Sir Philip Sidney--the poet's warm friend, and the most
perfect flower of English knighthood.

Spenser died in 1599 in London, whither he had returned from Ireland
after the destruction of his house by a mob. At his own request he was
buried in Westminster, near Chaucer. He is sometimes called the
"poets' poet," because his works are more cared for by poets than by
the general reader. He has been the inspiration of some of the
greatest writers in English literature, and the greatest poets of
succeeding ages have delighted in calling him master.




CHAPTER XIV.

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.


Spenser's friend and admirer, Sir Philip Sidney, whose fame as a
courtier, knight, and gentleman, filled all Europe, and who was the
brightest ornament of Elizabeth's court, was himself a writer of no
mean merit even in those days of literary power, and both from their
connection with the literary history of the times and the character of
their author, his writings will always find an honored place in
English literature.

Sidney was born on the 29th of November, 1554, at beautiful Penshurst
Castle in Kent, which had been in possession of the family for many
years. The Sidneys were of honorable lineage and had been intimately
connected with the nobility of England both by their marriage and
descent, and, indeed, as the mother of Sir Philip was the
great-granddaughter of Henry VII., he was on that side a descendant of
the very monarch who laid the foundations of England's greatness after
the devastating period of the Wars of the Roses. As a mark of favor to
the Sidney family, Queen Mary, who was then upon the throne, made him
the namesake of her husband, Philip II. of Spain, a circumstance of
itself sufficient to show the standing of the family and their
importance at court, though more than one member had before this felt
the weight of royal displeasure.

At Penshurst the birthday of the young heir was marked by the planting
of an acorn, the oak from which grew to a mighty tree and held its own
for more than two centuries after the hands that planted it had been
dust. In this beautiful home, and under the care of his gifted father
and mother, Sidney passed his early youth, amid such surroundings as
were well calculated to fit him for the life he was to follow, both
nature and circumstances combining to make the training of the youth
who was to become the perfect pattern of English chivalry as complete
as possible.

Sidney was destined by his father to be a courtier and statesman, and
every part of his education was most carefully attended to. All the
accomplishments of the day--music, fencing, dancing, the art of
graceful talk and gay compliment, of perfect dressing and courtly
manner--were as much a part of his training as the Greek and Latin and
science which attracted his mind so greatly, and which had such a
charm for him that he would have been well content to forego the
tediousness of court-life and give all his heart to learning had this
seemed his greatest duty. But Sidney lived in times when the greatest
men were men of action, and when personal courage and keen foresight
were reckoned of greater service to the State than deep learning.
English navigators and explorers were busy in the Western world and up
among the Arctic seas, trying to add to England's greatness by
discovery and claim. English statesmen were busy at foreign courts
making policies that insured England's proud position among the other
nations of Europe, and everywhere action seemed to be the word of the
hour. Some of the greatest navigators, statesmen, and generals were
men who had won their fame early in life, and Sidney's first impulse
and earliest ambition after he had left boyhood was to distinguish
himself early in some useful career.

After his college life was over he passed two years in travel,
visiting different courts and learning all that he could of practical
statesmanship from the exciting events which were making the history
of those days; and it was while he was on this tour that he first
noticed the condition of Europe as a whole, and was able to compare
the policy of one country with that of another, and to reason out the
causes that led to comfort in one place and distress in another, and
thus learn those lessons of political economy which are so necessary
to the statesman. Nothing that he saw was uninteresting to Sidney.
Whether it was a gay pageant in Venice, a grave session of lords at
the German court, or an assemblage of those artists, musicians, and
poets who graced the French and Italian cities, each seemed equally
important and worth finding a lesson in; and chief among these lessons
was the terrible one taught by the St. Bartholomew massacre, when for
seven days France ran red with the blood of thousands of Protestants.

Sidney, with other of his countrymen, found refuge at this time at the
house of the English Ambassador, and, as the fearful slaughter went on
around him, he had ample time to study the awful effect of an
intolerance in religion which taught no pity for young or old outside
of its own faith. Perhaps even then he had some premonition of the
time when duty would call him to help stem the tide of a vengeance as
pitiless and murderous as that of St. Bartholomew. After his return to
England he was presented to Elizabeth by his uncle, the Earl of
Leicester, the most powerful nobleman of the time and the chief
favorite of the Queen, and from this time his life was intimately
connected with the history of England at that time. He was considered
the most promising and brilliant of Elizabeth's courtiers, but the
English people learned to love him for that manliness and nobility of
character which made him the idol of the nation, and gave him a fame
that is still undimmed after three hundred years.

Honor, glory, truth, loyalty, and all virtue seemed to his countrymen
to embody themselves in Sir Philip Sidney, and there is no greater
tribute to his popularity than the fact that he was thus ideally loved
although a near relation and under the patronage of the unscrupulous
and unpopular Earl of Leicester. In the midst of this life of action
and excitement Sidney found time to devote himself somewhat to
literature, and after a period of service at court, during which he
thought of himself only as a statesman studying the best interests of
England, or after one of those long festivals which Elizabeth
delighted in, when days and weeks were given to masques, balls,
tournaments, and gayeties of every description, and in which he was
required to take a prominent part, because Elizabeth would never
dispense with the service of the handsome and knightly young
courtiers who surrounded her, he would retire to Penshurst Castle and
give his mind to the writing of poetry or romance, finding in this
world of fancy the rest which his brain and heart demanded.

At such times he loved to gather around him all the poets and scholars
of the day, finding his truest pleasure in their interests and
pursuits, and proving by his own compositions that he was worthy of
his own place in their company. Here he wrote sonnets and love-poems,
some of which are considered beautiful yet, though marred by the
excessive use of sentiment which characterized the age; and here, to
please his sister, he wrote the famous romance _Arcadia_. In this
story he imagines a world remote from the exciting scenes of the
court-life with which he was familiar, and peopled by a race whose
simple lives and humble ambitions made them fit dwellers in that ideal
region which had been the theme of many a poet and romancer. This is
the story:


There was once a country which was famed all over the world for its
beauty and the happiness of its people, and which enjoyed every gift
which it was possible for nature to bestow. The hills were crowned
with stately trees, the valleys were bright with silver streams, the
meadows were spangled with fair flowers, and every verdant pasture was
well stored with the sheep which formed the chief wealth of the
country. The peaceful groves were never disturbed by ruder sounds than
the songs of birds, and every hill-side and plain echoed to the music
of the shepherd's fife; and a thought of this country suggested only
fair days and starlit nights, and the charm of sweet melodies. The
life of the people was but a succession of happy days, and the
shepherds and shepherdesses of Arcadia were often envied by those whom
fortune had placed in high positions; and many a courtier and prince
and noble lady, tired with the wearisome magnificence of court-life,
longed to leave it far behind them, and slip away to Arcadia and turn
shepherd or shepherdess, and spend their days by the margins of
pleasant streams, in the company of the birds and flowers.

Even the greatest king was considered less a subject for envy than an
Arcadian shepherd, and the character of this country and its people so
impressed itself upon all surrounding nations that the word Arcadia
came to stand for peace and quiet content, and a life of unending
happiness. Here lived King Basilius and his wife Gynecia, in serene
comfort, until one day word reached the court that a celebrated oracle
had declared that grief and woe would come upon the king and all his
people from the marriage of his daughters. Overwhelmed by these
tidings, the king resolved to hide himself and family in the trackless
depths of the forest, and so avert the disaster by keeping his
daughters unmarried, and he passed many years undisturbed in this
retirement.

But one day, as two shepherds of a neighboring country were lying on a
sandy beach, discussing the beauty of a certain shepherdess, they saw
the fragment of a wreck approaching, to which clung a man, almost
insensible from suffering and exposure. The shepherds rescued and
restored him, and as soon as he could speak he begged them to seek
for his friend, who was also on the wrecked vessel. The stranger,
whose name was Musidorus, was a prince from a distant court, and his
friend Pyrocles, whose loss he mourned, was also a prince; and as
Musidorus had saved from the wreck a casket of valuable jewels, he
promised to reward them well if they would search for his friend. Some
fishermen were easily engaged to undertake this mission, and hardly
had the search begun when they saw approaching, seated upon a broken
mast, Pyrocles himself, whose wondrous beauty and garments of silk and
gold led the fishermen to think him some god of the sea. But Musidorus
had hardly explained that it was really his friend before a pirate
ship hove in sight on a cruise for slaves for the galleys, and the
fishermen in terror rowed hastily back to land, leaving Pyrocles to
his fate.

Musidorus was in despair at this calamity, and only found comfort when
the shepherds advised him to seek the help of Kalander, an Arcadian
renowned for his kindness and compassion; and then they led him to
Arcadia, which was celebrated for its hospitality and whose people
knew of no greater pleasure than to entertain strangers with the music
and dancing and games which were their chief enjoyment. They arrived
at Kalander's house and were received with the greatest courtesy and
kindness, and after Musidorus's story was told, Kalander lost no time
in sending out a galley in search for Pyrocles, of whom, however, no
tidings could be heard.

While a guest in the house of Kalander, Musidorus noticed the pictures
of Basilius, Gynecia, and their daughters, and, on asking who they
were, Kalander told him of the oracle's prophecy, and how the royal
family were in retreat in the forest. This story at once interested
Musidorus, who was much fascinated by the beauty of the royal
princesses; but before he had time to dwell upon it very long, word
was brought to Kalander that his son Clitophon had been taken prisoner
in a distant country, and Musidorus joined the Arcadians in attempting
a rescue. After a battle with the enemy, Musidorus proposed to decide
the victory by a single combat with the captain of the foe, for the
Arcadians were losing ground and Musidorus feared their defeat, and
was sure that he could vanquish any single man. This plan was agreed
to, and a skilful fight ensued, during which Musidorus received a blow
which knocked off his helmet, and immediately afterward was astonished
to see his opponent kneel at his feet and offer his sword. But
astonishment soon turned to joy when he discovered that he had been
fighting with his lost friend Pyrocles, and, as this discovery led to
a reconciliation, Clitophon was released and the Arcadians returned
home.

And now, when all seemed well again, Pyrocles suddenly fell into deep
melancholy and took advantage, when they were out on a hunt, to flee
from Arcadia, leaving a letter behind him telling Musidorus that he
was hopelessly in love and that he could only find comfort in
solitude. Musidorus sought him far and near unsuccessfully, and one
day, while resting under the shade of a tree, he was surprised by the
sight of his friend, disguised as an Amazon, wearing a doublet of blue
satin covered with gold plates in imitation of mail, and carrying at
his side a sword. Pyrocles then confessed that he had fallen in love
with the portrait of Philoclea, Basilius' daughter, which hung in
Kalander's house, and, in despair of ever seeing her, had taken this
disguise, sought the retreat of Basilius, and represented himself as a
ship-wrecked Amazonian Queen. He was well received by Basilius, and no
inducement could make him return to Kalander's house. Therefore
Musidorus returned with him to the king's house and was introduced as
an Arcadian shepherd, and immediately fell in love with Pamela, the
other daughter. The two friends then told the sisters their story and
were rejoiced to find that their affection was returned, and only the
fear of Basilius in regard to the prophecy kept them from revealing
their identity to the king.

But now came a new trouble. Amphialus, Prince of Argus and nephew to
King Basilius, sought the hand of Philoclea in marriage; and when this
was refused his mother sent a party of armed men to Arcadia who seized
the two princesses and Pyrocles, while they were wandering through
the forest, and bore them to Argus and shut them up in a strong castle
built on a lofty rock in the midst of a lake. And here the captives
had a hard time of it, for Queen Cecropia made use of every device she
could think of to persuade either Philoclea or Pamela to marry her
son. But neither bribes nor threats could induce the princesses to be
untrue to their lovers, and even the prospect of death but made them
all the firmer in their determination.

Basilius in vain attacked the fortress, and Cecropia was exultant in
the hope of victory when news was brought that turned her joy to fear.
The news of the capture of the sisters had spread through Greece, and
everywhere brave and renowned warriors grew angry at the thought of
such tyranny, and hastened with offers of assistance to Basilius. And
then followed a siege whose length and fierceness were unprecedented
in the annals of Arcadia, and during which Cecropia used all her wits
to bring the sisters to her wishes. They suffered the most barbarous
treatment, and Cecropia, by an ingenious artifice, made each one
believe that the other had been beheaded before her eyes. But when
this was discovered by Amphialus, who was at heart a gentle prince and
only followed his mother's advice in retaining the princesses, he was
so incensed that his mother, fearing he meant to kill her, threw
herself from the castle roof, and was killed. Amphialus, in his
horror, immediately fell upon his sword and died, and thus the castle
fell into the hands of Basilius. After a few minor misfortunes the
lovers were united at last; and thus ends the romance of _Arcadia_.


The story was read by every courtier and lady of Elizabeth's court,
and not only delighted England but was translated into several
languages, and continued to be the favorite romance of England for
many a year; though the author, when it was finished, expressed the
fear that, like the spider's web, it would be thought only fit to be
swept away. Perhaps the charm of this story, in which shepherds and
shepherdesses and scenes of rural beauty form the chief interest, may
have been all the greater in those times when the court of Elizabeth
was so often the scene of those magnificent pageants in which she
delighted, and which recalled the days of myth, or the more modern
amusements of chivalry.

On one of these occasions Sidney himself wrote a play in which
shepherds and shepherdesses descanted on love, and where foresters and
farmers talked eloquently on the same subject. This play or masque was
written at the request of Sidney's uncle, the Earl of Leicester, whom
Queen Elizabeth sometimes visited, and whose delight it was to crowd
the days and nights with tournaments, masques, and amusements of every
kind. At these entertainments the revellers turned themselves into
fauns, satyrs, naiads, nymphs, mermaids, and Greek goddesses, while
the castle was flooded with music, and representations of the classic
myths gave reality to the scene.

But amid these brilliant festivities, in which Sidney often took part,
he lost none of that seriousness of purpose which was his chief
characteristic, and he stood ready at any moment to serve his country
in the highest sense of the word. And in due time his opportunity
came. The Netherlands had been trying for many years to rid themselves
of the tyranny of Philip II. of Spain, to whom these countries had
come as part of his inheritance, and had more than once applied to
England for aid. The chief grievance of the people was the refusal of
Philip to allow them religious freedom, and the war which lasted so
long was a religious war.

Philip II. was the chief representative of the Catholic power in
Europe, and declared openly that he would rather see every inhabitant
of the country burned alive than have the Netherlands become
Protestant. Thousands of people perished under the Inquisition for
refusing to renounce their faith, and thousands more perished simply
because they were suspected of sympathy with the Protestants. Queen
Elizabeth was naturally the hope of the Netherlands in those dark
days, for England was Protestant, and was considered of sufficient
importance to check the power of Spain if she so willed. But for a
long time Elizabeth did nothing but profess sympathy and made no offer
of help, though the horrors of the Inquisition grew blacker every
year.

At last, however, after the death of William of Orange, the leader of
the revolted provinces and their chief support, and just when their
fortunes seemed darkest, Elizabeth agreed to furnish the Netherlands
with soldiers to help carry on the war; and among the leaders selected
to take charge of the fortresses commanding the entrance to the
country was Sir Philip Sidney, who was appointed Governor of Flushing.
Heartened by the help of the English, the Dutch continued their brave
resistance, and the power of Philip was held in check for another
year.

In the autumn of 1586 the English laid siege to Zutphen, encamping
around the city in the hope that there would be a speedy surrender,
for the garrison was weak and the town but poorly supplied with
provisions. But the Spaniards had no intention of allowing the
surrender of this important point, and the Duke of Parma, commanding
Philip's forces, at once marched to the relief of the city. In the
morning of a late September day, while city and camp lay shrouded in
the white mist which had crept up from the river, the two armies met,
and there followed a battle so fierce and bloody that the day became
memorable even in that time of horror when victory was often purchased
only by slaughter, and it was the boast of the Spaniards to leave not
a single human being alive in the cities that they captured. The
English fought with such valor and fearlessness that the Spaniards
thought they must be under the protection of the powers of evil, for
all the flower of the Spanish and Italian cavalry were in the field,
which was held by the English in spite of the furious charges of their
enemy.

In the presence of the bravest knights and generals, not only of
England but of all Europe, Sidney performed such acts of bravery and
heroism as to well sustain his reputation as the finest knight in
England, and even the enemy were forced to admire his fearless
enthusiasm. Wherever the danger seemed greatest, or a friend appeared
surrounded by enemies, the white war-horse of Sidney would be seen
dashing through the ranks of his foes; and more than once the fortunes
of the battle turned favorably to the English because of his presence
at a critical moment. And perhaps, if it had been left to him to
choose the manner of his death, he would have been well pleased with
the fate that befell him on the field of Zutphen, for it was while he
was trying to rescue one of his friends who seemed surrounded by
overpowering numbers that Sidney himself received his death-wound and
fell fighting for his friend.

His hurt was so severe that he was borne at once from the field, and
his last act, as he left the scene of hate and carnage, was in keeping
with the whole of his noble life; he had asked for water, a luxury
hard to obtain in that hour, and as he was about to raise the cup to
his lips he saw the eyes of a dying soldier fixed longingly upon it.
"Thy necessity is greater than mine," said Sidney, in answer to that
mute appeal, and, without tasting the refreshing draught, he handed
the cup to his suffering comrade, thus showing to the end his generous
and chivalric spirit, and with his last strength redeeming the horrors
of the field of Zutphen by an act which shone like a star through the
gloom of that fateful day, and which will be remembered as long as men
love, and die for, justice and humanity.

Sixteen days afterward, on October 17, 1586, he breathed his last,
while listening to the music he had called for a short time before.
England mourned Sidney as her pride and joy, and Elizabeth honored his
memory with a funeral whose magnificence was royal in character. His
body was carried to England in a ship whose sails and tackling were of
black, and which was accompanied with several other ships bearing the
highest personages as a guard. The ceremonies in London, where all the
nobility and higher classes appeared in mourning, were of the most
imposing nature. He was buried in St. Paul's Cathedral, and the poets
and scholars of the day vied with one another in writing an epitaph
which should fully express the love and gratitude of the nation. But
Sidney's best memorial was written in the hearts of the English
people, who beheld in him the ideal of every virtue, and who cherished
his untarnished fame as one of their most glorious possessions.




CHAPTER XV.

THE RISE OF THE DRAMA.


Among other great literary events which distinguished the sixteenth
century and made it the most remarkable in the history of English
literature, must be counted the development of the drama.

But although the art of writing plays reached its greatest height
during this period, its beginnings were very humble, and were due to
the wants and amusements of the people at a time far distant from the
days of Elizabeth.

Like the poetry of Caedmon, the English drama had its origin in
religious feeling, and dates back to the time when the great body of
the nation was still almost entirely ignorant of books, and depended
upon the popular traditions, romances, and stories for all interests
outside their daily life.

And as the people were taught by these stories to honor courage,
knighthood, and loyalty, the priests tried in the same way to teach
the doctrines of Christianity by bringing them forward in a way that
would interest the people and hold their attention.

The stories of the Bible and the legends of the saints were familiar
to the people only through the pictures which were painted on the
walls of the churches, and the stories which they heard from the lips
of the priests or other religious instructors.

The Bible was written only in Greek or Latin, and could be read only
by the learned; and although it might have been put into the language
of the people as easily as any other book, the priests did not think
this, for it was one of their most cherished beliefs that the ignorant
could not be made to understand the great mysteries taught by the
Church, and that the Bible in the hands of the peasant could only do
him harm.

For this reason, when it seemed desirable to teach the people more of
Bible or Church history than could be taught by pictures, or in
sermons, a custom arose of presenting scenes of a religious nature in
the form of plays; and these plays, written by monks and acted by
priests and students from the schools, were the beginnings of the
English drama.

When such a play dealt with the life of a saint it was called a
_Miracle Play_--when it had for its subject the Bible-stories it was
called a _Mystery_.

These plays were given on religious festivals, or on any anniversary
of importance; the stage was built within the cathedral, and the play
was a part of the service for the day, and was generally given during
the time which would have been occupied by the reading of the Lesson.

In these plays the stage was generally divided into three platforms,
one above the other, representing Heaven, Earth, and Hell, and holding
the angels, human beings, and fiends, who were supposed to take part
in the performance. The costumes of the actors were as magnificent as
could be obtained, it being thought no harm to use the priests'
vestments when the priests themselves were the actors, and all the
ornaments and service of the church were considered available for the
purposes of the play.

Sometimes these plays were very long, and often occupied a week in the
performance. Great pains were taken to make the scenes and dialogues
as natural as possible, and the whole play was followed, day after
day, by the interested audience, many of whom for the first time
realized the solemnity and meaning of the stories they had often heard
before. The first miracle plays given in England were acted probably
soon after the Conquest. Among the earlier ones was the play of _St.
Catharine_, which was performed in French about the year 1119. This
custom of giving a play on a saint's day or other holy day was
introduced from France by the Norman priests, and the play of _St.
Catharine_ was a favorite one with the English peasants, who learned,
by the miracles represented, and the faithful picture of the martyrdom
of St. Catharine as acted by the priests, a lesson of devotion and
fidelity to principle, while being entertained by the unfamiliar
method of instruction. This kind of entertainment at once proved so
popular that the plays became a regular institution, and formed an
important part of every special service, such as the consecration of a
new church, the observance of holy days, the festivals of the saints,
and so on.

The old monks who wrote these plays thought only of teaching their
audiences religious truths, and used every means to deepen the
impression they wished to make. Every detail that could interest was
introduced, and the scenes on the stage were as faithful copies of the
actual events as they could be made. If a play of the nativity were to
be given at Christmas-tide, the audience saw before them, in a series
of moving pictures, all the incidents of the beautiful Bible-story.
There were the shepherds watching their flocks, silent and calm until
they heard from the skies the thrilling greeting of the angelic hosts;
then they could be followed to Bethlehem and seen kneeling beside the
wonderful child, into whose presence came also the three Eastern
kings, with royal gifts, to do homage. Nothing was omitted that would
serve to illustrate the story, and no better means could have been
found of teaching in an age when the mass of people were as ignorant
as little children of the knowledge that could be had from books.

So in the play of _The Deluge_ the audience saw enacted on the stage
all the strange events mentioned in the story; and Noah and his sons,
the ark and its furnishings, all became real to them, the story
becoming even more vivid by the introduction of several incidents not
mentioned in the Bible, such as the refusal of Noah's wife to enter
the ark, the beating which she received from her husband in
consequence, and other comic situations which the priests invented to
give variety to the play.

The names of some of these old mysteries, such as _The Creation of the
World_, _The Fall of Man_, _The Story of Cain and Abel_, are enough to
show their character, and illustrate this new method of teaching.

The audiences became so large at last that scaffoldings were built
outside the windows for the accommodations of those who could not get
inside the church; but as the crowds who came to see the plays were
continually trampling down the graves and defacing the church-yard, it
was thought best finally to build the stage quite away from the
church, and, though the actors were still the priests and choristers
attached to the church, this was the first step toward infringing on
the purely sacred character of the plays.

Later on the trade-guilds, or associations of drapers, goldsmiths,
weavers, and other trades whose custom it was to parade the streets on
festival days, carrying pictures and images of the saint whose day
they were celebrating, were invited to join the priests in the
processions which marched through the streets before the performance,
and in which sometimes the whole play would be given in pantomime on a
wheeled stage; and this was another step toward putting the plays into
the hands of the people.

In time the trade-guilds themselves gave the plays, each guild having
a play of its own, which it performed on festival days. The actors
were carefully trained and were paid for acting; the stage properties
were as handsome as the guilds could afford, and the actors wore masks
or had their faces painted to suit the characters they represented.
These plays were generally given in sequence, one following another in
due order. Thus the one guild would present the creation of the world,
which would be followed by a play from another guild representing the
death of Abel or the story of the Flood; and in this way the most
important Bible-scenes were enacted in a series, taking from two to
three days, and often longer. The spectators, who looked on from
scaffoldings or windows, would see first the stage upon which was
acted the creation, and this would pass on to some other street, while
another stage came in sight on which would be acted the expulsion of
Adam and Eve from Paradise; and so one pageant would follow another
till the whole Bible-story was complete.

These old plays came in time to be known by the names of the towns in
which they were originally given; each great town, such as London,
Chester, Coventry, Dublin, was noted for a special set of plays, and,
although most of them are now lost, enough are left to show us what
they were like; the principal manuscripts are those of the Chester,
Wakefield, and Coventry plays, amounting in all to about a hundred.

The mystery and miracle plays gave place in great degree at last to
another kind of play in which, instead of angels, devils, and
Bible-heroes, there were characters representing Goodness or
Wickedness, and the object of these plays was not to teach the lives
of the saints or Bible-history, but to convey some lesson by means of
an allegory. These were known as _Morality Plays_, and the characters
were called Patience, Hope, Pride, Anger, and so on, depending upon
the nature of the play.

The moralities were generally written by the monks, and both those and
the miracle plays show an interesting side of English literature
between the twelfth and fifteenth centuries. They were very popular
because they were so easily understood, and were a means of
entertainment and instruction in the days when few could read or
write and nearly everyone depended for amusement upon the stories told
by wandering harpers, or the tales of some returned palmer. During the
festivals in which these plays were acted the entire population of the
city gave itself up to amusement, the great crowds filling roofs,
balconies, scaffoldings, and every available place for seeing, or
following the long procession from one street to another in
never-tiring wonder.

The religious character of the entertainment allowed the people to
combine duty with pleasure, and a picture of one of the old English
cities during the performance of one of the long plays would have
shown people of all classes--monks, students, tradespeople,
apprentices, mechanics, rich and poor, well-born and lowly--all bent
on pleasure, and accounting the seeing of the play the only business
in life.

The morality plays, though still acted with the miracle plays for long
to come, were in turn followed by the _Interludes_ and _Masques_ which
were so popular from the middle of the fifteenth to the middle of the
sixteenth century, and which were a part of every entertainment given
by state, or guild, or nobleman. The interlude was a satire or farce
written in dialogue and spoken by persons who took on different
characters. The masques were generally given in dumb show and dancing,
no speaking being allowed.

These plays were not at all religious in character, though some of
them resembled the morality plays. They were generally very short, and
often were a play upon any question that was agitating the people,
though as a rule they were merry and light pieces whose sole object
was to amuse. The interludes and masques were very popular with the
higher classes, and no entertainment was considered complete without
them. They were constantly given at court and in the castles of the
nobility, and lords and ladies of the highest rank often took part in
them, though every nobleman had his band of trained actors who were
ready at the shortest moment to perform.

In those days it was the custom for the higher nobility to give great
entertainments lasting weeks at a time, to which the court was often
invited, and at these times, which generally fell at Christmas, or
Easter, or some other church festival, the interludes and masques were
important parts of the amusement. They were usually given immediately
after the feast, or before the last course had been served, and as no
expense was spared in costumes and decorations the effect was often
magnificent.

A picture of such an entertainment would be even more dazzling than a
glimpse at one of the old morality plays, for the castle hall would be
bright with beautifully dressed ladies whose silk and velvet robes,
glittering with jewels and adorned with laces and feathers, would but
rival the splendid costumes of the courtiers, with their jewelled
swords, coats of bright-colored satin, and plumed hats. The stage was
generally erected in the great hall, and the play was often acted by
the lords and ladies. One of the old chroniclers records a masque
which was given at one of the royal palaces during the reign of Henry
VIII. in which the king himself took part.

A castle, with towers, gates, and battlements was erected in the
great hall, and garrisoned with beautiful ladies whose satin dresses
were covered with leaves of gold, and who wore fancy head-dresses
instead of helmets. This was Castle Dangerous, which had never yet
surrendered to an enemy. But while the brave ladies were looking out
of the castle windows and sighing for new adventures, there entered a
company of goodly knights, of whom the king was one, wearing suits
embroidered with gold and glittering with jewels, and they laid siege
to the castle with great vehemence, for they had never yet been
vanquished. And then, after a pretty scene of storming and resistance,
the beautiful ladies surrendered and came out on the lawn and danced a
graceful measure with the brave knights, after which they gave them
possession of the castle, which immediately vanished as if by magic,
and so the play ended without a word being spoken.

These plays, in which shepherds and shepherdesses, Cupids, Graces, and
Muses took part, were very graceful and pleasing, and continued in
favor for a great length of time.

When the interludes or masques were given in public they were
generally performed in the pauses between the different parts of the
morality plays, or during the great public feasts which were so
numerous in those days, or at the universities. The performers in
these plays, at first trained for the use of the nobleman in whose
service they were, came gradually to extend their work outside the
castle halls. They still wore the livery of their lord, and were under
the protection of his name, but it came to be the custom gradually for
these actors to go from one place to another and perform for the
amusement of the people. Thus there grew up companies of actors,
consisting of bands of players who were either in the employ of some
lord or wandered from place to place giving their entertainments
whenever they could get an audience, whether it were in the castle of
some nobleman or in the town-hall, or in the inn at which they
stopped.

The inns in those days were generally built around an open court-yard,
and had galleries with windows opening on them running around each
story. When a play was given the stage was erected in the court-yard,
and the lower class of spectators stood on the ground while the more
select witnessed the performance from the galleries.

But the acting of plays became so popular at last that special houses
were set apart for the purpose, and in time theatres were built for
the use and convenience of regular companies of players, though it
still remained the custom for the monarch or any great nobleman to
summon the company to play before him, as it would have been
considered a degradation for any sovereign to visit a public theatre.

Hardly any attention was paid to scenery or stage properties in these
old theatres. Sometimes a placard bearing the name of London, or
Athens, alone denoting where the scene was laid, while a gilded chair
beneath a canopy gave the idea of a palace, an altar stood for a
church, and a table covered with bottles and tankards represented an
inn. Generally the stage was strewn with rushes, and sometimes, during
the performance of heavy tragedy, the whole stage was hung with black
to add greater solemnity to the scene.

The earliest playwrights after the monks were the actors themselves,
whose practical knowledge of their art did much to make their pieces
successful. But dramatic literature for a long time was of such a poor
character that it hardly deserved to be placed among the works of
writers of other classes; for although, from the time of the first
miracle plays, early in the twelfth century, down to the ages of
Chaucer and Caxton, plays were written continually in England, there
was hardly one produced which showed more than mediocre talent, with
the exception of those which were taken directly from the Scriptures.

Among the old writers of plays John Bale, who lived about the middle
of the sixteenth century, may be mentioned as a playwright who did not
limit himself to the masques and interludes which were then so much in
fashion, but who looked into the old chronicles of England and found
there stories more interesting than any that could be imagined. From
this source Bale drew the materials for his historical play of _King
John_, which showed an English audience how interesting the history of
their own country could be when put on the stage, and this play, with
one or two others by other writers, founded the historic drama which
later English dramatists carried to such heights.

Another play acted about the same time was founded on the story of
Palamon and Arcite, already familiar through the work of Chaucer. The
author of this play was Richard Edwards, who was appointed by Queen
Elizabeth master of the choir-boys in the Royal Chapel, and who was
also known as a writer of many good poems and interludes. Perhaps the
most popular writer of interludes was John Heywood, who wrote many of
these plays while a resident at court, where most of them were
performed. But though the interludes and masques were so much liked
they were but the introduction to the real drama, which first appeared
in England in 1561 with the first English tragedy. This play was
written by Thomas Norton and Thomas Sackville, and was given at the
Christmas festivities in Westminster. It was called _The Tragedy of
Gorboduc_, and was taken from Geoffrey of Monmouth's _History of
Britain_.

Gorboduc, King of Britain, desired to leave his kingdom to his two
sons Porrex and Ferrex; but on asking advice from his council, one
advised him to let the eldest son Ferrex have the whole, another
advised him to follow out his first wish, and a third to keep the
kingdom himself and divide it equally by will. But Gorboduc took his
own way, and immediately fell into trouble, for Ferrex was jealous of
his brother and Porrex feared for his life. Both rushed to arms and
the news was carried to Gorboduc, who, before he had time to
interfere, was shocked by the appearance of a messenger bringing the
news of the death of Ferrex by his brother's hand. Porrex was summoned
before his father, who reproached him for his brother's death, and
Porrex asked for no mercy, but said that the whole trouble came from
the division of the kingdom. He remained at court, but before his
father passed sentence upon him he was slain in his sleep by his
mother, who was distracted by the death of Ferrex. Then the people
rose and slew both Gorboduc and his wife, after which there was civil
war until a king was chosen by common consent.

This play, though differing entirely from the masques and interludes
in the treatment and conception of the plot, had yet something in
common with them. Every act was preceded by a masque in which the
progress of the play was given in dumb show. Thus, immediately before
the act in which Gorboduc receives tidings of the death of Ferrex, a
band of mourners, clad in black, enter and pass three times around the
stage; and before the act in which the queen slays Porrex there is a
masque in which the Furies drive before them a king and queen who had
murdered their children, and so on.

As the English of that day were familiar with the horrors of civil war
and the discords which shook the kingdom during the disputes about the
succession, this first English tragedy could be well understood by
them, as representing a scene from their national life, and this,
together with its origin in the old British chronicles, made it
distinctly an English play. It was performed by the gentlemen of the
Inner Temple, where the Christmas festivities were held that year.

The first English comedy was written by Nicholas Udall, head-master of
Eton. It was called _Ralph Roister Doister_, and was written for the
Eton boys, who were in the habit of giving some Latin play at
Christmas. _Ralph Roister Doister_, which was written in English, was
a lively satire against vain boasting, and was characteristic of the
English race in its ridicule of bluster and self-praise, thus making
both the tragedy and comedy English from the beginning.

Ralph Roister Doister was a blundering swaggerer who paid court to
Dame Custance, a fair widow who was already betrothed to a merchant
who was away at sea. Custance received the attentions of Ralph just
for the fun of seeing him made ridiculous, and the plot is based on
this. The play is very bright and merry, and the fun is entirely free
from the coarseness which is found in so many of the old comedies and
which was so characteristic of the times.

Among the early English dramatists who began to write at the time when
the drama proper began to be distinguished from the interludes and
masques was a group of men who are generally classed together, because
their work on the whole partook of the same general characteristics,
and was marked by about the same degree of merit.

These men were in nearly every case graduates of a university, and had
the education which it was thought necessary for gentlemen of birth
and breeding to possess.

Among these may be mentioned Lyly, Greene, Nash, Lodge, Peele, and
Kyd, who are known sometimes as the "university wits," to distinguish
them from a number of playwrights who had no advantages of birth or
education, but yet whose experience as actors enabled them to write
plays that were very acceptable to the public, because the authors
were acquainted with the practical details of the stage and had that
command of dramatic effect which is so necessary in making a good
play.

But the "university wits" were also often actors, many of them going
on the stage as soon as they left the university, and the practical
knowledge of their art, combined with a liberal education, enabled
them to produce those plays which first gave distinction to the
English drama and placed it in the realm of pure literature.

Among the plays written by these authors are the _Endymion_ and
_Sappho_ of Lyly, modelled after the classic writers and founded on
the Greek myths; the _David and Bethsabe_ of Peele, who was remarkable
for the beauty of his language, power of description, and pathos; the
_History of Friar Bacon_ by Greene, _The Spanish Tragedy_ by Kyd, and
_The True Tragedies of Marius and Sylla_ by Lodge.

Although none of these plays are great, yet they are of sufficient
merit to place their authors among the founders of English dramatic
literature.

Most of this group died young, after leading very profligate lives,
but their work had certain qualities which will always make it
interesting to the student of literature.

But the English drama was surely if slowly rising toward the great
perfection which it reached in this century, and the year 1563 saw the
birth of an author whose works placed the drama at once on a higher
level than it had yet reached. This was Christopher Marlowe, the first
writer of plays whose genius at all compared with Chaucer, the
greatest poet up to the sixteenth century, nearly of the same age with
Spenser and Sidney, and endowed with a mind of such rare qualities
that the brilliance of his fame is yet undimmed.

Marlowe was educated at Cambridge, and is included in the group of
university wits. Immediately on leaving college he joined a company of
actors, his ready wit and careless good humor winning him a cordial
welcome among those who had apparently given up all serious aims in
life and who lived only for the hour. Marlowe was the wildest among
this set of wild companions, who were utterly regardless of authority
and stopped at nothing that promised amusement or change.

But while he was thus giving himself up to idle and foolish pastimes,
he was at the same time laying the foundations of the English drama on
lines so strong and bold that his works will always be regarded as
among the best in English dramatic literature.

Marlowe's first play, _Tamburlaine the Great_, the story of a Scythian
chief whose conquests sound like a fairy-tale, did not show the
greatness of his genius, though it won him immediate fame; this was
due, however, to the character of the hero, who was just such a
boaster and ranter as the public at that time delighted in, for coarse
humor and unrefined wit were both highly appreciated by the old
theatre-goers.

But _Tamburlaine_, if it did nothing else, at least made Marlowe's
name familiar to the public, and predisposed it in the author's favor,
and this was much, at a time when the playwright could only count on
popular favor for his daily bread.

_The History of Dr. Faustus_, founded on the old German legend of a
philosopher who bargained his soul away for a certain number of years
of earthly power and enjoyment; _The Jew of Malta_, a play which
depended for its interest upon the character of a Jew as he appeared
to Englishmen in the fifteenth century, when to be of Jewish blood
made one liable to be considered as a monster, or only half-human; and
_The Tragedy of Edward II._, showed Marlowe at his best, and the force
and inspiration of these works at once placed the author among the
greatest of English writers. He can be compared only to the great
dramatists who succeeded him, for preceding playwrights do not
approach him in the power and greatness of his genius. He died at the
age of thirty, but even in his short life accomplished more than any
dramatist up to his time and made himself a name not unworthy of being
placed near that of Shakespeare.




       *       *       *       *       *




=Children's Stories in American Literature=

  By HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

  12mo, $1.25

This new volume will add another great success to those which the
author has already achieved in writing instructive books for children
in the three fields of literature, science, and history. Nothing could
be more welcome at this time than a book which brings our own
literature within the realm of the Grammar School where the study
should rightfully begin. Miss Wright has made it easy for the child to
become interested in reading by making the personalities of the
writers stand out in a most striking way. Eliot, the translator of the
Bible into the Indian language, Irving, Cooper, Bryant, Prescott,
Hawthorne, Bancroft, Longfellow, Whittier, Mrs. Stowe, Lowell, and
Parkman are considered and treated with constant reference to that
side of their works and personalities which most nearly appeals to
children.

    "Miss Henrietta Christian Wright has a most delightful style and
    tells just what everyone desires to know about his favorite
    author. She knows how to seize upon the salient points of an
    author and use these to the best advantage. The use of such a book
    in the schools will inspire students with a love of American
    literature and the best reading."--_Teachers' World_.

    "Personally, the writer has felt the need of just such a book
    since his first year of teaching. The stereotyped histories of
    literature are too abstract and cold. The children can't get close
    to the characters. While to-day we want to study the real
    literature, yet teachers are constantly searching for the lives of
    our writers; books that not only contain information, but books
    that will be read by all children. This book contains the best
    collection of stories and authors I have ever seen. It is neither
    stiff, formal nor weak. They are, in my opinion, the best
    biographies I ever read that were prepared for school use--either
    for high school or college, and, at the same time, are written in
    such a way as to hold the attention of the ten-year-old or the
    college professor who has learned to see the man behind the
    writer. Truly a new day is dawning for writing a book for
    children, and this book is one of the best I have
    seen."--_North-Western Journal of Education_.

    "These 'Children's Stories of American Literature' are full of
    interest and information calculated to benefit young readers in
    many ways. They are not what the title of the book would seem to
    indicate--childish stories written in childish language, but
    sketches of the lives and writings of our great American authors,
    written in elegant style and diction."--_Journal of Education_.


=Children's Stories in American History=

  By HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

  With 12 full-page illustrations, from drawings by J. STEEPLE DAVIS
  12mo, $1.25


=CHILDREN'S STORIES OF AMERICAN PROGRESS=

  By HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

  With 12 full-page illustrations, from drawings by J. STEEPLE DAVIS
  12mo, $1.25

    "To the teacher or parent the Children's Stories will prove a
    boon. Sketches so clearly and charmingly told as these will surely
    rivet the attention of a little reader even when there is a book
    of fairy tales to follow."--MRS. BURTON HARRISON.

The former of these volumes deals with the remote and partially
legendary episodes of our earlier history, while the latter contains
pictures of events of the first half of the present century, and
comprehends all the prominent steps by which we have reached our
present position, both as regards extent of country and industrial
prosperity.

Miss Wright displays a remarkable talent for vivid and picturesque
narration, and a child fond of story-telling will gain from these
books an amount of information which may far exceed that which is
usually acquired from the rigid instruction of the school-room. The
simplicity of the author's language and her easy and natural method of
treating the interesting events of our national history especially fit
the volumes for school use. They have already been adopted for this
purpose in a number of prominent cities throughout the country,
including New York and Brooklyn, and in every case they have given the
utmost satisfaction.


=Children's Stories of the Great Scientists=

  By HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

  With numerous full-page portraits. 12mo, $1.25

Equal in interest and value to Miss Wright's two previous books which
have attained such popularity as supplementary readers. It deals, in a
simple, entertaining manner, with sixteen of the great men of science,
giving a brief, readable account of their lives and of what
discoveries they made.

CONTENTS

I. Galileo and the Wonders of the Telescope, 1564-1642--II. Kepler and
the Pathways of the Planets, 1571-1635--III. Newton and the Finding of
the World Secret, 1642-1727--IV. Franklin and the Identity of
Lightning and Electricity, 1706-179O--V. Charles Linnaeus and the
Story of the Flowers, 1707-1778--VI. Herschel and the Story of the
Stars, 1738-1822--VII. Rumford and the Relations of Motion and Heat,
1753-1814--VIII. Cuvier and the Animals of the Past, 1769-1832--IX.
Humboldt and Nature in the New World, 1769-1859--X. Davy and Nature's
Magicians, 1778-1829--XI. Faraday and the Production of Electricity by
Magnetism, 1791-1867--XII. Charles Lyell and the Story of the Rocks,
1797-1875--XIII. Agassiz and the Story of the Animal Kingdom,
1807-1874--XIV. Tyndall and Diamagnetism and Radiant Heat, 1825--XV.
Kirchoff and the Story Told by Sunbeam and Starbeam, 1824-1887--XVI.
Darwin and Huxley.


=CHILDREN'S STORIES IN ENGLISH LITERATURE=

  TALIESIN TO SHAKSPERE     SHAKSPERE TO TENNYSON

  By HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT

  2 vols., 12mo, $1.25 each

    "Miss Wright sets forth in simple attractive language the lives
    and works of the great men in English literature. Miss Wright has
    endeared herself to a host of young readers by her stories of
    progress, history, and science, but she has never before produced
    a book so thoroughly fascinating as this."--_Boston Beacon_.




=PRESS NOTICES.=


"The author selects prominent events and of these gives a concise yet
graphic account. Her fresh and animated style imparts a new interest
to these oft-told stories, and insures the absorbed attention of old
as well as young."--_The Critic._

       *       *       *       *       *

"Miss Wright is favorably known by her volume of well-told 'Stories in
American History,' and her 'Stories of American Progress' is equally
worthy of commendation. Taken together they present a series of
pictures of great graphic interest. The illustrations are
excellent."--_The Nation._

       *       *       *       *       *

"They are told in a singularly free and colloquial way, and each
chapter is made more valuable by being opened with a swift and graphic
glance over the antecedent time and events which led up to the
particular points described. The illustrations add to the book's other
points of attraction for young readers."--_Chicago Times._

       *       *       *       *       *

"Told in a style to entertain and instruct. The work will be
appreciated by all who desire to cultivate early in their children a
taste for disciplinary, as well as useful reading. It has good
illustrations and is handsomely bound."--_Boston Globe._

       *       *       *       *       *

"A beautiful as well as a valuable book for young readers is
'Children's Stories of American Progress.' The book will be of service
to juvenile readers in interesting them in historical
studies."--_Boston Transcript._

       *       *       *       *       *

"A most delightful and instructive collection of historical events,
told in a simple and pleasant manner. Almost every occurrence in the
gradual development of our country is woven into an attractive story
for young people."--_San Francisco Evening Post._

       *       *       *       *       *

*** _Correspondence is solicited in regard to copies for examination
and terms of introduction._

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, PUBLISHERS,
  153-157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.



       *       *       *       *       *



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:

  The following changes have been made to the original text:

    Page 203: "ballades" changed to "ballads".

    Page 266: "Engglish" changed to "English".

    Page 271: The year Edmund Spencer went to Ireland changed from
              "1680" to "1580". Date checked in several sources
              (Wikipedia, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography and
              Encyclopdia Britannica Online among others).

    Page 329: "entertainmment" changed to "entertainment".

  In addition to this, minor punctuation errors have been corrected
  without comment.

  Other variations in spelling and inconsistent hyphenation have been
  retained as they appear in the original book.




[End of _Children's Stories in English Literature: From
Taliesin to Shakespeare_ by Henrietta Christian Wright]
