No More Learning

But one evening, when the toy bird was singing its best, and
the Emperor lay in bed and heard it, something inside the bird
said, “Svup! ” Something cracked. “Whir-r-r! ” All the wheels
ran round, and then the music stopped.
The Emperor jumped at once out of bed, and had his own
doctor called; but what could he do? Then they sent for a watch-
maker, and after a good deal of talking and looking, he got the
bird into some sort of order; but he said that it must be looked
after a good deal, for the barrels were worn, and he could not
put new ones in in such a manner that the music would go.
There was a great to-do; only once in a year did they dare to let
the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the Play-
master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said this
was just as good as before —— and so, of course, it was as good as
before.


## p. 532 (#570) ############################################

532
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
III — THE REAL NIGHTINGALE AGAIN
ran
to pay
Five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole
nation. The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now
he was sick, and could not, it was said, live much longer. Al-
ready a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out
in the street and asked the Cavalier' how their old Emperor did.
“P! ” said he, and shook his head.
Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed;
the whole court thought him dead, and each one
respect to the new ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it
over, and the ladies’-maids had a great coffee party. All about,
in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid down so that no
one could be heard go by, and therefore it was quiet there, quite
quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet: stiff and pale he lay
on the gorgeous bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy
gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone
in upon the Emperor and the toy bird.
The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if
something lay upon his breast. He opened his eyes, and then he
saw that it was Death who sat upon his breast, and had put on
his golden crown, and held in one hand the Emperor's sword,
and in the other his beautiful banner. And all around, from
among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads
peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild.
These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood
before him now that Death sat upon his heart.
“Do you remember this ? ” whispered one to the other. "Do
you remember that ? ” and then they told him so much that the
sweat ran from his forehead.
"I did not know that! ” said the Emperor. “Music! music!
the great Chinese drum! ” he cried, “so that I need not hear all
they say! ”
And they kept on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all
they said.
«Music! music! ” cried the Emperor. “You little precious
golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly pres-
ents; I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck —
sing now, sing! ”
But the bird stood still, no one was there to wind him up,
and he could not sing without that; but Death kept on staring


## p. 533 (#571) ############################################

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
533
ers.
at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet,
fearfully quiet.
Then there sounded close by the window the most lovely
song. It was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a
spray It had heard of the Emperor's need, and had come to
sing to him of trust and hope. And as it sang the spectres grew
paler and paler; the blood ran more and more quickly through
the Emperor's weak limbs, and Death himself listened, and
said:
Go on, little Nightingale, go on! ”
“But will you give me that splendid golden sword? Will you
give me that rich banner? Will you give me the Emperor's
crown ? »
And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And
the Nightingale sang on and on; it sang of the quiet church-
yard where the white roses grow, where the elder-blossom smells
sweet, and where the fresh grass is wet with the tears of mourn-
Then Death felt a longing to see his garden, and floated
out at the window in the form of a cold, white mist.
« Thanks! thanks! ” said the Emperor. “You heavenly little
bird! I know you well. I drove you from my land and empire,
and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and
driven Death from my heart! How can I pay you ? ”
"You have paid me! ” replied the Nightingale. I drew tears
from your eyes, the first time I sang- I shall never forget that.
Those are the jewels that make a singer's heart glad.
But now
sleep and grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you some-
thing. "
And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. Ah!
how mild and refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon
him through the windows, when he awoke strong and sound.
Not one of his servants had yet come back, for they all thought
that he was dead; but the Nightingale still sat beside him and
sang.
“You must always stay with me,” said the Emperor. “You
shall sing as you please; and I'll break the toy bird into a thou-
sand pieces. ”
“Not so," replied the Nightingale. “It did well as long as it
could; keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my
nest in the palace to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel
the wish; then I will sit in the evening on the spray yonder by
c
(
.


## p. 534 (#572) ############################################

534
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
I love your
>
the window, and sing for you, so that you may be glad and
thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and of
those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that remain
hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far around,
to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to every one who
dwells far away from you and from
your court.
heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of
sanctity about it. I will come and sing to you — but one thing
you must promise me. ”
“Everything! ” said the Emperor; and he stood there in his
royal robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword
which was heavy with gold to his heart.
“One thing I beg of you: tell no one that you have a little
bird who tells you everything. Then all will go well. ”
And the Nightingale flew away. '
The servants came in to look on their dead Emperor, and
yes, there he stood, and the Emperor said, "Good-morning! ”
((
»
THE MARKET PLACE AT ODENSE (1836)
From The Story of My Life)
F
I
(
THE reader was a child who lived in Odense, he would just
need to say the words “St. Knud's Fair,” and it would rise
before him in the brightest colors, lighted by the beams of
childish fancy.
Somewhere near the middle of the town,
five streets meet and make a little square.
There the
town crier, in striped homespun, with a yellow bandoleer, beat his
drum and proclaimed from a scroll the splendid things to be seen
in the town.
“He beats a good drum,” said the chamberlain.
«It would delight Spontini and Rossini to hear the fellow,”
said William. “Really, Odense at New Year would just suit
these composers.
The drums and fifes are in their glory. They
drum the New Year in. Seven or eight little drummers, or fifers,
go from door to door, with troops of children and old women,
and they beat the drum-taps and the reveille. That fetches the
.
pennies. Then when the New Year is well drummed in the city,
they go into the country and drum for meat and porridge. The
drumming in of the New Year lasts until Lent. ”


## p. 535 (#573) ############################################

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
535
»
.
“And then we have new sports,” said the chamberlain. “The
fishers come from Stege with a full band, and on their shoulders
a boat with all sorts of flags.
Then they lay a board
between two boats, and on this two of the youngest and spryest
wrestle till one falls into the water.
But all the fun's
gone now. When I was young, there was different sport going.
That was a sight! the corporation procession with the banners
and the harlequin atop, and at Shrovetide, when the butchers led
about an ox decked with ribbons and carnival twigs, with a boy
on his back with wings and a little shirt.
All that's past
now, people are got so fine. St. Knud's Fair is not what it used
to be. »
(
Well, I'm glad it isn't,” said William; “but let us go into
the market and look at the Jutlanders, who are sitting with their
pottery amidst the hay. ”
Just as the various professions in the Middle Ages had each
its quarter, so here the shoemakers had ranged their tables side
by side, and behind them stood the skillful workman in his long
coat, and with his well-brushed felt hat in his hand. Where the
shoemakers' quarter ended, the hatters' began, and there one was
in the midst of the great market where tents and booths formed
many parallel streets. The milliners, the goldsmiths, the pastry
cooks, with booths of canvas and wood, were the chief attractions.
Ribbons and handkerchiefs fluttered. Noise and bustle was every-
where. The girls from the same village always went in rows,
seven or eight inseparables, with hands fast clasped.
It was
impossible to break the chain; and if you tried to pass through,
the whole band wound itself into a clump. Behind the booth was
a great space with wooden shoes, pottery, turners' and saddlers'
wares. Rude and rough toys were spread on tables. Around
them children were trying little trumpets, or moving about the
playthings. Country girls twirled and twisted the work-boxes and
themselves many a time before making their bargain. The air
was thick and heavy with odors that were spiced with the smell
of honey-cake.
On Fair day, St. Knud's Church and all its tombs are open to
the public. From whatever side you look at this fine old build-
ing it has something imposing, with its high tower and spire.
The interior produces the same, perhaps a greater, effect. But
its full impression is not felt on entering it, nor until you get to
the main aisle. There all is grand, beautiful, light. The whole


## p. 536 (#574) ############################################

536
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
interior is bright with gilding. Up in the high vaulted roof there
shine, since old time, a multitude of golden stars. On both
sides, high up above the side aisles, are great gothic windows
from which the light streams down. The side aisles are painted
with oil portraits, whole families, women and children, all in cler-
ical dress, with long gowns and deep ruffs. Usually the figures
are ranged by ages, the eldest first and then down to the very
smallest.
They all stand with folded hands, and look piously down
before them, till their colors have gradually faded away in dust.
THE ANDERSEN JUBILEE AT ODENSE
From The Story of My Life)
I
HEARD on the morning of December 6th [1867] that the town
was decorated, that all the schools had a holiday, because it
was my festival. I felt myself as humble, meek, and poor as
though I stood before my God. Every weakness or error or sin,
in thought, word, and deed, was revealed to me. All stood out
strangely clear in my soul, as though it were doomsday - and it
was my festival.
God knows how humble I felt when men
exalted and honored me so.
Then came the first telegram from the Student Club.
I saw
that they shared and did not envy my joy. Then came a dis-
patch from a private club of students in Copenhagen, and from
the Artisans' Club of Slagelse. You will remember that I went
to school in that town, and was therefore attached to it. Soon
followed messages from sympathetic friends in Aarhuus, in Stege;
telegram on telegram from all around. One of these was read
aloud by Privy Councillor Koch. It was from the king. The
assembly burst out in applause. Every cloud and shadow in my
soul vanished!
How happy I was! And yet man must not exalt himself. I
was to feel that I was only a poor child of humanity, bound by
the frailty of earth. I suffered from a dreadful toothache, which
was increased unbearably by the heat and excitement.
Yet at
evening I read a Wonder Story for the little friends. Then the
deputation came from the town corporations, with torches and
waving banners through the street, to the guild-hall.
And now
the prophecy was to be fulfilled that the old woman gave when


## p. 537 (#575) ############################################

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
537
I left home as a boy. Odense was to be illuminated for me.
I stepped to the open window. All was aglow with torchlight,
the square was filled with people. Songs swelled up to me.
I was overcome, emotionally. Physically racked with pain, I could
not enjoy this crowning fruit of my life, the toothache was so
intolerable. The ice-cold air that blew against me fanned the
pain to an awful intensity, and, instead of enjoying the bliss
of these never-to-be-repeated moments, I looked at the printed
song to see how many verses had to be sung before I could step
away from the torture which the cold air sent through my teeth.
It was the acme of suffering. As the glow of the piled-up
torches subsided, my pain subsided too. How thankful I
was,
though! Gentle eyes were fastened upon me all around. All
wanted to speak with me, to press my hand. Tired out, I
reached the bishop's house and sought rest. But I got no sleep
till toward morning, so filled and overflowing was I.
(MISERERE) IN THE SIXTINE CHAPEL
From «The Improvisatore): Translation by Mary Howitt
ON
N WEDNESDAY afternoon began the Miserere in the Sixtine
Chapel. My soul longed for music; in the world of mel-
ody I could find sympathy and consolation. The throng
was great, even within the chapel — the foremost division was
already filled with ladies. Magnificent boxes, hung with velvet
and golden draperies for royal personages and foreigners from
various courts, were here erected so high that they looked out
beyond the richly carved railing which separated the ladies from
the interior of the chapel. The papal Swiss Guards stood in
their bright festal array. The officers wore light armor, and in
their helmets a waving plume.
The old cardinals entered
in their magnificent scarlet velvet cloaks, with their white ermine
capes, and seated themselves side by side in a great half-circle
within the barrier, while the priests who had carried their trains
seated themselves at their feet. By the little side door of the
altar the holy father now entered, in his scarlet mantle and silver
tiara. He ascended his throne. Bishops swung the vessels of
incense around him, while young priests, in scarlet vestments,
knelt, with lighted torches in their hands, before him and the
high altar.


## p. 538 (#576) ############################################

538
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
The reading of the lessons began. But it was impossible to
keep the eyes fixed on the lifeless letters of the Missal — they
raised themselves, with the thoughts, to the vast universe which
Michael Angelo has breathed forth in colors upon the ceiling and
the walls. I contemplated his mighty sibyls and wondrously
glorious prophets, - every one of them a subject for a painting.
My eyes drank in the magnificent processions, the beautiful
groups of angels; they were not, to me, painted pictures;— all
stood living before me. The rich tree of knowledge, from which
Eve gave the fruit to Adam; the Almighty God, who floated
over the waters ,- not borne up by angels, as the older masters
had represented him -- no, the company of angels rested upon
him and his fluttering garments. It is true, I had seen these
pictures before, but never as now had they seized upon me. My
excited state of mind, the crowd of people, perhaps even the
lyric of my thoughts, made me wonderfully alive to poetical
impressions; and many a poet's heart has felt as mine did!
The bold foreshortenings, the determinate force with which
every figure steps forward, is amazing, and carries one quite
away! It is a spiritual Sermon on the Mount, in color and form.
Like Raphael, we stand in astonishment before the power of
Michael Angelo. Every prophet is a Moses, like that which he
formed in marble. What giant forms are those which seize upon
our eye and our thoughts as we enter! But when intoxicated
with this view, let us turn our eyes to the background of the
chapel, whose whole wall is a high altar of art and thought.
The great chaotic picture, from the floor to the roof, shows itself
there like a jewel, of which all the rest is only the setting. We
see there the Last Judgment.
Christ stands in judgment upon the clouds, and his Mother
and the Apostles stretch forth their hands beseechingly for the
poor human race. The dead raise the gravestones under which
they have lain; blessed spirits adoring, float upward to God,
while the abyss seizes its victims. Here one of the ascending
spirits seeks to save his condemned brother, whom the abyss
already embraces in its snaky folds. The children of despair
strike their clenched fists upon their brows, and sink into the
depths! In bold foreshortenings, float and tumble whole legions
between heaven and earth. The sympathy of the angels, the
expression of lovers who meet, the child that at the sound of the
trumpet clings to the mother's breast, are so natural and beautiful


## p. 539 (#577) ############################################

ANEURIN
539
that one believes one's self to be among those who are waiting
for judgment. Michael Angelo has expressed in colors what
Dante saw and has sung to the generations of the earth.
The descending sun at that moment threw his last beams in
through the uppermost window. Christ, and the blessed around
him, were strongly lighted up; while the lower part, where the
dead arose, and the demons thrust their boat laden with the
damned from the shore, were almost in darkness.
Just as the sun went down the last lesson was ended, the
last light which now remained was extinguished, and the whole
picture world vanished in the gloom from before me; but in that
same moment burst forth music and singing. That which color
had bodily revealed arose now in sound; the day of judgment,
with its despair and its exultation, resounded above us.
The father of the church, stripped of his papal pomp, stood
before the altar, and prayed to the holy cross; and upon the
wings of the trumpet resounded the trembling choir, "Populus
meus quid feci tibi ? ) Soft angel-tones rose above the deep
song, tones which ascended not from a human breast: it was not
a man's nor a woman's; it belonged to the world of spirits; it
was like the weeping of angels dissolved in melody.
ANEURIN
(Sixth Century A. D. )
MONG the triad of singers - Llywarch, prince and bard, Aneu-
rin, warrior and bard, and Taliessin, bard only — who were
among the followers of the heroic British chief Urien, when
he bravely but unsuccessfully resisted the invasion of the victorious
Angles and Saxons, Aneurin was famous both as poet and warrior.
He sang of the long struggle that eventually was to turn Briton into
England, and celebrated in his ‘Gododin' ninety of the fallen Cymric
chiefs. The notes of his life are scanty, and are drawn chiefly from
his allusion to himself in his poem. He was the son of Cwm Caw-
lwyd, a chief of the tribe of Gododin. He seems to have been
educated at St. Cadoc's College at Llancarvan, and afterwards entered
the bardic order. As appears from the ‘Gododin,' he was present at
the battle of Cattræth both as bard and as priest. He fled, but was


## p. 540 (#578) ############################################

540
ANEURIN
taken prisoner. In his poem he refers to the hardships he endured in
his captivity. After his release he returned to Llancarvan, Wales,
and in his old age he went north to live with his brother in Gallo-
way. Here he was murdered; his death is referred to as one of the
three accursed hatchet-strokes of the isle of Britain. " His friendship
with Taliessin is commemorated by both bards.
The Gododin' is at once the longest and the most important
composition in early Welsh literature. It has been variously inter-
preted, but is thought to celebrate the battle of Cattræth. This battle
was fought in 570 between the Britons, who had formed a league to
defend their country, and their Teutonic invaders. It “began on a
Tuesday, lasted for a week, and ended with great slaughter of the
Britons, who fought desperately till they perished on the field. ”
Three hundred and sixty chieftains were slain; only three escaped by
flight, among whom was Aneurin, who afterwards commemorated the
slaughter in the "Gododin,' a lament for the dead. Ninety-seven of
the stanzas remain. In various measures of alliterative and assonant
verse they sing the praises of ninety of the fallen chiefs, usually
giving one stanza to each hero. One of these stanzas is known to
readers of Gray, who translated it under the name of “The Death of
Hoel. '
Again the “Gododinis assumed to be, like many early epic
poems whose origin is wrapped in mystery, not the commemoration
of one single, particular event, but a collection of lays composed at
various times, which compresses into one battle the long and disas-
trous period of the Anglo-Saxon invasion, ending in the subjugation
of the Britons.
But whatever its history, the 'Gododin' is one of the finest monu-
ments of Cymric literature. In the brevity of the narrative, the
careless boldness of the actors as they present themselves, the con-
densed energy of the action, and the fierce exultation of the slaughter,
together with the recurring elegiac note, this poem (or poems if it
be the work of two authors) has some of the highest epic qualities.
The ideas and manners are in harmony with the age and the country
to which it is referred. )
Like all early songs, the poem was handed down through cen-
turies by oral tradition. It is now preserved in the Book of An-
eurin,' a small quarto manuscript of nineteen leaves of vellum, of
the end of the thirteenth century.
The (Gododin' has been published with an English translation
and notes by the Rev. J. Williams (1852); and by the Cymmrodorion
Society, with a translation by Thomas Stevens, in 1885. Interesting
information covering it may be found in Skene's Four Ancient Books
of Wales) (1866), and in the article Celtic Literature in this work.


## p. 541 (#579) ############################################

ANEURIN
541
THE SLAYING OF OWAIN
[During the battle a conference was held, at which the British leaders
demanded as a condition of peace that part of the land of Gododin be restored.
In reply, the Saxons killed Owain, one of the greatest of the Cymric bards.
Aneurin thus pictures him:-)
.
A
Man in thought, a boy in form,
He stoutly fought, and sought the storm
Of flashing war that thundered far.
His courser, lank and swift, thick-maned,
Bore on his flank, as on he strained,
The light-brown shield, as on he sped,
With golden spur, in cloak of fur,
His blue sword gleaming. Be there said
No word of mine that does not hold thee dear!
Before thy youth had tasted bridal cheer,
The red death was thy bride! The ravens feed
On thee yet straining to the front, to lead.
Owain, the friend I loved, is dead!
Woe is it that on him the ravens feed!
THE FATE OF HOEL, SON OF THE GREAT CIAN
[From various expressions used by Aneurin in different parts of his great
poem, it is evident that the warriors of whom he sang fortified themselves,
before entering the field of battle, with unstinted libations of that favorite
intoxicant of those days, sweet mead. He mentions the condition of the war-
riors as they started for the fray, and tells of Hoel's fate. This son of Cian
had married the daughter of one of the Bryneish. His marriage caused no
abatement of a feud existing between the tribes to which the husband and
wife respectively belonged. He repudiated her family, disdained to take her
away, and was sought and slain by her insulted father. ]
T"
HE warriors marched to Cattræth, full of mead;
Drunken, but firm of array: great the shame,
But greater the valor no bard can defame.
The war-dogs fought fiercely, red swords seemed to bleed.
Flesh and soul, I had slain thee, myself, had I thought,
Son of Cian, my friend, that thy faith had been bought
By a bribe from the tribe of the Bryneish! But no;
He scorned to take dowry from hands of the foe,
And I, all unhurt, lost a friend in the fight,
Whom the wrath of a father felled down for the slight.


## p. 542 (#580) ############################################

542
ANEURIN
THE GIANT GWRVELING FALLS AT LAST
[The bard tells the story of Gwrveling's revelry, impulsive bravery, and
final slaughter of the foe before yielding to their prowess. ]
L
IGHT of lights - the sun,
Leader of the day,
First to rise and run
His appointed way,
Crowned with many a ray,
Seeks the British sky;
Sees the flight's dismay,
Sees the Britons fly.
The horn in Eiddin's hall
Had sparkled with the wine,
And thither, at a call
To drink and be divine,
He went, to share the feast
Of reapers, wine and mead.
He drank, and so increased
His daring for wild deed.
The reapers sang of war
That lifts its shining wings,
Its shining wings of fire,
Its shields that flutter far.
The bards, too, sang of war,
Of plumed and crested war;
The song rose ever higher.
Not a shield
Escapes the shock,
To the field
They fiercely flock,-
There to fall.
But of all
Who struck on giant Gwrveling,
Whom he would he struck again,
All he struck in grave were lain,
Ere the bearers came to bring
To his grave stout Gwrveling.


## p. 543 (#581) ############################################

543
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
BY ROBERT SHARP
he earliest recorded utterances of a race, whether in poetry
or in prose, become to the representatives of this race in
later days a treasure beyond price. The value of such
monuments of the remote past is manifold. In them we first begin
to become really acquainted with ancestors of the people of to-day,
even though we may have read in the pages of earlier writers of
alien descent much that is of great concurrent interest. Through the
medium of the native saga, epic, and meagre chronicle, we see for
the first time their real though dim outlines, moving in and out of
the mists that obscure the dawn of history; and these outlines
become more and more distinct as the literary remains of succeed-
ing periods become more abundant and present more varied aspects
of life. We come gradually to know what manner of men and
women were these ancestors, what in peace and in war were their
customs, what their family and social relations, their food and drink,
their dress, their systems of law and government, their religion and
morals, what were their art instincts, what were their ideals.
This is essential material for the construction of history in its
complete sense. And this evidence, when subjected to judicious crit-
icism, is trustworthy: for the ancient story-teller and poet reflects
the customs and ideas and ideals of his own time, even though the
combination of agencies and the preternatural proportions of the
actors and their deeds belong to the imagination. The historian
must know how to supplement and to give life and interest to the
colorless succession of dates, names, and events of the chronicler, by
means of these imaginative yet truth-bearing creations of the poet.
Remnants of ancient poetry and legend have again an immediate
value in proportion as they exhibit a free play of fine imagination;
that is, according as they possess the power of stirring to response
the æsthetic feeling of subsequent ages, - as they possess the true
poetic quality. This gift of imagination varies greatly among races
as among individuals, and the earliest manifestations of it frequently
throw a clear light upon apparently eccentric tendencies developed
in a literature in later times.
For these reasons, added to a natural family pride in them, the
early literary monuments of the Anglo-Saxons should be cherished
by us as among the most valued possessions of the race.


## p. 544 (#582) ############################################

544
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
The first Teutonic language to be reduced to writing was the
Meso-Gothic. Considerable portions of a translation of the Bible
into that language, made by Bishop Ulfilas in the fourth century,
still remain. But this cannot be called the beginning of a literature;
for there is no trace of original creative impulse. The Gothic move-
ment, too, seems to have ceased immediately after its beginning. It
is elsewhere that we must seek for the rise of a real Teutonic litera-
ture. We shall not find it till after the lapse of several centuries;
and we find it not among the tribes that remained in the fatherland,
nor with those that had broken into and conquered parts of the
Roman empire, only to be absorbed and to blend with other races
into Romanic nations. The proud distinction belongs to the Low
German tribes that had created an England in Britain.
The conquest of Britain by the Anglo-Saxons, begun in 449,
seemed at first to promise only retrogression and the ruin of an
existing civilization. These fierce barbarians found among the Celts
of Britain a Roman culture, and the Christian religion exerting its
influence for order and humanity. Their mission seemed to be to
destroy both. In their original homes in the forests of northern
Germany, they had come little if at all into contact with Roman civ-
ilization. At any rate, we may assume that they had felt no Roman
influence capable of stemming their national and ethnical tendencies.
We cannot yet solve the difficult problem of the extent of their
mingling with the conquered Celts in Britain. In spite of learned
opinions to the contrary, the evidence now available seems to point
to only a small infusion of Celtic blood. The conquerors seem to
have settled down to their new homes with all the heathenism and
most of the barbarism they had brought from their old home, a
Teutonic people still.
In these ruthless, plundering barbarians, whose very breath was
battle, and who seemed for the time the very genius of disorder and
ruin, there existed, nevertheless, potentialities of humanity, order,
and enlightenment far exceeding those of the system they displaced.
In all their barbarism there was a certain nobility; their courage was
unflinching; the fidelity, even unto death, of thane to lord, repaid
the open-handed generosity of lord to thane; they honored truth;
and even after we allow for the exaggerated claims made for a
chivalrous devotion that did not exist, we find that they held their
women in higher respect than was usual even among many more
enlightened peoples.
There are few more remarkable narratives in history than that of
the facility and enthusiasm with which the Anglo-Saxons, a people
conservative then as now to the degree of extreme obstinacy, accepted
Christianity and the new learning which followed in the train of the


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ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
545
new religion. After a few lapses into paganism in some localities, we
find these people, who lately had swept Christian Britain with fire and
sword, themselves became most zealous followers of Christ. Under
the influence of the Roman missionaries who, under St. Augustine,
had begun their work in the south in 597 among the Saxons and
Jutes, and under the combined influence of Irish and Roman mission-
aries in the north and east among the Angles, theological and secular
studies were pursued with avidity. By the end of the seventh century
we find Anglo-Saxon missionaries, with St. Boniface at their head,
carrying Christianity and enlightenment to the pagan German tribes
on the Continent.
The torch had been passed to the Anglo-Saxon, and a new centre
of learning, York, - the old Roman capital, now the chief city of the
Northumbrian Angles, - became famous throughout Europe. Indeed,
York seemed for a time the chief hope for preserving and advancing
Christian culture; for the danger of a relapse into dense ignorance
had become imminent in the rest of Europe. Bede, born about 673, a
product of this Northumbrian culture, represented the highest learning
of his day. He wrote a vast number of works in Latin, treating
nearly all the branches of knowledge existing in his day. Alcuin,
another Northumbrian, born about 735, was called by Charlemagne
to be tutor for himself and his children, and to organize the educa-
tional system of his realm. Other great names might be added to
show the extent and brilliancy of the new learning. It was more
remarkable among the Angles; and only at a later day, when the
great schools of the north had gone up in fire and smoke in the piti-
less invasion of the Northmen, did the West Saxons become the
leaders, almost the only representatives, of the literary impulse
among the Anglo-Saxons.
It is significant that the first written English that we know of
contains the first Christian English king's provision for peace and
order in his kingdom. The laws of Athelbert, King of Kent, who
died in 616, were written down early in the seventh century. This
code, as it exists, is the oldest surviving monument of English prose.
The laws of Ine, King of the West Saxons, were put into writing
about 690. These collections can scarcely be said to have a literary
value; but they are of the utmost importance as throwing light upon
the early customs of our race, and the laws of Ine may be consid-
ered as the foundation of modern English law. Many of these laws
were probably much older; but they were now first codified and
systematically enforced. The language employed is direct, almost
crabbed; but occasionally the Anglo-Saxon love of figure shows itself.
To illustrate, I quote, after Brooke, from Earle's Anglo-Saxon Liter-
ature,' page 153:-
II-35


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546
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
« In case any one burn a tree in a wood, and it came to light who did it,
let him pay the full penalty, and give sixty shillings, because fire is a thief.
If one fell in a wood ever so many trees, and it be found out afterwards, let
him pay for three trees, each with thirty shillings. He is not required to pay
for more of them, however many they may be, because the axe is a reporter,
and not a thief. ” [The italicized sentences are evidently current sayings. )
But even these remains, important and interesting as they are,
may not be called the beginning of a vernacular literature. It is
among the Angles of Northumbria that we shall find the earliest
native and truly literary awakening in England. Here we perceive
the endeavor to do something more than merely to aid the memory
of men in preserving necessary laws and records of important events.
The imagination had become active. The impulse was felt to give
expression to deep emotions, to sing the deeds and noble character
of some hero embodying the loftiest ideals of the time and the race,
to utter deep religious feeling. There was an effort to do this in a
form showing harmony in theme and presentation. Here we find
displayed a feeling for art, often crude, but still a true and native
impulse. This activity produced or gave definite form to the earliest
Anglo-Saxon poetry, a poetry often of a very high quality: perhaps
never of the highest, but always of intense interest. We may claim
even a greater distinction for the early fruit of Anglo-Saxon inspira-
tion. Mr. Stopford Brooke says:–«With the exception of perhaps
a few Welsh and Irish poems, it is the only vernacular poetry in
Europe, outside of the classic tongues, which belongs to so early a
time as the seventh and eighth centuries. ”
The oldest of these poems belong in all save their final form to
the ancient days in Northern Germany. They bear evidence of trans-
mission, with varying details, from gleeinan to gleeman, till they were
finally carried over to England and there edited, often with discordant
interpolations and modifications, by Christian scribes. Tacitus tells
us that at his time songs or poems were a marked feature in the life
of the Germans; but we cannot trace the clue further. To these
more ancient poems many others were added by Christian Northum-
brian poets, and we find that a large body of poetry had grown up
in the North before the movement was entirely arrested by the de-
stroying Northmen. Not one of these poems, unless we except a few
fragmentary verses, has come down to us in the Northumbrian dialect.
Fortunately they had been transcribed by the less poetically gifted
West Saxons into theirs, and it is in this form that we possess them.
This poetry shows in subject and in treatment very considerable
range. We have a great poem, epic in character; poems partly nar-
rative and partly descriptive; poems that may be classed as lyric or
elegiac in character; a large body of verse containing a paraphrase


## p. 547 (#585) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
547
of portions of the Bible; a collection of 'Riddles'; poems on animals,
with morals; and others difficult to classify.
The regular verse-form was the alliterative, four-accent line, broken
by a strongly marked cæsura into two half-lines, which were in early
editions printed as short lines. The verse was occasionally extended
to six accents. In the normal verse there were two alliterated words
in the first half of the line, each of which received a strong accent;
in the second half there was one accented word in alliteration with
the alliterated words in the first half, and one other accented word
not in alliteration. A great license was allowed as to the number of
unaccented syllables, and as to their position in regard to the accented
ones; and this lent great freedom and vigor to the verse. When
well constructed and well read, it must have been very effective.
There were of course many variations from the normal number,
three, of alliterated words, as it would be impossible to find so many
for every line.
. Something of the quality of this verse-form may be felt in trans-
lations which aim at the same effect. Notice the result in the follow-
ing from Professor Gummere's version of as election from 'Beowulf):-
« Then the warriors went, as the way was showed to them,
Under Heorot's roof; the hero stepped,
Hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared. )
In these verses it will be noted that the alliteration is complete
in the first and third, and that in the second it is incomplete.
A marked feature of the Anglo-Saxon poetry is parallelism, or the
repetition of an idea by means of new phrases or epithets, most fre-
quently within the limits of a single sentence. This proceeds from
the desire to emphasize attributes ascribed to the deity, or to some
person or object prominent in the sentence. But while the added
epithets have often a cumulative force, and are picturesque, yet it
must be admitted that they sometimes do not justify their introduc-
This may be best illustrated by an example. The following,
in the translation of Earle, is Cadmon's first hymn, composed between
658 and 680, and the earliest piece of Anglo-Saxon poetry that we
know to have had its origin in England:-
«Now shall we glorify the guardian of heaven's realm.
The Maker's might and the thought of his mind;
The work of the Glory-Father, how He of every wonder,
He, the Lord eternal, laid the foundation.
He shaped erst for the sons of men
Heaven, their roof, Holy Creator;
The middle world, He, mankind's sovereign,
Eternal captain, afterwards created,
The land for men, Lord Almighty. ”


## p. 548 (#586) ############################################

548
ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
(
Many of the figurative expressions are exceedingly vigorous and
poetic; some to our taste not so much so. Note the epithets in the
lank wolf,” «the wan raven,” “bird greedy for slaughter,” “the dewy-
winged eagle,” « dusky-coated,” «crooked-beaked,” «horny-beaked,”
”
«the maid, fair-cheeked,” curly-locked, “elf-bright. ” To the Anglo-
Saxon poet, much that we call metaphorical was scarcely more than
literal statement. As the object pictured itself to his responsive
imagination, he expressed it with what was to him a direct realism.
His lines are filled with a profusion of metaphors of every degree of
effectiveness. To him the sea was “the water-street,” “the swan-
path,” “the strife of the waves,” “the whale-path”; the ship was
«the foamy-necked floater,” “the wave-farer,” “the sea-wood,” «the
sea-horse”; the arrow was “the battle adder”; the battle was spear-
play,” “sword-play”; the prince was the ring-giver,” “the gold-
«
friend”; the throne was the gift-stool”; the body, “the bone-house );
the mind, «the breast-hoard. ”
Indeed, as it has been pointed out by many writers, the metaphor
is almost the only figure of the Anglo-Saxon poetry. The more
developed simile belongs to a riper and more reflective culture, and is
exceedingly rare in this early native product. It has been noted that
Beowulf,' a poem of three thousand one hundred and eighty-four
lines, contains only four or five simple similes, and only one that is
fully carried out. (The ship glides away likest to a bird,” « The
monster's eyes gleam like fire,” are simple examples cited by Ten
Brink, who gives also the elaborate one, «The sword-hilt melted,
likened to ice, when the Father looseneth the chain of frost, and
unwindeth the wave-ropes. ” But even this simile is almost obliter-
ated by the crowding metaphors.
Intensity, an almost abrupt directness, a lack of explanatory detail,
are more general characteristics, though in greatly varying degrees.
As some critic has well said, the Anglo-Saxon poet seems to presup-
pose a knowledge of his subject matter by those he addresses. Such
a style is capable of great swiftness of movement, and is well suited
to rapid description and narrative; but at times roughness or mea-
greness results.
The prevailing tone is one of sadness. In the lyric poetry, this is
so decided that all the Anglo-Saxon lyrics have been called elegies.
This note seems to be the echo of the struggle with an inhospitable
climate, dreary with rain, ice, hail, and snow; and of the uncertain-
ties of life, and the certainty of death. Suffering was never far off,
and everything was in the hands of Fate. This is true at least of
the earlier poetry, and the note is rarely absent even in the Christ-
ian lyrics. A more cheerful strain is sometimes heard, as in the
(Riddles, but it is rather the exception; and any alleged humor is


## p. 549 (#587) ############################################

ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE
549
scarcely more than a suspicion. Love and sentiment, in the modern
sense, are not made the subject of Anglo-Saxon poetry, and this
must mean that they did not enter into the Anglo-Saxon life with
the same intensity as into modern life. The absence of this beauti-
ful motive has, to some degree, its compensation in the exceeding
moral purity of the whole literature. It is doubtful whether it has
its equal in this respect.
Anglo-Saxon prose displays, as a general thing, a simple, direct,
and clear style. There is, of course, a considerable difference between
the prose of the earlier and that of the later period, and individual
writers show peculiarities. It displays throughout a marked contrast
with the poetic style, in its freedom from parallelisms in thought
and phrase, from inversions, archaisms, and the almost excessive
wealth of metaphor and epithet. In its early stages, there is apparent
perhaps a poverty of resource, a lack of flexibility; but this charge
cannot be sustained against the best prose of the later period. In the
translations from the Latin it shows a certain stiffness, and becomes
sometimes involved, in the too conscientious effort of the translator
to follow the classic original.
No attempt will be made here to notice, or even to name, all the
large number of literary works of the Anglo-Saxons. It must be
sufficient to examine briefly a few of the most important and char-
acteristic productions of this really remarkable and prolific movement.
The Song of Widsith, the Far Traveler,' is now generally con-
ceded to be, in part at least, the oldest existing Anglo-Saxon poem.