Читать книгу Halleck's New English Literature - Reuben Post Halleck - Страница 9

Subject Matter and Aim.—The history of English literature traces the development of the best poetry and prose written in English by the inhabitants of the British Isles. For more than twelve hundred years the Anglo-Saxon race has been producing this great literature, which includes among its achievements the incomparable work of Shakespeare.

This literature is so great in amount that the student who approaches the study without a guide is usually bewildered. He needs a history of English literature for the same reason that a traveler in England requires a guidebook. Such a history should do more than indicate where the choicest treasures of literature may be found; it should also show the interesting stages of development; it should emphasize some of the ideals that have made the Anglo-Saxons one of the most famous races in the world; and it should inspire a love for the reading of good literature.

No satisfactory definition of "literature" has ever been framed. Milton's conception of it was "something so written to after times, as they should not willingly let it die." Shakespeare's working definition of literature was something addressed not to after times but to an eternal present, and invested with such a touch of nature as to make the whole world kin. When he says of Duncan:—

"After life's fitful fever he sleeps well,"

he touches the feelings of mortals of all times and opens the door for imaginative activity, causing us to wonder why life should be a fitful fever, followed by an incommunicable sleep. Much of what we call literature would not survive the test of Shakespeare's definition; but true literature must appeal to imagination and feeling as well as to intellect. No mere definition can take the place of what may be called a feeling for literature. Such a feeling will develop as the best English poetry and prose: are sympathetically read. Wordsworth had this feeling when he defined the poets as those:—

"Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares."

The Mission of English Literature.—It is a pertinent question to ask, What has English literature to offer?

In the first place, to quote Ben Jonson:—

"The thirst that from the soul cloth rise

Doth ask a drink divine."

English literature is of preëminent worth in helping to supply that thirst. It brings us face to face with great ideals, which increase our sense of responsibility for the stewardship of life and tend to raise the level of our individual achievement. We have a heightened sense of the demands which life makes and a better comprehension of the "far-off divine event" toward which we move, after we have heard Swinburne's ringing call:—

" … this thing is God,

To be man with thy might,

To grow straight in the strength

of thy spirit, and live out thy life

as the light."

We feel prompted to act on the suggestion of—

" … him who sings

To one clear harp in divers tones,

That men may rise on striping-stones

Of their dead selves to higher things."[4]

In the second place, the various spiritual activities demanded for the interpretation of the best things in literature add to enjoyment. This pleasure, unlike that which arises from physical gratification, increases with age, and often becomes the principal source of entertainment as life advances. Shakespeare has Prospero say:—

" … my library

Was dukedom large enough."

The suggestions from great minds disclose vistas that we might never otherwise see. Browning truly says:—

" … we're made so that we love First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred tunes nor cared to see."

Sometimes it is only after reading Shakespeare that we can see—

" … winking Mary buds begin

To ope their golden eyes.

With everything that pretty is."

and only after spending some time in Wordsworth's company that the common objects of our daily life become invested with—

"The glory and the freshness of a dream."

In the third place, we should emphasize the fact that one great function of English literature is to bring deliverance to souls weary with routine, despondent, or suffering the stroke of some affliction. In order to transfigure the everyday duties of life, there is need of imagination, of a vision such as the poets give. Without such a vision the tasks of life are drudgery. The dramas of the poets bring relief and incite to nobler action.

"The soul hath need of prophet and redeemer.

Her outstretched wings against her prisoning bars

She waits for truth, and truth is with the dreamer

Persistent as the myriad light of stars."[5]

We need to listen to a poet like Browning, who—

"Never doubted clouds would break,

Never dreamed, tho' right were worsted, wrong would triumph.

Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,

Sleep to wake."

In the fourth place, the twentieth century is emphasizing the fact that neither happiness nor perpetuity of government is possible without the development of a spirit of service—a truth long since taught by English literature. We may learn this lesson from Beowulf, the first English epic, from Alfred the Great, from William Langland, and from Chaucer's Parish Priest. All Shakespeare's greatest and happiest characters, all the great failures of his dramas, are sermons on this text. In The Tempest he presents Ariel, tendering his service to Prospero:—

"All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come

To answer thy best pleasure."

Shakespeare delights to show Ferdinand winning Miranda through service, and Caliban remaining an abhorred creature because he detested service. Much of modern literature is an illuminated text on the glory of service. Coleridge voiced for all the coming years what has grown to be almost an elemental feeling to the English-speaking race:—

"He prayeth best who loveth best

All things both great and small."

The Home and Migrations of the Anglo-Saxon Race.—Just as there was a time when no English foot had touched the shores of America, so there was a period when the ancestors of the English lived far away from the British Isles. For nearly four hundred years prior to the coming of the Anglo-Saxons, Britain had been a Roman province. In 410 A.D. the Romans withdrew their legions from Britain to protect Rome herself against swarms of Teutonic invaders. About 449 a band of Teutons, called Jutes, left Denmark, landed on the Isle of Thanet (in the north-eastern part of Kent), and began the conquest of Britain. Warriors from the tribes of the Angles and the Saxons soon followed, and drove westward the original inhabitants, the Britons or Welsh, i.e. foreigners, as the Teutons styled the natives.

Before the invasion of Britain, the Teutons inhabited the central part of Europe as far south as the Rhine, a tract which in a large measure coincides with modern Germany. The Jutes, Angles, and Saxons were different tribes of Teutons. These ancestors of the English dwelt in Denmark and in the lands extending southward along the North Sea.

The Angles, an important Teutonic tribe, furnished the name for the

new home, which was called Angle-land, afterward shortened into

England. The language spoken by these tribes is generally called

Anglo-Saxon or Saxon.

The Training of the Race.—The climate is a potent factor in determining the vigor and characteristics of a race. Nature reared the Teuton like a wise but not indulgent parent. By every method known to her, she endeavored to render him fit to colonize and sway the world. Summer paid him but a brief visit. His companions were the frost, the fluttering snowflake, the stinging hail. For music, instead of the soft notes of a shepherd's pipe under blue Italian or Grecian skies, he listened to the north wind whistling among the bare branches, or to the roar of an angry northern sea upon the bleak coast.

The feeble could not withstand the rigor of such a climate, in the absence of the comforts of civilization. Only the strongest in each generation survived; and these transmitted to their children increasing vigor. Warfare was incessant not only with nature but also with the surrounding tribes. Nature kept the Teuton in such a school until he seemed fit to colonize the world and to produce a literature that would appeal to humanity in every age.

The Early Teutonic Religion.—In the early days on the continent, before the Teuton had learned of Christianity, his religious beliefs received their most pronounced coloring from the rigors of his northern climate, from the Frost Giants, the personified forces of evil, with whom he battled. The kindly, life-bringing spring and summer, which seemed to him earth's redeeming divinity, were soon slain by the arrows that came from the winter's quivers. Not even Thor, the wielder of the thunderbolt, nor Woden, the All-Father, delayed the inevitable hour when the dusk of winter came, when the voice of Baldur could no longer be heard awaking earth to a new life. The approach of the "twilight of the gods," the Götterdämmerung, was a stern reality to the Teuton.

[Illustration: WODEN.]

Although instinct with gloomy fatalism, this religion taught bravery. None but the brave were invited to Valhalla to become Woden's guest. The brave man might perish, but even then he won victory; for he was invited to sit with heroes at the table of the gods. "None but the brave deserves the fair," is merely a modern softened rendering of the old spirit.

The Christian religion, which was brought to the Teuton after he had come to England, found him already cast in a semi-heroic mold. But before he could proceed on his matchless career of world conquest, before he could produce a Shakespeare and plant his flag in the sunshine of every land, it was necessary for this new faith to develop in him the belief that a man of high ideals, working in unison with the divinity that shapes his end, may rise superior to fate and be given the strength to overcome the powers of evil and to mold the world to his will. The intensity of this faith, swaying an energetic race naturally fitted to respond to the great moral forces of the universe, has enabled the Anglo-Saxon to produce the world's greatest literature, to evolve the best government for developing human capabilities, and to make the whole world feel the effect of his ideals and force of character. At the close of the nineteenth century, a French philosopher wrote a book entitled Anglo-Saxon Superiority, In What Does it Consist? His answer was, "In self-reliance and in the happiness found in surmounting the material and moral difficulties of life." A study of the literature in which the ideals of the race are most artistically and effectively embodied will lead to much the same conclusion.

The History of Anglo-Saxon England.—The first task of the Anglo-Saxons after settling in England was to subdue the British, the race that has given King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table to English literature. By 600 A.D., after a century and a half of struggle, the Anglo-Saxons had probably occupied about half of England.

They did not build on the civilization that Rome had left when she withdrew in 410, but destroyed the towns and lived in the country. The typical Englishman still loves to dwell in a country home. The work of Anglo-Saxon England consisted chiefly in tilling the soil and in fighting.

The year 597 marks an especially important date, the coming of St.

Augustine, who brought the Christian faith to the Anglo-Saxons.

Education, literature, and art followed finding their home in the

monasteries.

For nearly 400 years after coming to England, the different tribes were not united under one ruler. Not until 830 did Egbert, king of the West Saxons, become overlord of England. Before and after this time, the Danes repeatedly plundered the land. They finally settled in the eastern part above the Thames. Alfred (849–900), the greatest of Anglo-Saxon rulers, temporarily checked them, but in the latter part of the tenth century they were more troublesome, and in 1017 they made Canute, the Dane, king of England. Fortunately the Danes were of the same race, and they easily amalgamated with the Saxons.

These invasions wasted the energies of England during more than two centuries, but this long period of struggle brought little change to the institutions or manner of life in Anglo-Saxon England. The witan, or assembly of wise men, the forerunner of the present English parliament, met in 1066 and chose Harold, the last Anglo-Saxon king.

During these six hundred rears, the Anglo-Saxons conquered the British, accepted Christianity, fought the Danes, finally amalgamating with them, brought to England a lasting representative type of government, established the fundamental customs of the race, surpassed all contemporary western European peoples in the production of literature, and were ready to receive fresh impetus from the Normans in 1066.

The Anglo-Saxon Language.—Our oldest English literature is written in the language spoken by the Angles and the Saxons. This at first sight looks like a strange tongue to one conversant with modern English only; but the language that we employ to-day has the framework, the bone and sinew, of the earlier tongue. Modern English is no more unlike Anglo-Saxon than a bearded man is unlike his former childish self. A few examples will show the likeness and the difference. "The noble queen" would in Anglo-Saxon be s=eo aeðele cw=en; "the noble queen's," ð=aere aeðelan cw=ene. S=eo is the nominative feminine singular, ð=aere the genitive, of the definite article. The adjective and the noun also change their forms with the varying cases. In its inflections, Anglo-Saxon resembles its sister language, the modern German.

After the first feeling of strangeness has passed away, it is easy to recognize many of the old words. Take, for instance, this from Beowulf:—

" … ð=y h=e ðone f=eond ofercw=om, gehn=aegde helle g=ast."

Here are eight words, apparently strange, but even a novice soon recognizes five of them: h=e, f=eond (fiend), ofercw=om (overcame), helle (hell), g=ast (ghost). The word ðone, strange as it looks, is merely the article "the."

… therefore he overcame the fiend,

Subdued the ghost of hell.

Let us take from the same poem another passage, containing the famous simile:—

" … l=eoht inne st=od, efne sw=a of hefene h=adre sc=ineð rodores candel."

Of these eleven words, seven may be recognized: l=eoht (light), inne (in), st=od (stood), of, hefene (heaven),sc=ineð (shineth), candel (candle).

… a light stood within,

Even so from heaven serenely shineth

The firmament's candle.

Some prefer to use "Old English" in place of "Anglo-Saxon" in order to emphasize the continuity of the development of the language. It is, however, sometimes convenient to employ different terms for different periods of development of the same entity. We do not insist on calling a man a "grown boy," although there may be no absolute line of demarcation between boy and man.

Earliest Anglo-Saxon Literature.—As with the Greeks and Romans, so with the Teutons, poetry afforded the first literary outlet for the feelings. The first productions were handed down by memory. Poetry is easily memorized and naturally lends itself to singing and musical accompaniment. Under such circumstances, even prose would speedily fall into metrical form. Poetry is, furthermore, the most suitable vehicle of expression for the emotions. The ancients, unlike modern writers, seldom undertook to make literature unless they felt so deeply that silence was impossible.

The Form of Anglo-Saxon Poetry.—Each line is divided Into two parts by a major pause. Because each of these parts was often printed as a complete line in old texts, Beowulf has sometimes been called a poem of 6368 lines, although it has but 3184.

A striking characteristic of Anglo-Saxon poetry is consonantal alliteration; that is, the repetition of the same consonant at the beginning of words in the same line:—

"Grendel gongan; Godes yrre baer."

Grendel going; God's anger bare.

The usual type of Anglo-Saxon poetry has two alliterations in the first half of the line and one in the second. The lines vary considerably in the number of syllables. The line from Beowulf quoted just above has nine syllables. The following line from the same poem has eleven:—

"Flota f=amig-heals, fugle gel=icost."

The floater foamy-necked, to a fowl most like.

This line, also from Beowulf has eight syllables:—

"N=ipende niht, and norðan wind."

Noisome night, and northern wind.

Vowel alliteration is less common. Where this is employed, the vowels are generally different, as is shown in the principal words of the following line:—

"On =ead, on =aeht, on eorcan st=an."

On wealth, on goods, on precious stone.

End rime is uncommon, but we must beware of thinking that there is no rhythm, for that is a pronounced characteristic.

Anglo-Saxon verse was intended to be sung, and hence rhythm and accent or stress are important. Stress and the length of the line are varied; but we usually find that the four most important words, two in each half of the line, are stressed on their most important syllable. Alliteration usually shows where to place three stresses. A fourth stress generally falls on a word presenting an emphatic idea near the end of the line.

[Illustration: EXETER CATHEDRAL.]

The Manuscripts that have handed down Anglo-Saxon Literature.—The earliest Anglo-Saxon poetry was transmitted by the memories of men. Finally, with the slow growth of learning, a few acquired the art of writing, and transcribed on parchment a small portion of the current songs. The introduction of Christianity ushered in prose translations and a few original compositions, which were taken down on parchment and kept in the monasteries.

The study of Anglo-Saxon literature is comparatively recent, for its treasures have not been long accessible. Its most famous poem, Beowulf, was not printed until the dawn of the nineteenth century. In 1822 Dr. Blume, a German professor of law, happened to find in a monastery at Vercelli, Italy, a large volume of Anglo-Saxon manuscript, containing a number of fine poems and twenty-two sermons. This is now known as the Vercelli Book. No one knows how it happened to reach Italy. Another large parchment volume of poems and miscellany was deposited by Bishop Leofric at the cathedral of Exeter in Devonshire, about 1050 A.D. This collection, one of the prized treasures of that cathedral, is now called the Exeter Book.

Many valuable manuscripts were destroyed at the dissolution of the monasteries in the time of Henry VIII., between 1535 and 1540. John Bale, a contemporary writer, says that "those who purchased the monasteries reserved the books, some to scour their candlesticks, some to rub their boots, some they sold to the grocers and soap sellers, and some they sent over sea to the bookbinders, not in small numbers, but at times whole ships full, to the wonder of foreign nations."

The Anglo-Saxon Scop and Gleeman.—Our earliest poetry was made current and kept fresh in memory by the singers. The kings and nobles often attached to them a scop, or maker of verses. When the warriors, after some victorious battle, were feasting at their long tables, the banquet was not complete without the songs of the scop. While the warriors ate the flesh of boar and deer, and warmed their blood with horns of foaming ale, the scop, standing where the blaze from a pile of logs disclosed to him the grizzly features of the men, sang his most stirring songs, often accompanying them with the music of a rude harp. As the feasters roused his enthusiasm with their applause, he would sometimes indulge in an outburst of eloquent extempore song. Not infrequently the imagination of some king or noble would be fired, and he would sing of his own great deeds.

We read in Beowulf that in Hrothgar's famous hall—

" … ð=aer was hearpan sw=eg, swutol sang scopes."

… there was sound of harp

Loud the singing of the scop.

In addition to the scop, who was more or less permanently attached to the royal court or hall of a noble, there was a craft of gleemen who roved from hall to hall. In the song of Widsið we catch a glimpse of the life of a gleeman:—

"Sw=a scriðende gesceapum hweorfað

gl=eomen gumena geond grunda fela."

Thus roving, with shapéd songs there wander

The gleemen of the people through many lands.

The scop was an originator of poetry, the gleeman more often a mere repeater, although this distinction in the use of the terms was not observed in later times.

The Songs of Scop and Gleeman.—The subject matter of these songs was suggested by the most common experiences of the time. These were with war, the sea, and death.

[Illustration: ANGLO-SAXON GLEEMAN. From the tapestry designed by H.A. Bone.]

The oldest Anglo-Saxon song known, which is called Widsið or the Far Traveler, has been preserved in the Exeter Book. This song was probably composed in the older Angle-land on the continent and brought to England in the memories of the singers. The poem is an account of the wanderings of a gleeman over a great part of Europe. Such a song will mean little to us unless we can imaginatively represent the circumstances under which it was sung, the long hall with its tables of feasting, drinking warriors, the firelight throwing weird shadows among the smoky rafters. The imagination of the warriors would be roused as similar experiences of their own were suggested by these lines in Widsið's song:—

"Ful oft of ð=am h=eape hw=inende fl=eag

giellende g=ar on grome ð=eode."

Full oft from that host hissing flew

The whistling spear on the fierce folk.

The gleeman ends this song with two thoughts characteristic of the poets of the Saxon race. He shows his love fur noble deeds, and he next thinks of the shortness of life, as he sings:—

"In mortal court his deeds are not unsung,

Such as a noble man mill show to men,

Till all doth flit away, both life and light."

A greater scop, looking at life through Saxon eyes, sings:—

"We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep."[6]

The scop in the song called The Wanderer (Exeter Book) tells how fleeting are riches, friend, kinsman, maiden—all the "earth-stead," and he also makes us think of Shakespeare's "insubstantial pageant faded" which leaves "not a rack behind."

Another old song, also found in the Exeter Book, is the Seafarer. We must imagine the scop recalling vivid experiences to our early ancestors with this song of the sea:—

"Hail flew in hard showers.

And nothing I heard

But the wrath of the waters,

The icy-cold way

At times the swan's song;

In the scream of the gannet

I sought for my joy,

In the moan of the sea whelp

For laughter of men,

In the song of the sea-mew

For drinking of mead."[7]

To show that love of the sea yet remains one of the characteristics of English poetry, we may quote by way of comparison a song sung more than a thousand years later, in Victoria's reign:—

"The wind is as iron that rings,

The foam heads loosen and flee;

It swells and welters and swings,

The pulse of the tide of the sea.

Let the wind shake our flag like a feather,

Like the plumes of the foam of the sea!

* * * * *

In the teeth of the hard glad a weather,

In the blown wet face of the sea."[8]

Kipling in A Song of the English says of the sea:—

" … there's never a wave of all her waves

But marks our English dead."

Another song from the Exeter Book is called The Fortunes of Men. It gives vivid pictures of certain phases of life among the Anglo-Saxons:—

"One shall sharp hunger slay;

One shall the storms beat down;

One be destroyed by darts,

One die in war.

Orre shall live losing

The light of his eyes,

Feel blindly with his fingers;

And one lame of foot.

With sinew-wound wearily

Wasteth away.

Musing and mourning;

With death in his mind.

* * * * *

One shall die by the dagger,

In wrath, drenched with ale,

Wild through the wine, on the mead bench

Too swift with his words

Too swift with his words;

Shall the wretched one lose."[9]

The songs that we have noted, together with Beowulf, the greatest of them all, will give a fair idea of scopic poetry.