INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY OF ENGLISH FICTION. I. OLD ENGLISH STORY-TELLERS. The It is customary to date the rise of the English novel at about the middle of the eighteenth century. Between the years 1740 and 1750 it was, indeed, that Richardson and Fielding began to acquaint a surprised and delighted circle of English readers with what appeared to be a new departure in literary creation. Now the novel, as a specific art form, is distinctively a picture of life in its actual experiences, grave or gay, familiar or extraordinary; it is always the presentation of character that is or has been or might be real; and if we think of the novel in this technical and restricted sense, as merely the plain story of the common life of every day, or if we regard the form the story then assumed, the garb it then adopted with the fashion of the times, the assignment of its origin to this period is approximately correct. But it is not so much the English novel as English fiction which we have chosen for our study; and as the first essential quality of fiction, whether in the novel or the romance, is the narrative, the story, it is to a far earlier period that we have to look for origins. Indeed it is with the whole long line of English story-tellers that we have to deal, the story-tellers and their heritage, when we undertake to trace the novel back to its earliest sources. The line is unbroken, the craft in this respect is one, whether we look for its beginnings in the eighteenth century or in the eighth. The Gleemen. Were our old English ancestors story-loving, story-telling people? Certainly they were, like all the Keltic and Teutonic races from whom they inherited or with whom they neighbored. Jutes, Angles, Saxons, on the island as on the continent, had their gleemen, who could improvise as well as sing, who caught the story of popular heroes from the people's lips, their deeds that demonstrated not only strength of body but greatness of soul, their turns of fate,— themes which fascinated rude audiences in those rough days, as does the story of Lear the higher culture of the present. They improvised and added and arranged for that was the province and the privilege of their art—until they wove a tale that held the warriors spell-bound, or brought them to their feet with the jangling of iron shirts of mail, and the ringing of steel on steel, and the hoarse shouting of human voices. It is not difficult to conjure up what must have been an ordinary scene: the long hall, its oaken walls well hung with skins of wolf and fox and bear, the armor glittering ruddy, shields dented by the blows of hostile swords as well as by the friendly poundings of the blacksmith's hammer, bows and arrows, spears for hurling, coats of mail. How the light would dart and sparkle on all this metal ornament, the light that flashed and flickered as the great fire crackled and roared upon the hearthstone ! The men — huge fellows, heroic in limb and muscle, rough and boisterous but cheery, good-humored among friends and kinsfolk — sit upon the benches, while they eat noisily of the hearty meal, and empty big horns of foaming ale, until possibly the flames that sparkle among the fir-boughs, and gleam red as blood from the trophies on the hall-side, seek another trysting-place, and shine bright and scorching in fiery glances which shoot from eyes now full of passion, but for only a moment: the earl, the hall-lord, speaks the haughty word of quick command; the roar of voices is hushed, the rattle of the tables ceases, the boasting, the rough play stop. Again the master of the household speaks from his seat of honor on the dais, where, perhaps, his lady sits beside him. Now his tone is gentle; and at his word the gleeman, striking in personal appearance as in garb, advances bold and confident from the throng, and takes the place assigned him: he tunes his harp, and begins his song. Perhaps it was the Victory of King Aethelstan that he sang, or the Song of the Fight at Maldon. Very likely, if it were in the time of the Edmunds and Edwards and Harolds who reigned just before the Conquest. But if it was at an earlier day, possibly when good King Alfred reigned, and fought the Danes, it is more likely to have been a passage from the great epic of "Beowulf,” the national poem which some Anglian singer generations before had brought in its germ from the old home on the bleak northern coast, when the Angles joined their kinsfolk in the historic movement westward, "Beowulf," the oldest of English and Teutonic tales extant, which we know only in its late revision of the ninth century, as we suppose, although songs of Beowulf had been sung two centuries earlier than that, based upon the adventures of a thane who had lived many generations before this last-named date, and who for his exploits had been made the hero of a myth. What is this song that the gleeman sang, this tale which the Anglo-Saxon warriors so loved to hear? The Story of Beowulf. Hrothgar the Dane, far famed for his victories and for his justice and generosity no less, grown old in years, builds for his men a great mead-hall. There the gray-haired chieftain assembles his vassals for feasting and mirth; but an unheard-of horror comes upon Heorot, great hall of Hrothgar. Out from the fen-land, when night falls, stealthily creeps the bog monster, Grendel; enters the new house where the earls after carousal lie asleep on the benches. One and another and another of Hrothgar's warriors is devoured by the monster; night after night Grendel devastates the mead-hall. No one of Hrothgar's men is brave enough, is strong enough to cope with the demon. Heorot is deserted; and the old chief sits gloomily in his former home to mourn in silence the loss of men and of honor. Up in the Northland Hygelac's thane, Beowulf, young, bold, robust, already famous for a daring feat in swimming, and destined to be Hygelac's heir and successor, hears of Hrothgar's plight and of Grendel. Soon, with a band of chosen men, Beowulf travels southward, follows the whale-path, the swan-road, until he comes to Hrothgar's kingdom. The coast-guard sees the warriors land, and challenges their bold front. Beowulf is led to Hrothgar, and tells his purpose to kill the monster and redeem the land. Gladly does the Dane listen, and generous welcome does he make for the Northmen. Night comes; and once more is Heorot thrown open; the hearth is ablaze; again do the thanes hold revel in the great hall of Hrothgar. Wassail is drunk, stories are told, bold boasts made; the walls re-echo the warriors' shouts. Hardly do they die away, and scarcely have the revellers lost themselves in slumber on the benches, when the fearful fen-dragon approaches; he has heard the noise of feasting from afar, and now the black monster steals toward the hall, laughing as he thinks of his prey. The fire has died out, and all is darkness. One of Hrothgar's men is seized and devoured. Raging, with lust for flesh aroused, Grendel grasps another in his claws. But it is the hero whom the bogmonster has unwittingly caught; and now Beowulf, roused for vengeance, starts up to battle with Grendel. Unarmed the hero grapples with the enemy. The hall sways with the shock of the fighting. He clutches Grendel by the wrist; never had the monster felt a grasp like that. The muscles ache, the cords of the demon's arm are snapping, the shoulder tears itself from the socket, the weary marsh-dweller gropes his way blindly forth, and weakly wends toward his foul home in the swampland. Grendel is wounded to the death. Beowulf rests after victory, and shows the hideous claw, his war-trophy, to the Danes. Great joy comes to Hrothgar with the dawn; but with the night woe returns. Grendel's mother issues from the death-breeding marshes, and invades the hall of Heorot. Once more there is wailing among the thanes; once more sorrow rests on Hrothgar's house; but once again the hero girds himself for battle. With his faithful men Beowulf enters the fatal fen-land; he stands upon the shore of the mist-covered inlet where the marsh-demons breed. Strange and loathsome shapes appear, half shrouded in the fog; the nickers and the water-sprites laugh exultant, with monstrous eyes glaring at the hero from the cloudy waves of the mere. Here Beowulf equips himself, puts on his best corselet, grasps the strongest brand; then he enters the dark water, presses down through the flood, beset by the sea-monsters, bruised by their sharp tusks, undaunted, down, down to the dwelling of Grendel and Grendel's mother: a day's journey is it for the hero before he reaches the abode of the demon. Meanwhile his men keep watch and ward above: gloom settles on them; doubt fills their hearts with dread. The day drags by: no sight of their hero. Still they wait, and silent, stare on the sea. Now a commotion stirs the thick water; the surface boils under the mists; blood rolls up red through the foam; and Beowulf's men yield to grief and despair. But grief gives place to joy, sorrow to gladness. The hero emerges from the horrible sea-flood, bringing news of the she-demon's slaughter and a new trophy, Grendel's head: this it was that sent the red blood welling up through the mere-flood when Beowulf smote the dead monster's body. Loud is the rejoicing; triumphantly do the Northmen give the Danes warning of their home-coming. Rich are the gifts bestowed by Hrothgar; great is the feasting. Then Beowulf's men think of the home-land; the slippery searover is launched, the warriors embark with their presents, and Beowulf says farewell to Hrothgar, and steers north to Hygelac's land. Beowulf achieves another adventure. Now he is old: as Hygelac's successor, fifty winters he has ruled well and wisely, and his land has prospered; but an enemy now destroys his men, and by night the land is laid waste. This time it is a fire-drake with which Beowulf must battle; and the hero goes forth, dauntless as ever, to meet the monster. But now his men prove cowards; the hero is left alone to fight with the dragon, - alone but for Wiglaf, who stands behind his lord's shield and helps as - |
