"Beowulf" is the epic of our old English period. An epic is an heroic poem. In "Beowulf" the story of Beowulf's great deeds—such as his struggle with Grendel and Grendel's mother—and of his death is told. Probably it was sung before the fifth century, when the English conquered Britain, for England itself is not mentioned in this wonderful poem. Indeed, the country described is that of the Goths of Sweden and of the Danes. Your geography will show you where Sweden and Denmark are. When the English forefathers came to England they brought this poem with them, perhaps in the form of short poems which were woven together by a Christian Northumbrian poet in the eighth century or thereabouts.
It will be interesting to see how this wild moorland, over which Grendel stalked and over which the dreadful dragon dragged his length, became, with the cultivation of the land and advancing civilization, the gentle and beautiful dwelling of the fairies. The fairies will not live where it is too wild.
Much is to be learned from this epic of the customs and the manners of the men who came to Britain and conquered it. We can see these people as they lived in their sea-circled settlements, the ships they used to sail upon the sea, how their villages looked, and the boys and girls and grown-ups in them; the rocks and hills and ocean waves that made up their out-of-door world; the good times they had; their games and amusements. We come to know the respect that was given to their women; we see the bravery of the men in facing death, and we hear the songs they sang.
"Beowulf" is a great poem—English literature knows no poem that is more sacred to it—but it is a sorrowful poem, too. These people believed in Fate, for Christ had not yet been brought to them with His message of love and peace and joy. English poetry to-day is much more joyous—because it is Christian poetry—than it ever could have been if England had remained a heathen land. Yet English poetry still has much in common with "Beowulf," in love of the sea and worship of nature, and a strange sense of Fate.
But we must close this door over which is written Beowulf, for the Great Palace is full of many doors and many stories, and we have only just begun our journey from golden door to golden door.
[II]
WELSH MAGIC
On the other side of most of the golden doors through which we shall pass, our own tongue, English, is spoken. Yet in this wonderful palace, full of beautiful thoughts and beautiful expression, there are two doors which when thrown open we may enter, but where our English would not be understood. They both admit us to the poems and prose of families of the same race—a race called Celtic. Over one door of this family, however, is written Cymric, and all that is Cymric is written and spoken in Welsh. On the other door is Gaelic, and all that is Gaelic is Irish and Scotch. And the Great Palace of English Literature, with its innumerable golden doors, would not be at all the same palace if it were not for these two little doors, for out of them has come much that is best in poetry and prose.
The Welsh were already in Britain when the so-called "English" landed on the island, and these English, after one hundred and fifty years, succeeded in driving the Welsh, or Cymru, back to the mountains and coast on the west of the island. There they lived among the mountains, holding fast to their customs and to their songs and poetry. And by and by, when it was time for this miracle to happen, the little golden door over which was written Cymric, or Welsh, opened, and out of it there passed one of the most beautiful story-cycles the world has ever known, the tales about King Arthur. But of this great story we shall hear later.