Stories from Old English Poetry

Front matter

PREFACE.

TO THE GENTLE READER.

Something over twenty years ago, in a dusty garret filled with trunks, boxes, old articles of furniture, and all the other lumber in which our country garrets abound, a little girl was spending a rainy morning. I remember the child very well. She was just about eight years old, and had tangled masses of curly yellow hair, and big eyes always hungry for “something to read.” For in those days—two or three years more than twenty,—how very long ago that is!—there were not so many children’s books as now. No children’s magazines except “Old Merry’s Museum,” and very few of the beautiful books in shining covers which are now written and printed expressly for the young folks.

Geoffrey Chaucer

STORIES FROM OLD ENGLISH POETRY.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER.

YOU have heard of Dr. Samuel Johnson, have you not? He who made a great English dictionary, who was famous for saying wise things, and was in his way a very great man. One of his sayings was, that a poet ought to know everything and to have seen everything. And this seems to be proved true by the fact that most of the really wonderful poets have been men of very wide experience in life, or else they observed so closely and were gifted with such clear insight, that all things of which they wrote were as real to them as if they were a part of them.

So Shakespeare has been thought to be a school-teacher, a lawyer, a doctor, a soldier, as well as an actor and manager of a theatre. And Chaucer, about whom I wish to tell you, has been thought just such another Jack-at-all-trades.

Geoffrey Chaucer, who is called the “Father of English poetry,”—think what a title that is to wear for four centuries and a half!—was born in London in 1328—nearly two hundred and forty years before Shakespeare, and over one hundred and fifty years before Columbus discovered this Continent. It is so long ago that all things about him are uncertain, except that he was a great poet. That will stand, I hope, while the English language lasts. Like Shakespeare, he is said to have studied law, and been a soldier, but the first we really know of him he is a courtier in the palace of King Edward III.

He was in great favor there, and a daily pitcher of wine used to be sent him from the king’s own table,—a gift which was afterwards changed into a pension. So from this mark of the king’s favor he has sometimes been called the first poet-laureate of England.

Several times Edward sent him to the Continent on political errands, and there he had many new opportunities to learn and observe things.

During Edward’s reign he became attached to John of Gaunt,—whom Shakespeare calls “Time-honored Lancaster,”—and, by his advice, the poet married a lady of Hainault, a province in Belgium. After Chaucer’s marriage, John of Gaunt himself married an older sister of the same family. So the poet and his patron were brothers-in-law.

After Edward came Richard II., and in his reign were hot times. Wyclyfe, the great preacher, who fought stoutly against the bad and ignorant priests, and tried hard to make the Church better, began his career. John of Gaunt favored this great reformer, and so Chaucer did also. So the poet got in disgrace with the court. He fled to Hainault, where his wife’s family lived, and was very kind to his fellow-countrymen there, who were also obliged to flee on account of these quarrels about religion. Wyclyfe was a very noble, fearless man, and it is one of the best things we know of Chaucer that he was on his side.

After a while he came back to England—a little too soon, however, for he was arrested and stripped of his revenue. Then he went to live in retirement on the estate of John of Gaunt, and here, when nearly sixty, he wrote “The Canterbury Tales,” his greatest work.

These were the days of romance, of crusades, and tourneys, and Chaucer had plenty of material for stories. And at his ripe age he brought ripe learning and ripe experience to his work.

After a while Henry Bolingbroke, the son of John of Gaunt, became king. This was the “cankered Bolingbroke,” whom Hotspur quarreled with. Through his accession to the throne Chaucer came into the sunshine of royal favor again. But he was quite an old man at this time. The last we find of him he hired a house in the garden of Westminster Abbey, in which he lived till his death. Then he was buried in the great Abbey, the very first of a long line of poets who sleep there, in what is called the “Poets’ Corner” of the grand old church.

Chaucer is said to have been very handsome, and I fancy it is true, since his beautiful works must have made him beautiful. But the only description I find of him does not read very flatteringly. This is it:—

“His stature was not very tall; Lean he was, his legs were small; Hosed with a stock of red, A buttoned bonnet on his head.”

His poetry is old-fashioned now—much of it is unfit to read. But in many of his verses, especially when he describes nature, we seem to see the daisy or the dewy grass, or smell the odor of new-mown hay in country pastures, and hear the cattle lowing, and feel the fresh air blowing from woods and fields.

The stories which I shall tell you from Chaucer, are all taken from “The Canterbury Tales.” Each story is supposed to be related by one of a party of travellers who are journeying together. The one which follows is told by a knight, and is the story of the “Two Noble Kinsmen.”

The Two Noble Kinsmen

THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN.

(FROM THE KNIGHT’S TALE, BY CHAUCER.)

After Theseus, duke of Athens, had married Hypolita, the fair and brave queen of the Amazons, all Greece dwelt for a time in peace and happiness. Hypolita herself shone in peace no less than in war, and was a noble ornament in the palace of the duke.

But Theseus was not a warrior to remain long idle. Very shortly after he had safely bestowed on his queen the half of his royal throne, chivalry called him to Thebes to avenge the wrongs some fair women had suffered at the hands of the Theban king. And after devastating that city, and slaying King Creon in honorable battle, the duke came back to Greece, again a conqueror.

Then the merry-making that was seen in Athens cannot now be told; nor how the queen Hypolita proudly greeted her victorious lord—nor how the ladies of the court vied to do him honor. All this you must fancy while you hear of sadder things.

In Thebes had lived two noble kinsmen, cous by birth, named Palamon and Arcite. These two, covered with wounds on the battle-field, had Theseus taken prisoner, and nursing their hurts carefully, had cured them, so they were able to be brought to Athens in the train of the conqueror. Now in one prison were the two shut up together to bewail the cruel stars which had spared their lives only that they might live in such misery.

The prison tower in which they were kept, overlooked the garden of the palace. Through the bars the sunlight slanted in, and the songs of the birds outside mocked them with thoughts of freedom. Sometimes, by standing on tiptoe, they caught glimpses of the garden paths, and saw where the many colored flowers blossomed below.

One beautiful May morning, sweet Lady Emelie, the youngest sister of Hypolita, who was like the queen in fairness as the soft evening star is like the full-orbed moon, must needs go walking in this very garden to pick flowers for a Mayday wreath. Herself fairer than May, and sweeter than the roses, which were glad to borrow their red from her cheeks, she sang, as she wove her garland, a little song which fell like a bird’s from her fair throat.

While she sang thus, Palamon, straining to catch a glimpse of the sun through his prison

bars, beheld her in the garden path. At that moment he uttered a cry as if some sharp pain had stabbed him suddenly.

“What ails thee, dear cousin?” asked Arcite, coming hurriedly to his side.

“Indeed I know not if I dream, but something walks in the garden below; whether she is maid or a goddess I cannot tell, but I think none but Venus could so walk, or look thus.”

Then, sinking on his knees, Palamon prayed,—“Sweet goddess (if it be indeed thy divine self I have seen), help us, thy servants, to escape these prison bars and find a way out of our captivity.”

Burning with curiosity, Arcite meanwhile raised himself to the gratings and beheld Emelie. But his eye, less reverent than Palamon’s, knew her at once for a mortal like himself.

“O lovely maiden,” he cried piteously, “either I must have thy grace, or I am dead henceforth. All my life and all the deeds that my knighthood may yet be found worthy of, I lay at thy feet.”

At this Palamon started up in anger.

“What dost thou say, Arcite?” he questioned. “The lady is my love. I saw her first.”

“What of that?” rejoined Arcite, “Are not my eyes free to love her too?”

cried Palamon, fiercely.

said Arcite;

On this the quarrel between these two cousins, who had been so dear to each other that no manly friendship had ever exceeded theirs, became so hot, that, if it had not been for their unarmed condition, they would have fought till one was killed. And all the time the sweet Lady Emelie walked and sang in the garden below, and heard nothing and dreamed not of the two knights who quarreled for her sweet sake over her head.

From this time forth, day after day, month after month, the two cousins had no other hope than to espy Emelie in the garden under their prison tower. And still they contended with each other which had the right to love her, and each claimed her as his own lady.

Judge how mad this strife was, when both were locked in walls so thick that no hope of escape could pierce them. But fortune changed a little for one of the kinsmen. A noble duke, who was a friend to Theseus, had known and loved Arcite in Thebes. He interceded for his release, and after a time Theseus let him go, on condition that he should instantly leave Athens, and never again set foot there on pain of death. Then it was hard to tell which of the two kinsmen made the most moan,—Arcite, that he must quit the prison where he might still behold Emelie, and depart her country forever, or Palamon, that he must remain alone behind his bars while his cousin went free.

Arcite left Athens and went straight to Thebes. But now Thebes was a prison, and liberty was bondage, because he was shut out from the sight of Emelie. He grieved so over the thought that he might never see her more, that his form became wasted, his eyes sunken and haggard, his locks hung disheveled, and his whole countenance was changed. In this plight it occurred to him that he was so altered that no one would recognize him if he should go to Athens in some other guise, and by that means see Emelie again.

So he put off his knightly attire, and wearing the coarser dress of a squire, he went to Athens. Fortune so favored him that he got a place in the duke’s palace, and had leave to attend Emelie. He was known as Philostrate, and because his manners and bearing were so far above his feigned condition, he became famed throughout all the court, and at length attracted the notice of Theseus. Yet for all this he dared not reveal himself nor own his love to Emelie, lest he should instantly be put to death.

And now it happened that, after many trials, Palamon escaped from prison. He determined to go at once to Thebes, and, if possible, stir up his friends to war against Theseus, that in this way he might force him to bestow Emelie on him as his wife. Just outside the city of Athens was a wood where Arcite was wont to walk and lament the cruel fate which placed him so near Emelie as her serving-man, while it forbade him to speak to her as a true knight who loved her. On the very eve that Palamon had escaped, he walked by himself in this wood and recounted aloud the sighs he had breathed, the pangs he had suffered, and all that had befallen him since his return to Athens. Now in this very spot Palamon was hiding to wait for the next day’s dawn to go on his journey, and from a leafy covert he heard all Arcite’s complaints. At the close of his speech he suddenly burst out upon him.

he cried.

At this Arcite answered more mildly,—

Arcite kept his word in every point, and next day at early dawn he was in the wood with two sets of armor, and swords to match them. Palamon awaited him eagerly, and with all courtesy each helped the other buckle on his harness and make ready for the affray. Soon the clashing of their swords smote sparks of fire so thick that they shone in the green wood like myriads of fire-flies.

Suddenly, in the middle of their deadly sport, the knights heard the sharp bay of hounds, the blast of the horns, the rush of many steeds; and, looking up, they saw themselves surrounded by a royal hunting party. There was the noble Duke Theseus, and by his side Hypolita, with snow-white falcon on her wrist, while foremost among the ladies of the court, all clad in green, rode Emelie, the unconscious cause of all this strife.

When the duke demanded the reason of this affray, and their drawn weapons, there was no other way for the knights than to confess the truth, and tell the cause of their quarrel. This Palamon did, not hiding that he had broken loose from his strong prison, and accusing Arcite of having forsworn himself in returning to Athens to live as a menial in the palace of the duke.

When all this story had been told, the listeners were much moved. The hardy queen, more used to battles than to tears, wept for very womanhood; and Emelie, rosy with blushes that these two knights should so boldly avow their love for her, must needs cool the burning of her cheeks with overrunning crystal tears.

And the duke, while all cried out upon him to be merciful, at length gave this as his decree.

First, he exacted of the two kinsmen that they should promise never more to make war on his country, nor to plot any mischief against him; and when they had pledged this, he said,—“Now, though Emelie be a worthy match for any knight in Christendom, yet she cannot marry both, be your deserts equally great. Therefore ye shall abide the test of honorable combat. In one year’s time, at Athens here, we will hold a tourney, at which both Palamon and Arcite, with each a hundred bravest knights, shall enter the lists, and he who comes off conqueror, shal wed the lady. The other must do as he best can.”

To this, with many praises of the duke’s goodness, all assented.

Now, all the year Theseus was building the lists for the tournament. Never since the world began, were there such brave preparations. The field was made a circle, and walled about with stone. At three points in the walls a fair temple was built. One of pure marble, in honor of Venus, queen of Love and Beauty. The second, shining with gold, was to Mars, god of war. The third, of red and white coral, beautiful beyond compare, was dedicated to Diana, at whose altar sweet Emelie worshipped.

When the year was at an end, into Athens came Palamon with his hundred knights, each the flower of chivalry. First came the brave Lycurgus, of Thrace, riding in his golden chariot, drawn by four milk-white bulls. His long black hair streamed over his shoulders, and on his head he wore a heavy crown of gold, gleaming with jewels. Beside his car walked ten huge white mastiffs, each nearly as large as a steer, close muzzled to their very throats.

At the same hour, through another gate of the city, entered Arcite. With him came Emetrius, king of Ind, leading his hundred warriors.

Emetrius bestrode a horse whose trappings were all of gold. His cloak also was cloth of gold, embroidered closely with great pearls, and a little mantle over his shoulder shone like a flame, so thick it was sown with fire-red rubies. Over his crisp curls of bright brown he wore a green laurel wreath, and his blue eyes glittered like steel, in his eagerness for the affray.

The morning dawned brightly,—such another May morning as that in which Palamon and Arcite first saw the Lady Emelie walking in the garden beside their prison walls. Two hours before day broke, Palamon had risen and gone into the Temple of Venus, and laid gifts on her altars. And after he had asked her aid, the goddess had smiled on him, and nodded in answer to his supplications. Emelie, too, as was her wont, went to the Temple of Diana, and the huntress queen then told her that one of the knights should be her wedded lord, but which one not even Emelie might know till the tourney was over.

Last of all, Arcite went to the Temple of Mars, and flinging sweet incense on his altar, prayed to him with many supplications. The statue of the god had clashed its glittering arms, and murmured At which, full of hope, Arcite rose up to go and array himself for the combat.

Meanwhile, in the court of Jupiter, king of gods and of men, there was a great contention, To Mars, Jupiter had promised the victory for his chosen knight; but Venus, her lovely eyes red with weeping, besought that her favored suitor, young Palamon, might have Emelie for his bride. While she thus prayed the stern Jupiter, her breast heavy with sighs, and her cheeks wet with silver tears, Saturn, oldest of the gods, thus whispered her,—

Now in the broad daylight, Athens is all astir. Now is heard the clattering of hoofs; the ringing of hammers, which rivet together the links of the armor; the tramping of hurried feet; the sharp word of command, and the knights calling on their squires. Now is seen the glitter of gold and the flash of steel, the waving of plumes and fluttering of mantles. Now each man has fastened the last buckle and helped his master mount, and the steeds champ their shining bits, impatient to be gone.

Inside the walls of the tourney-ground, under a canopy, sit Theseus and his court. Among all the ladies, none so lovely as Emelie. She is clad all in white, with her yellow hair garlanding her head; and so fair is she, that the very air seems to breathe her praises. And now Theseus gives aloud, by the mouth of the herald, the rules by which the tourney shall be conducted. First, in order to prevent loss of life, no man shall carry into the lists either bow and arrows, nor poleaxe, nor short sword. Neither shall he ride but one course with sharp-pointed spear.

If any transgress these rules, they shall be taken out from the lists, and stand at the stake till the tourney is ended. If either chieftain be overthrown or conquered, the victory is declared.

The weapons shall be only spears, lances, and the mace.

Now the heralds have cried aloud the charge, and the trumpets and clarions have blown, and the drums beat, and the fierce onset begun. The lances shiver, swords gleam, the maces ring heavily on steel helmets. Now this brave knight is unhorsed, and meets his enemy in fierce grapple; now one is trampled under foot; now clouds of dust hide all like a thick smoke; here they struggle unfairly and are led to the stake, till the affray is over; there one is borne bleeding from the field.

Many times the heralds sound the trumpets for a breathing-space in the battle, and again and again they return to the charge. But alas for Palamon! just at evening he is overcome, when he would go to the help of the brave Lycurgus, who is unhorsed, and fighting bravely; and Theseus cries out that Arcite has the victory, and Palamon must yield himself conquered.

Then Palamon’s heart sinks like lead in his breast, and by the throne of Jupiter, on high Olympus, Venus wrings her hands, in anguish of his defeat. But who is more proud than Arcite, and whose eyes beam so tenderly as Emelie’s, since, woman-like, her heart is already moved with love for the victorious hero.

Now he rides forward, the dust on his armor, many a stain of red blood on his waving mantle, his plumes nodding proudly, his eyes full of gladness. Now Emelie bends forward, with the laurel wreath in her hand, when, alas that I must write it! the fiery steed of Arcite starts, plunges forward and then back, and over his arched neck flings Arcite on the stone pavement in front of the royal dais. Thus has Saturn redeemed his pledge to Venus, and sudden death overtaken the victor under the shadow of the laurel wreath.

They cleared the brave knight of his armor, and still he lingered a little, always crying for Emelie. Then he died, and his fair lady and Palamon wept together at his bedside. Over all the land was great mourning. Theseus would hardly be comforted for the loss of this brave heart, and Hypolita bewailed this flower of knighthood rudely cut off in his prime. All the maidens cry by his bier,

At last they made a great funeral pyre of all rare and costly woods, and Emelie herself lighted the torch which consumed it to ashes. After this she mourned him for a long time in deep widowhood; but when the period of mourning had been prolonged a year, Theseus called both Palamon and Emelie to his presence.

he said to Emelie.

And with these words, Theseus placed the hand of his sister in that of the knight, and Emelie looked at Palamon and smiled up in his face with a smile which made sunshine in his sad heart.

Then there was a royal wedding at the palace and never was a more loving pair than these two no husband more tender, no wife more true. No grief ever came between them, and no shadow fell on their lives till death came to take them apart.

The Pious Constance

THE PIOUS CONSTANCE.

(FROM CHAUCER.)

ONCE upon a time the Emperor of Rome had a beautiful daughter named Constance. She was so fair to look on, that far and wide, she was spoken of as But, better than that, she was so good and so saintly that everybody in her father’s dominions loved her, and often they forgot to call her but called her instead,

All the merchants who came thither to buy and sell goods, carried away to other countries accounts of Constance, her beauty, and her holiness. One day there came to Rome some merchants from Syria, with shiploads of cloths of gold, and satins rich in hue, and all kinds of spicery, which they would sell in the Roman markets. While they abode here, the fame of Constance came to their ears, and they some times saw her lovely face as she went about the city among the poor and suffering, and were so pleased with the sight that they could talk of nothing else when they returned home; so that, after a while, their reports came to the ear of the Soldan of Syria, their ruler, and he sent to the merchants to hear from their lips all about the fair Roman maiden.

As soon as he heard this story, this Soldan began secretly to love the fair picture which his fancy painted of the good Constance, and he shut himself up to think of her, and to study how he could gain her for his own.

At length he sent to all his wise men, and called them together in council.

“You have heard,” he said to them, “of the beauty and goodness of the Roman princess. I desire her for my wife. So cast about quickly for some way by which I may win her.”

Then all the wise men were horrified; because Constance was a Christian, while the Syrians believed in Mohammed as their sacred prophet. One wise man thought the Soldan had been bewitched by some fatal love-charm brought from Rome. Another explained that some of the stars in the heavens were out of place, and had been making great mischief among the planets which governed the life of the Soldan. One had one explanation and one another, but to all the Soldan only answered,—“All these words avail nothing. I shall die if I may not have Constance for my wife.”

One of the wise men then said plainly,—“But the Emperor of Rome will not give his daughter to any but a Christian.”

When the Soldan heard that he cried joyfully: “O, if that is all, I will straightway turn Christian, and all my kingdom with me.”

So they sent an ambassador to the Emperor to know if he would give his daughter to the Soldan of Syria, if he and all his people would turn Christian. And the Emperor, who was very devout and thought he ought to use all means to spread his religion, answered that he would.

So poor little Constance, like a white lamb chosen for a sacrifice, was made ready to go to Syria. A fine ship was prepared, and with a treasure for her dowry, beautiful clothes, and hosts of attendants, she was put on board.

She herself was pale with grief and weeping at parting from her home and her own dear mother. But she was so pious and devoted that she was willing to go if it would make Syria a good Christian land. So, as cheerfully as she could, she set sail.

Now the Soldan had a very wicked mother, who was all the time angry in her heart that the Soldan had become a Christian. Before Constance arrived in Syria, she called together all the lords in the kingdom whom she knew to be friendly to her. She told them of a plot she had made to kill the Soldan and all those who changed their religion with him, as soon as the bride had come. They all agreed to this dreadful plot, and then the old Soldaness went, smiling and bland, to the Soldan’s palace.

“My dear son,” she said, “at last I am resolved to become a Christian; I am surprised I have been blind so long to the beauty of this new faith. And, in token of our agreement about it, I pray you will honor me by attending with your bride at a great feast which I shall make for you.”

The Soldan was overjoyed to see his mother so amiable. He knelt at her feet and kissed her hand, saying,—“Now, my dear mother, my happiness is full, since you are reconciled to this marriage. And Constance and I will gladly come to your feast.”

Then the hideous old hag went away, nodding and mumbling,—“Aha! mistress Constance, white as they call you, you shall be dyed so red that all the water in your church font shall not wash you clean again!”

Constance came soon after, and there was great feasting and merry-making, and the Soldan was very happy.

Then the Soldaness gave her great feast, and while they sat at the table, her soldiers came in and killed the Soldan and all the lords who were friendly to him, and slaughtered so many that the banquet-hall swam ankle-deep in blood.

But they did not slay Constance. Instead, they bore her to the sea and put her on board her ship all alone, with provisions for a long journey, and then set her adrift on the wide waters.

Fancy her, tossing about on the wild sea, amid waves and winds, all calm and pale, with her little crucifix, which she always wore round her neck, folded close to her bosom. So she sailed on, drifting past many shores, out into the limitless ocean, borne on by the billows, seeing the day dawn and the sun set, and never meeting living creature. All alone on a wide ocean! drifting down into soft southern seas where the warm winds always blew, then driving up into frozen waters where green, glittering icebergs sailed solemnly past the ship, so near, it seemed as if they would crush the frail bark to atoms.

So for three long years, day and night, winter and summer, this lonely ship went on, till at length the winds cast it on the English shores.

As soon as the ship stranded, the governor of the town, with his wife, and a great crowd of people, came to see this strange vessel. They were all charmed with the sweet face of Constance, and Dame Hennegilde, the governor’s wife, on the instant, loved her as her life. So this noble couple took her home and made much

of her. But Constance was so mazed with the peril she had passed that she could scarcely remember who she was or whence she came, and could answer naught to all their questionings.