Eng. Lib.
2 It is pleasing to record a noble instance of the enthusiasm of learned research. “The leisure hours of sixteen years” furnished a comprehensive history of which “two-thirds had not yet appeared.”—Mr. Turner’s Preface.
3 A sufferer, moreover, fully assures us that some remain, which “must baffle all conjecture;” and another critic has judicially decreed that, in every translation from the Anglo-Saxon that has fallen under his notice, “there are blunders enough to satisfy the most unfriendly critic.” “The Song of the Traveller,” in “The Exeter Book,” was translated by Conybeare; a more accurate transcript was given by Mr. Kemble in his edition of Beowulf; and now Mr. Guest has furnished a third, varying from both. We cannot be certain that a fourth may not correct the three.
4 “Without exception!” is the energetic cry of the translator of Beowulf.
5 The first line contains two words commencing with the same letter, and the second line has its first word also beginning with that letter. This difficulty seems insurmountable to a modern reader, for our authority confesses that, “In the Saxon poetry; as it is preserved in manuscripts, the first line often contains but one alliterating word, and, from the negligence of the scribes, the alliteration is in many instances entirely lost.”—Dissertation on Anglo-Saxon Poetry, Fraser’s Magazine, xii. 81.
6 A striking instance how long a universal error can last, arising from one of these obscure conceits, is noticed by Mr. Grenville Pigott in his “Manual of Scandinavian Mythology.”
These warlike barbarians were long reproached that even their religion fomented an implacable hatred of their enemies; for in the future state of their paradisiacal Valhalla, their deceased heroes rejoiced at their celestial compotations, to drink out of the skulls of their enemies.
A passage in the death-song of Regner Lodbrog, literally translated, is, “Soon shall we drink out of the curved trees of the head;” which Bishop Percy translates, “Soon, in the splendid hall of Odin, we shall drink beer out of the skulls of our enemies.” And thus also have the Danes themselves, the Germans, and the French.
The original and extraordinary blunder lies with Olaus Wormius, the great Danish antiquary, to whose authority poets and historians bowed without looking further. Our grave Olaus was bewildered by this monstrous style of the Scalds, and translated this drinking bout at Valhalla according to his own fancy—“Ex concavis crateribus craniorum;”—thus turning the “trees of the head” into a “skull,” and the skull into a hollow cup. The Scald, however, was innocent of this barbarous invention; and, in his violent figures and disordered fancy, merely alluded to the branching horns, growing as trees, from the heads of animals—that is, the curved horns which formed their drinking cups. If Olaus here, like Homer, nodded, something might be urged for his defence; for who is bound to understand such remote, if not absurd conceits? but I do not know that we could plead as fairly for his own interpolating fancy of “drinking out of the skulls of their enemies.”
This grave blunder became universal, and a century passed away without its being detected. It was so familiar, that Peter Pindar once said that the booksellers, like the heroes of Valhalla, drank their wine out of the skulls of authors.
7 Hickes and Wanley mistook the “Ormulum,” a paraphrase of Gospel history, as mere prose; when in fact it is composed in long lines of fifteen syllables without rhyme.
8 See “A Manual of Scandinavian Mythology,” by Mr. Grenville Pigott. 1839. “The Northern Mythology” will be found here not only skilfully arranged, but its wondrous myths and fables elucidated by modern antiquaries. It is further illustrated by the translation of the poem of Œhlenschläger, on “The Gods of the North;” whose genius has been transfused in the nervous simplicity of the present version.
9 Such is the critical decision of Conybeare, a glorious enthusiast. “Illustrations of Anglo-Saxon Poetry,” by John Josiah Conybeare. 1826.
The late Mr. Price, the editor of Warton’s History, announced an elaborate work on the Anglo-Saxon poetry. The verse of Conybeare and the disquisitions of Price would have completed this cycle of our ancient poetry. But a fatal coincidence marked the destiny of these eminent votaries of our poetic antiquity—both prematurely ceasing to exist while occupied on their works. Conybeare has survived in his brother, whose congenial tastes collected his remains; Price, who had long resided abroad, and there had silently stored up the whole wealth of Northern literature, on his return home remained little known till his valued edition of Warton announced to the literary world the acquisitions they were about to receive. He has left a name behind him, but not a work, for Price had no fraternal friend.
Since this chapter was written, Mr. Thos. Wright has published “An Essay on the State of Literature and Learning under the Anglo-Saxons.” It displays a comprehensive view taken by one to whose zealous labours the lovers of our ancient literature are so deeply indebted.
CÆDMON AND MILTON.
Cædmon, the Saxonists hail as “the Father of English Song!”
The personal history of this bard is given in the taste of the age. Cædmon was a herdsman who had never read a single poem. Sitting in his “beership,” whenever the circling harp, that “Wood of Joy!” as the Saxon gleemen have called it, was offered to his hand, all unskilled, the peasant, stung with shame, would hurry homewards. Already past the middle of life, never had the peasant dreamt that he was a sublime poet, or at least a poet composing on sublime themes, incapable as he was even of reading his own Saxon.
As once he lay slumbering in a stall, the apparition of a strange man thus familiarly greeted him:—“Cædmon, sing some song to me!” The cowherd modestly urged that he was mute and unmusical:—“Nevertheless thou shalt sing!” retorted the benignant apparition. “What shall I sing?” rejoined the minstrel, who had never sung. “Sing the origin of things!” The peasant, amazed, found his tongue loosened, and listened to his own voice; a voice which was to reach posterity!
He flew in the morning to the town-reeve to announce a wonder, that he had become a poet in the course of a single night. He recited the poem, which, however—for we possess it—only proves that between sleeping and waking eighteen lines of dreamy periphrasis may express a single idea. Venerable Bede held this effusion as a pure inspiration: the modern historian of the Anglo-Saxons indulgently discovers three ideas: Conybeare, more critical, acknowledges that “the eighteen lines expand the mere proposition of ‘Let us praise God, the maker of heaven and earth.’ ” But this was only the first attempt of a great enterprise—it was a thing to be magnified for the neighbouring monastery of Whitby, who gladly received such a new brother.
For a poet who had never written a verse, it was only necessary to open his vein: a poet who could not read only required to be read to. The whole monkery came down with the canonical books; they informed him of all things, from “Genesis” down to “the doctrine of the apostles.” “The good man listened,” as saith Venerable Bede, “like a clean animal ruminating; and his song and his verse were so winsome to
