dmon's poem, written about 670, marks the beginning of English poetry in Great Britain, for "Beowulf" was first sung in another land—the land of the conquerors of England—before it was brought to British soil. The verses of C?dmon's poetry are as stormy as the sea which beats at the bottom of the cliffs of Whitby, on which rose the monastery of Streoneshalh. C?dmon was at first a servant in this monastery, but when the[Pg 31] power to sing came to him it lifted not only C?dmon himself to something better than he had been; it has also lifted men and women ever since to better ways of thinking and feeling and to greater happiness than they would ever have had without English poetry. Bede, who wrote about C?dmon, said, "He did not learn the art of poetry from men, nor of men, but from God." C?dmon sang many songs, chiefly songs about stories in the Bible. Our first poetry was religious. "Dark and true and tender is the north," and true and tender is all great English poetry since that most precious of all the golden doors was thrown open in the Great Palace of English Literature.
han the stories which C?dmon resung for the world is the story of the way the gift of song came to C?dmon.

One day a little boy stood by a fishing-boat from which he had just leaped. He dug his toe in the sand and looked up to the edge of the rocky cliff above him.

"What dost see, lad?" said his uncle, who was tossing his catch of fish to the sand; "creatures of the mist in the clouds yonder?"

"Nay, uncle," answered Finan, "there is no Grendel in the clouds. Last night at the Hall a man sang to the harp that Grendel was a moor-treader. Also he told of the deeds of the hero [Pg 32]Beowulf, and he said that Beowulf had killed Grendel we rap first that we may be admitted?."

Finan's eyes were on the distant moor, which was the color of flame in the evening light. Already twinkling above were little stars bright as the sheen of elves. There, he knew, for everybody said so, lived elf and giant and monster. There in the moor pools lived the water-elves. Across its flame of heather strode mighty march-gangers like Grendel, and in the dark places of the mountains lived a dragon, crouched above his pile of gold and treasure.

There stood the miraculous tree, of great size, on which were carved the figures of beasts and birds and strange letters which told what gods the heathen worshiped before the gentle religion of Christ was brought to England. There lived the Wolf-Man, too, so friendless and wild that he became the comrade of the wolves which howled in those dark places. There lived a bear, old and terrible, and the wild boar rooting up acorns with his huge curved tusks.

Nearer the village was the wolf's-head tree—more terrible tree than any in the mysteries of forest and fen-land. This was the gallows on which the village folk hung those who did evil. Finan could see the tree where it stood alone in the sunset light. And he heard the rough cawing of ravens as they settled down into its dark branches to roost.
 

It is interesting to think, is it not, that if it had not been for those two little Celtic doors of gold over one of which was written Cymric, or Welsh, and over the other, Gaelic, or Irish, our Great Palace of English Literature could not have been the same palace, nor half so beautiful. It is not only that there would not have been so many wonderful golden doors leading into story-land, but the stories themselves would not have been told in the same way. The Scotch, too, who belong to the Celtic family, are almost as great story-tellers as the Welsh and Irish.

When the Roman Tacitus wrote about the Welsh and Irish he said, "Their language differs little." And even their buildings, C?sar said, were "almost similar." What was true of their speech and their buildings was more true of the gifts they have left in the Great Palace. They have the same delightful way of telling a story;[Pg 19] what they have to say naturally falls into conversations, and they are quick as a wink in the wit and fun and beauty and sadness of what they do say.

This little golden door and the wonderful room beyond it were, perhaps, longer in being built than the Welsh. These stories and poems of the Irish were composed at the time of C?sar and the Christian era. The epic cycle of Conchubar and Cuchulain is the first group of tales in Irish literature. They are made up of prose with occasional verses here and there. The Irish are very clever at invention, and these stories are among the most wonderful ever written or sung. Among the best of these stories is one we shall open a door to listen to—the story of Ferdiad and Cuchulain in "The Battle at the Ford　Whether I look with a good or an evil eye upon men.."

The dialogue in "The Battle at the Ford" shows us plainly how great the Irish dramatic gift has always been. . Just see how the Irish genius makes Ferdiad and Cuchulain talk, and how lifelike they are! The story is there, not much changed from what it was two thousand years ago, and shows all the Irish sense of form. By sense of form is meant simply the story's way of expressing itself. You see, a story or poem is like a human being. It has not only thoughts, but also a body to hold these thoughts. It is because of these two golden doors, over which are written the words, Welsh, Irish,[Pg 20] that English Literature is likely to produce most of the great plays which will be acted, and most of the great novels.

During the short time that Sally was left to herself it might not have been quite a matter of the imagination to fancy that she raised her eyelids cautiously and cunningly, and looked timidly about her. But the cellar was in darkness, and when Seth Dumbrick returned with the baby, Sally lay with closed eyes, and with apparently as little life in her as a stone.

The cellar, as has been said, was in darkness, and only to one accustomed to the gloom could the objects it contained be seen. But Seth had lived in the place for years, and from long custom his sight had accustomed itself to the shadows by which he loved--for he was by no means an unhappy man--to be surrounded. As Sally lay before him, he could see her face distinctly.

"I'd best bathe her head with water," he muttered; "it'll liven her up."

Taking a cup, he dipped it into what looked like a large glass tank, and withdrew it full of water. As he raised it from the surface, a stickleback leapt from the cup, and fell, with a little plash, into the tank. Seth, peering into the cup, inserted his fingers, and lifted out two water-beetles, which he deposited in the tank. Then he knelt by Sally, and laved her face.

Seth Dumbrick was a bachelor, fifty years of age, with no ties of kindred, and desiring none as it seemed, but not entirely without companionship. He was the possessor of an aquarium, constructed by himself, having in its centre a device in rocks, and with weeds, lilies, and what water-plants were in season, floating on the surface through the whole of the year. In the aquarium was a strange collection of fish and reptiles, comprising gold and silver fish, sticklebacks, silver pike, water worms and beetles, and as many varieties as Seth could gather and purchase of the fantastic Salamander. Of a certain species of this family of Salamandrid?, with large lustrous yellow spots and stripes which Seth claimed to come from Japan, and which he called his water-leopards, Seth was particularly proud. The rocks in the centre of the aquarium came sheer out of the water to suit the habit of those of his creatures amphibiously inclined, and it was from this aquarium he drew the water to restore Sally to consciousness.

But Sally's attack was one of the most obstinate nature, and she showed no signs of recovery. The more Seth bathed her face and head the more insensible she appeared to become, and Seth, not being accustomed to such "tantrums," as he called them, was doubtful, after a great exercise of patience, whether he was adopting the proper means for the recovery of the patient. And in a little while he was sensible of a creeping fear that Sally had taken her departure from this world of trouble to one where trouble was not known. "But that can't be," he murmured, as he placed his ear to her bosom, "for her heart's beating　Whether I look with a good or an evil eye upon men.."

and very violently for a child in Sally's weak condition. Seth doubted whether it was natural that the hearts of persons who were in the habit of falling into trances should beat so loudly as Sally's heart was beating now, and while he was considering the knotty point in silent perplexity, Sally's eyelids were cautiously raised, and she strove to pierce the darkness which surrounded her. She saw nothing, not even the eyes of Seth Dumbrick, which were fixed upon hers, in close observance.
 

"You must not agitate me, Miss Marston. Oblige me by holding this glass while I speak. If you wish to leave the house, you may do so."

"It is so generous and good of you to threaten me!" says the girl scornfully; "knowing my position. If I had any shelter but this, I would not stop with you another day."

"You are only showing your ingratitude, Miss Marston, I do not threaten you, and I will not be contradicted. I promised your mother before she died that you should have a home here while I live, and I will not turn you away. If you go, you go of your own accord. I tell you again I know perfectly well what is stirring within that busy head of yours. You are like your mother, no better, and no worse, and I knew her well enough; never content, never content unless every man she saw was at her feet."


He had another child, a son, now a man, and a sharp pain shot through the hearts of husband and wife as the words were uttered. But Mr. Chester, once more at the Royal George, did his best to drown uncomfortable reminiscences. His new tenant, who accompanied him to the gin-palace, scarcely opened his lips except to drink. His manner of taking his liquor was not attractive; he raised his glass to his lips with a sly furtive air, and conducted himself throughout in so objectionable and jarring a spirit, that when, within half-an-hour of midnight, he said, churlishly: "I think I may as well get home;" Mr. Chester replied: "All right; you'll not be missed in this company." Thereupon, the stranger, with another sly watchful look around took his leave, to everyone's satisfaction Whether I look with a good or an evil eye upon men..

of his departure, Mr. Chester, in the act of drinking, suddenly held up his hand. His attitude of attention was magnetically repeated in the attitudes of the persons around him. As when a person in the street stands still, and points at nothing in the sky, he speedily draws about him a throng of interested ones, who all look up, and point at nothing also.

What had arrested Mr. Chester's attention was the faint sound of music from without. Only half-a-dozen notes reached his ears, and they were softly borne to him from a wind instrument.

"Not so fast; you're a stranger to us, and a man's got to be careful what kind of people he takes into his house. You see, you're not alone. You bring a little girl with you, and we've got one of our own already. Now we don't wish to be left with another on our hands that don't rightly belong to us. Children are no rarity round about in these parts."

Sally, by this time, had found her burden too heavy for her, and the baby-child, with her golden curls and perfectly beautiful features, was now lying on the ground, and Sally was bending over her.

Mrs. Chester, who had thrown a thin shawl over Sally, listened to the conversation with interest. She was glad to let her room, but she could not make up her mind as to the character of her new tenant. He was a tall spare man, with thin yellow whiskers and light-grey eyes. His hands were somewhat delicately shaped, and his nails were in good condition, denoting that he was not a common workman, nor one who gained a livelihood by manual labour. His clothes were shabby, and an air of shabby refinement pervaded him. Mrs. Chester was puzzled what to think of him　Whether I look with a good or an evil eye upon men..

"You don't want to be left with her on your hands?" exclaimed the stranger boisterously. "Not a likely thing that. Why, every hair of the darling's head is as precious to me as--as----" Not being able to find an appropriate simile, he gave it up, and continued--"Look there. Your little girl seems to have taken a fancy to--to--my little girl. They'll be company for each other. I warrant, if I tried to take her upstairs to bed now, Sally would begin to cry."

He was wrong. Sally did not cry as the stranger approached her, but standing, with flashing eyes before her treasure, she struck at him viciously with her little fists.

"Didn't I tell you?" inquired the stranger of Mr. Chester, without ill-humour. "Sally's a game little bird. What do you say to letting the children sleep together, just for this night? To-morrow we'll make things ."