CHAPTER XI.

THE SUCCESSORS OF CHAUCER.

After Chaucer and Gower, English poets wandered back into the wilderness. They are most valuable to students of the development of the language, they were popular in their own time and for more than a century later. Specialists find in them some literary merits, oases in the sandy desert, but it would be false to say that they are generally entertaining and attractive.

John Lydgate, the Monk of St. Edmundsbury, would have obliged us had he written prose Memoirs of his own life, for he came in contact with some very interesting persons, and knew London and Paris as well as his cloister. Born (1370) at Lydgate near Newmarket (where good drink was hardly to be come at, he tells us), he was, before the age of 15, received into the great Edmondsbury monastery school, where he was a reluctant pupil, and, later, a not very willing monk. He proceeded to Oxford, it is thought to Gloucester Hall, now Worcester College, and, by 1397, was a priest in full orders. He speaks of Chaucer as his Master; but probably he means his master in the spirit: probably he never sat at the feet of the great poet.

In 1423 Lydgate was made prior of Hatfield Broadoak. In 1426 he was in Paris, and, by order of the Earl of Warwick, the cruel jailer of Jeanne d'Arc, he translated a French poetical pedigree by Laurence Callot, a French clerk in English service. Laurence is notorious for having called the Bishop of Beauvais a traitor, when he accepted the abjuration of Jeanne d'Arc (May, 1431), and for being very busy in the tumult which then arose. Lydgate returned to his cloister at Bury in 1434, and we last hear of him, in connexion with a pension which he held, in 1446.

The dates of his poems are not certainly known, as a rule. "The Flower of Curtesie," "The Black Knight," and "The Temple of Glass," may be between 1400 and 1403. The "Troy Book," made from Dares, Dictys, Benoît de Sainte-Maure, and, mainly Guido de Colonna, is of monstrous length, and is dated 1412-1420. This poem has some fine passages in which Lydgate, for example, when describing the penitence of Helen, seems to be translating the actual words of the Iliad. The "Story of Thebes" followed (1420), then came "The Falls of Princes," and a translation of Deguileville's "Pilgrimage of Human Life," made for the Earl of Salisbury. "The Legend of St. Edmund" was written for the devout Henry VI; the date of "Reason and Sensuality" is earlier (1406-1408).

About forty works are attributed to Lydgate, all, or almost all, being marked by "his curious flatness". His lines have, for the ordinary mind, the unpleasant peculiarity that you may read many of them several times before you discover, if you ever do, how he meant them to be scanned. It is not to be found out when he meant the final e to be sounded, and when he did not. His poems may have been badly copied, or badly printed, or both, but the bewildering result remains. When we add that Lydgate is usually a translator, and is always a copyist of all the old formulæ of spring and dreams, and that he is as prolix as an Indian epic, it must be plain that he cannot be said to hold a high place in living literature. "The Book of the Duchess," a thing of Chaucer's immaturity, is not one that a young poet of the next generation would sedulously ape, yet Lydgate imitated it in "The Black Knight".

The best-known piece of Lydgate is a short satiric poem, "London Lickpenny," describing the misadventures of a poor countryman who finds that in London he can get nothing, neither law, nor food, nor any other commodity—for nothing. His hood is stolen in the crowd.

Occleve.

Occleve is not merely a less voluminous Lydgate. He is a character, or assumes to be a character not unlike the French poet, Francois Villon, but with little of Villon's genius. Occleve was born about 1368; about 1387 he got a little post in the Office of the Privy Seal; in 1406, in a poem "La Male Règle," he petitions for payment of a pension: he has wasted his youth, his health is lost, and no wonder,

But twenty wintir passed continuelly
Excesse at borde hath leyd his knyf with me.

The great number of public-houses excite people to drink,

So often that man can nat wel seyn nay.

He would have drunk harder if there had been more money in his pouch: had Occleve been a richer man there would be less of the rhymes of Occleve. He liked the society of gay girls, which is expensive,

To suffre hem paie had been no courtesie.

He abstained from discourteous language,

I was so ferd with any man to fighte.

The tapsters said that Occleve was "a real gentleman," "a verray gentil man". He was too lazy to walk to his office; this indolent civil servant, he took a boat, and the oarsmen knew and flattered him. He is rather impudent and impenitent, but he seems to ask for no more than was his due in the way of money. The picture is drawn from the life, whether dramatically studied, or only too truly told of Occleve.

Being what he calls himself, Occleve wrote over 5000 lines of good moral advice to "the mad Prince," the friend of Poins and Falstaff (1411-1412). He acts as his own "awful example". He asks for money, and his poem is a compilation from various musty sources; but he is always laxly autobiographical, a loose, genial, familiar knave. Conceivably he may have met the Prince in a tavern; it is a pity that Shakespeare did not think of bringing this shuffler, in Falstaff's company, to take purses at Gadshill. He bids the Prince to burn heretics, and, in the interests of peace with France, to marry Katharine, daughter of the mad Charles VI. Henry took both pieces of advice, but the marriage brought not peace, but the sword in a Maiden's hand.

Like Villon, Occleve wrote a poem (more than one), to the Blessed Virgin: he is always very orthodox. He had an interval of darkened mind, but recovered and went on versifying, a pathetic figure, for he was a married man, and his wife must have endured things intolerable. Occleve was very human: as a poet his versification is as loose as that of Lydgate. He died about 1450.

Hawes.

Stephen Hawes was the last of the English followers of Chaucer who deserves notice. Between him and the genuine Middle Ages a great gulf exists. The art of printing is familiar to Hawes. Writing of Chaucer he says of the poet's many books

He dyd compyle, whose goodly name
In printed bokes doth remayne in fame,

where the jostling vowels of "name," "remayne" and "fame" prove Hawes to be a careless author. In his own time, he says, writers "spend their time in vainful vanity, making balades of fervent amity, as gestes and trifles without fruitfulness". Hawes alone "of my Master Lydgate will follow the trace".

Hawes is all for allegory and moral instruction in his long poem, misleadingly entitled "The Passetyme of Pleasure". All the old formulæ of the Romance of the Rose are retained, and the castles of Rhetoric, Logic, and the whole curriculum of Learning are not much more joyous than the den of Bunyan's Giant Despair. Even combats with seven-headed monsters fail to excite pity and terror, for Hawes has seen, in a work of art, his own future, and we know beforehand that Grand Amour married La Bel Pucell.

Hawes was born about 1475, was over-educated at Oxford, and was Groom of the Chamber to Henry VII. He made the words of a ballet for the Court in 1506 (ten shillings) and, for Henry VIII. (1521) a play, now lost, (£6 13s. 4 d.). He also wrote "The Example of Virtue," and several poems, some of which have not been found in print or manuscript. The "Passetyme of Pleasure" is of 1506. It is in rhyme royal, with more or less humorous interludes concerning the facetious Godfrey Gobelive, a dwarf who tells tales against women, in rhyming "heroic" couplets. "The Example of Virtue," another moral and allegorical poem, is in the same measures. Spenser may have known the works of Hawes, there are coincidences in the allegorical details of both which can scarcely be all accidental. Hawes, in a sense, would "have raised the Table Round again," if he could I He knew Malory's great prose work, the "Morte d'Arthur," and would fain have restored ideal chivalry.

But chivalry died at the burning of Jeanne d'Arc, under the eyes of "the Father of Courtesy," the Earl of Warwick. The Flower of Chivalry was sacrificed like Odin, "herself to herself" (1431).

Hawes was a chaotic versifier: it is not easy to guess how he scanned many of his own lines. In the "Passetyme" the words of the hero's epitaph are probably a versified proverb,

For though the day be never so longe,
At last the belles ringeth to evensonge.

Long were the poems, and long the day of the followers of Chaucer. Now for its even song the bells were rung.

CHAPTER XII.

LATE MEDIAEVAL PROSE.

As far as literature is concerned the poetry of the period which we have been considering is infinitely more important than the prose. For most prosaic purposes, Englishmen still wrote in Latin: Richard Rolle, that eccentric hermit, and Wyclif, the premature Reformer, were even more prolific in Latin than in English. Prose was used in writing of science, as in Chaucer's treatise concerning the Astrolabe; for translation out of Latin, as in Chaucer's translation of Boëthius, and Trevisa's rendering of Higden's chronicles; in sermons, and by Wyclif and his followers for their tracts against the rich; against the Friars; against the endowments of the Church (constantly threatened in Parliament); and against the Catholic doctrine of the Eucharist; and for their translations from the Latin Bible.

Wyclif.

John Wyclif (born about 1329) was a man of great influence in his day; and the Reformation, when many of his ideas revived, probably found the embers of the fire which he had tended still glowing. He is said to have been born at Hipswell, near Richmond in Yorkshire, and certainly was of the Diocese of York. He was Master of Balliol College, Oxford, in 1361. In 1372 Wyclif took the degree of Doctor in Theology: he had already written not a few Latin treatises on philosophical subjects. As a philosopher he was a believer in predestination (on which much might be said), but averse to the theory of the disintegration of matter; indeed his views on this subject controlled his theory of the Eucharist. His desire to reform the Church by reducing her endowments endeared him to a political party in the State; and when he was summoned before Convocation in 1377, he was supported by John of Gaunt, uncle of Richard II.

The affair ended in a brawl; and in a later examination his ideas were not pronounced heretical. The London mob as well as some persons of high rank were on his side, and when one Pope, Urban, proclaimed a crusade against the other Pope, Clement, Wyclif opposed it in manuscript pamphlets. He had, about 1378, started a kind of order of "poor priests" who spread his doctrines, and, in regard to the unlawfulness of owning private property, went beyond him.

The Bible, not the tradition of the Church, was the centre of Wyclif's inspiration: it would be a mistake to suppose that the Bible was then generally ignored, the literature of the time is full of quotations from Scripture. There was no authorized translation of the Latin Bible, but many separate books of Scripture were circulating in English. There is much controversy as to whether or not Wyclif translated, or caused to be translated, the entire Bible, as a chronicler declares that he did: certainly he made much of it known in English tracts and sermons.

In 1382 he was suspended from teaching at Oxford; he retired to his rectory at Lutterworth, continued to write, and died on Old Year's Day, 1384.

It is impossible, here, to enter into theological details, but Wyclif anticipated many of the great multitude of ideas which flooded Western Europe at the beginning of the Reformation. If we open his sermons at random, we find him preaching on Lazarus and Dives, "how richessis be perilouse, for lightli wole a riche man use hem unto moche lust," that is, luxury. Words of Latin origin are nearly as common in his style as in that of Chaucer or Piers Plowman. In his Englishing of the Bible, Wyclif uses "And" at the beginning of many sentences, just as Mandeville does in his amusing and fabulous "Travels". The sermons have the double merit of being very short, and very plain, with no rhetorical flowers. The tracts can scarcely be called amiable: the word "stinking," for example, is not thought by Wyclif too strong to apply to "proud priests of Rome and Avignon".

All these brave and earnest men, the Wyclifite pamphleteers and "poor priests," and Piers Plowman, with their socialism and their doubts, their "New Theology," were rehearsing in mediaeval costume the drama of to-day; while Chaucer was arraying the heroes of the Fleece of Gold, of Troy, and of the Achæans, in the armour of the men who fought at Crécy and Poitiers. What remains as a gain to literature is the art of Chaucer.

Sweet reasonableness and urbane irony are not to be expected from men full of righteous indignation, and in great danger of being burned alive; for by this penalty did the Church and State suppress the preachers of doctrines which were apt to cause dangerous popular tumults. The Wyclifite Biblical translations look like a canvas later embroidered on by the authors of King James's authorized version, that immortal monument of English prose.

Chaucer's Prose Style.

It was not in the nature of these Reformers to follow the counsel of Chaucer's good Parson in the "Parson's Tale" (the spelling may here be modernized, as an example of the poet's prose).

"Certainly chiding may not come but out of a villain's heart, for after the abundance of the heart speaketh the mouth full often. And ye should understand that I Look ever when any man shall chastise another, that he beware of chiding and reproving, for truly, unless he be wary, he may full lightly kindle the fire of anger and of wrath which he should quench, and peradventure slayeth him whom he might chastise with benignity.... Lo, what saith saint Augustine, 'there is nothing so like the Devil's child as he that often chideth'. Now cometh the sin of them that sow and make discord among folk; which is a sin that Christ hateth utterly, and no wonder it is; for he died to make concord. And more sin do they to Christ, than did they that him crucified; for God loveth better that friendship be among folk than he did his own body, which he gave for unity."

Chaucer's country-priest, not the chiding Wyclifite Sons of Thunder, is the true Christian. There is more of the spirit of the Master in the caressing words of Chaucer's address to "little Louis my son... pray God save the king that is Lord of this lande, and all that him faith beareth and obeyeth, each in his degree, the more, and the less," than in torrents of bitter chiding, and a hail of unpublishable vituperation.

The English of Chaucer's treatise of "The Astrolabe," despite its difficult astronomical matter, is pellucid, and there is a charm of rhythm in his prose translations of the verses in Boëthius.

Trevisa.

The English prose of John Trevisa, a Cornish priest, educated at Oxford, and a traveller on the continent (died 1412), was entirely given to translation from the Latin. He is said, by Caxton, to have translated the Bible: he certainly made an English version of the "Polychronicon" of Ranulf Higden, the monk of Chester, which begins with the Creation, and is rich in geographical and social information.

Trevisa occasionally inserts notes of his own. His versions of Higden, and of the mythical popular science and prodigious fables contained in the "De Proprietatibus Rerum" ("Concerning the Properties of Things") of Bartholomæus the Englishman, were very popular, as their amusing nature deserved, and the "Polychronicon" was printed by Caxton. Trevisa himself tells us that in his day English boys in grammar schools were ceasing to learn French, and there was a public for English books supposed to be educational.

Mandeville.

The most famous and by far the most interesting of these adapters of foreign books is the so-called Sir John Mandeville, with his "Voiage and Travaile". The author of this book was not an Englishman, at least he did not write in English, and did write in French, at Liège, about the end of the fourteenth century. It is impossible and unnecessary to discuss here the fables about Mandeville. The author of the book declares that he himself is "Sir John to all Europe," is an Englishman born at St. Albans, that he passed the sea in 1322, that he travelled in Tartary, Persia, Armenia, Lybia, Chaldæa, the land of the Amazons, India, and so forth. In fact he resembles Widsith in the ancient Anglo-Saxon poem—he has been almost everywhere and knows almost everything. He especially writes for pilgrims to Jerusalem; he first wrote his book in Latin, then translated it into French, and finally into English. There are countries that he has not seen; and he says that he could not play a part in the deeds of arms which he beheld. Now he suffers from arthritis, "gowtes artetykes," and he amuses himself by writing his adventures in 1357.

Another version of Sir John's career is given by Jean d'Outremeuse, a writer of histories, who had the felicity of hearing from an old man with a beard in 1472, that he was the genuine Mandeville: but that the author was really Jean d'Outremeuse is not so certain. The author, whoever he was, stole from a manuscript of the time of the First Crusade, and from the book of Odoric, a Franciscan missionary, and the Itinerary of William of Boldensele, (1332-1336) from a History of the Mongols, from a forged letter of Prester John—from every source whence he could pick amusing stories. He fabled with a direct and honourable simplicity which is comparable to that of Defoe, and to the straightforward and moderate statements of Swift's Captain Lemuel Gulliver. With the spelling modernized it is thus that the good knight tells the story of the Pygmies who were known to Homer for their battles with the cranes.

"The folk be of little stature, but three span long, and they be right fair and gentle, after their quantity, both the men and the women. And they marry them when they be half a year of age, and get children. And they live not but six or seven years at the most. And he that liveth eight years, men hold him there right passing old.... And they have often war with the birds of the country that they take and eat. These little folks labour neither in lands nor in vineyards. But they have great men among them of our stature that till the land and labour amongst the vines for them. And of the men of our stature have they a great scorn and wonder as we would have among us of Giants if they were amongst us."

Mandeville speaks as calmly about the ants, known to Herodotus, which guard the hills of gold, and are as large as hounds; and of the devil's head in the valley perilous, through which the knight and his company travelled in great fear, "and therefore were we the more devout a great deal". Thence he reached an isle where men are from twenty-eight to thirty feet in stature, "and they eat more gladly men's flesh than any other flesh," being indeed the Læstrygonians who devoured the men of Odysseus, or the Mermedonians of the Anglo-Saxon poem of "St. Andreas," who meant to devour St. Matthew. Mandeville enjoyed and deserved great popularity, being a follower of Lucian's "True History," and a predecessor of Gulliver.

Pecock. "The Repressor."

A writer of English prose even more interesting, though much less popular and amusing than Mandeville, is Reginald Pecock (1395-1460), the deposed Bishop of Chichester, author of "The Repressor of overmuch blaming of the Clergy". The clergy blamed Pecock, and repressed him. This remarkable man, born shortly before the date of Chaucer's death, in North Wales, was a Fellow of Oriel College, Oxford (1417), was patronized by Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, obtaining the Mastership of Lord Mayor Whittington's school in London (1431), became Bishop of St. Asaph (1444), and passed his life in attempts to convert the Lollards by persuasion, not by the stake. "The clergy shall be condemned at the last day," he writes, "if by clear wit they draw not men into consent of true faith otherwise than by fire, sword and hangment; although I will not deny these second means to be lawful, provided the former be first used." In the opinion of the Lollards, nothing in ecclesiastical matters was defensible that was not positively inculcated in the Bible as interpreted by the average Christian man, however unlettered. Pecock defended Episcopacy, and even defended non-preaching Bishops, on the score that they had to discharge more important duties. Even the much abused friars he stood up for, arguing that, whatever their offences, they and the world would be worse rather than better if there were no religious orders. His arguments in support of the begging Franciscans who, in counting up money, touched it with a stick, not with the hand, are certainly even more sophistical than ingenious.

He wrote many pamphlets still in manuscript; the "Repressor" is of 1455, and is a most remarkable book in all ways. Pecock became vastly unpopular, because he was too clever, and, in his dislike of religious persecution, as well as in the nature of his arguments, was in advance, not only of his own age, but of the age of the Reformation. He was thought to give far too high authority to reason, and to the natural faculties of man in the way of developing unrevealed morality and unrevealed religion. "No virtue or governance or truth into which the judgment of man's reason may sufficiently ascend or come to, to find, learn, and know it without revelation from God, is grounded on Holy Scripture."

This conclusion arrives at the end of a sentence of thirty lines, a fair example of Pecock's logical and legal style, by him first used in English. It is not possible, here, to discuss Pecock's ideas, which are concerned with questions that still divide the Church and the world, Anglicans, Catholics, Nonconformists, and Agnostics. The "Repressor" has been described as "the earliest piece of good philosophical disquisition of which our English prose literature can boast"; it may still be read with interest, especially by students of the Reformation. Pecock was opposed to the unjust and brutal war of conquest and of disaster waged by England in France.

In 1450 he became Bishop of Chichester, and shared the unpopularity of the Duke of Suffolk, who was blamed for the disasters in France. His "Book of Faith" (1456) practically abandoned the infallibility of the Church in 1457; he was as unpopular with the clergy as with the mob; twenty-four doctors reported unfavourably on his works: he was a defender of "drowsy reason" and of "unrevealed morality": he was found guilty of heresies which were no heresies, and, with no choice except that of being burned alive, he signed a confession and abjuration of sins which he had not committed: he was consigned to close confinement in the Abbey of Thorney, was deprived of his bishopric—and of writing materials—and died obscurely.

The source of his misfortunes was this: he was not only clever but he knew it, and wrote that whatsoever man did not agree with an argument of his "is duller than any man ought to be". As few agreed, most were dull, and they did not like to be told it.

Capgrave.

John Capgrave (1393-1464), a Norfolk priest, and Augustinian canon, author of many scriptural commentaries and of a work on "Illustrious Henrys," wrote in English a "Chronicle of England," beginning with the Creation and ending in 1417. Capgrave reminds us that Adam "was made on a Friday, in the field of Damascus"; the date was unlucky. He is nearly as brief as the Anglo-Saxon "Chronicle," his account of Agincourt is no longer than the "Chronicle's" description of Hastings. Here is a sample of his style. "In the same yere III beggeres stole III childyr at Lenne, and of on thei put oute his eyne, the othir they broke his bak, and the thirde thei cut off his handis and his feet, that men schuld of pite give hem good. Long aftir the fadir of on of hem, wheech was a marchaund, cam to London, and the child knew him and cried loude 'This is my fadir.' The fadir took his child fro the beggeris and mad hem to be arrested. The childirn told alle the processe, and the beggeris were hangen, ful well worthy." Such is Capgrave's work, described by himself as "a short remembrance of old stories."

Lord Berners.

Later by two generations, John Bourchier, Lord Berners, was born about the time of Capgrave's death, and while Malory was writing his "Morte d'Arthur" (born 1467, died 1533). As Captain of Calais, the last spot of land held by England in France, Lord Berners had leisure enough, which he spent in translating Froissart, and the French romance of "Huon of Bordeaux" and Oberon the fairy king, "Arthur of Little Britain," and Guevara's Spanish "Dial for Princes," with the "Carcel de Amor" and the "Libro Aureo," books which more or less anticipate the antitheses of "Euphuism". In his translation of Froissart, Berners follows the style of the original, his language is much akin to that of Malory: in his prefaces he is more rhetorical and "aureate," and has a habit, like Sir Robert Hazlewood in "Guy Mannering," of treble-shotting his verbs. "Histories show, open, manifest, and declare to the reader by example of old antiquity, what we should inquire, desire, and follow, and also what we should eschew, avoid, and utterly fly." This mannerism is tedious, but the translation itself is in admirably simple and expressive English.

CHAPTER XIII.

MALORY.

Much the most important novelty in the literature of this period is the "Morte d'Arthur," finished by the author, Sir Thomas Malory or Maleor, in 1469, and published in 1485. Malory is believed to have been the Squire of Newbold Revell in Warwickshire, born about 1400 (?) and a retainer of that Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, who was called "the Father of Courtesy" by the Emperor Sigismund, and was the cruel jailer of Jeanne d'Arc at Rouen (1430-1431), where she was burned. Malory appears to have joined the Lancastrian party in the Wars of the Roses; he, or a man of his name, was left out of a general amnesty granted by Edward IV, in 1468; he may have fled to Bruges and there made the acquaintance of Caxton, and Caxton, in his Preface to the "Morte," says that the book is printed "after a copy unto me delivered which Sir Thomas Malory did take out of certain books of French, and reduced it into English". Malory died in England, and was buried in the Grey Friars, near Newgate, in 1471.

As we have seen already, the true first sources of the immense body of Arthurian romance are obscure: the fountain-head is certainly Celtic, but the affluents are mainly French—without France the legend would have been but a small thing. Malory constantly refers to "the French book" for his statements, to what book he does not say, but the learned industry of Dr. Sommer has detected that, for the youth of Arthur, Malory used French romances of Merlin the Seer; used French authorities for the tales of Sir Tristram and Lancelot, and also freely employed an English metrical romance, "Morte Arthur," attributed to the mysterious Scot, Huchown. There are other sources, and Malory treats his authorities with much freedom, omitting, adding, and introducing confusions. His great romance has a definite beginning; it has a middle in the fatal revival of Arthurian chivalry in the search for the Holy Grail; and thence turns towards its end with the falling of Lancelot to his old sinful love of Guinevere, wife of Arthur, the decadence, the rebellion of Mordred, the passing of Arthur, and the penitence of Lancelot and Guinevere.

Malory's book may be called a work of true genius, so simple yet so noble is the prose style; so fine, loyal and chivalrous the temper, while even the confusions add to the element of mystery and to the expectation and curiosity of the reader. Malory purges away the stupid monkish fables about the birth of Merlin by a machination of a devil: he does not linger over the long dull fables of Arthur's wars against the Anglo-Saxon invaders; he gathers the flower of the chivalry of the fourteenth century, while true love is his theme, with no palliation of the guilt of sinful love. His Lancelot deserves the Douglas motto of "tender and true," though

His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Hence comes the inevitable tragedy, the greatest in romance.

"Herein," says Caxton, rising to the height of Malory's own style, men "shall find many joyous and pleasant histories, and noble and renowned acts of humanity, gentleness, and chivalry. For herein may be seen noble chivalry, courtesy, humanity, friendliness, hardiness, love, friendship, cowardice, murder, hate, goodness, and sin. Do after the good, and leave the evil, and it shall bring you to good fame and renommee."

Many recent critics of Tennyson's "Idylls of the King," which is mainly derived from Malory, appear to think that Malory's "Morte d'Arthur" is a violent, brutal, licentious book, and that Tennyson invented the noble courtesy, chivalry, humanity to suit the middle-class morality of 1860. This opinion is merely stupid. "The Morte," it has been well said, "assumes the recognition of a loftier standard of justice, purity and unselfishness than its own century knew.... The motive forces are the elemental passions of love and bravery, never greed, or lust, or cruelty,"—except of course in traitors like Meliagraunce and Mordred. The knights have the strongest sense of fair play: Sir Lancelot bears no spite against Sir Palamedes, a pagan knight, who, from ignorance of the rules, deals a stroke in a tournament which the rules forbade. Their sense of honour is crystal-clear, and, as in Tennyson's Idylls, this honour and loyalty make the tragedy; the struggle between Lancelot's love of Guinevere, and his friendship for and loyalty to King Arthur. His sin brings its own punishment, he cannot win the vision of the Grail, that Holy thing: "blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God".

Arthur himself, after the wars of his youth, is but faintly drawn: it is not for the King to seek adventures, but to hear the suits of his people who come to him for help and justice. A mystery of Fate hangs over him: he is smitten by the sins of his knights, and passes away, sorely wounded but alive, as strangely as Œdipus in the tragedy of Sophocles: perhaps, who knows, to come again. "In Avalon he groweth old," in the peaceful hidden land of apples and apple-blossom.

The scenes all pass in a world where colours are magically soft and bright. There is an old song of the fourteenth century which gives the kind of colour that abounds in Malory.

Lully, lulley, lully, lulley
The fawcon hath borne my mate away!
He bare him up, he bare him down,
He bare him into an orchard brown.
In that orchard there was a hall
That was hanged with purple and pall.
And in that hall there was a bed,
It was hung with gold so red.
And in that bed there lieth a knight,
His wounds bleeding day and night.
By that bedside kneeleth a may,
And she weepeth both night and day.

This is like a song made on some scene in the Quest for the Grail.

Malory's world is "an unsubstantial fairy place," yet there is no fairy non-morality. There is the loftiest ideal among the knights who follow the gleam and fragrance of the Holy Grail. That all do not attain to their ideal is but the failing of human nature, the ideal is among them, they aspire to reach "the spiritual City". For Guinevere, Malory has the chivalrous compassion of Homer for Helen; of Chaucer for Criseyde, but while Helen wins, with light penance, to her home by the Eurotas, and her translation to Elysium, the Avalon of Greece, it is through many years of penance that Guinevere comes to her rest. What Shelley said of the end of the Iliad may be said of the last chapters of the "Morte," they die away "in the high and solemn close of the whole bloody tale in tenderness and inexpiable sorrow".

The prose with all its simplicity has rhythm and charm. Thus, "Therefore all ye that be lovers call unto your remembrance the month of May, like as did Queen Guinevere, for whom I make here a little mention, that while she lived she was a true lover, and therefore had she a good end". The words spoken by Sir Ector over the dead body of Lancelot are one of the noblest passages in English prose.

The very titles of the chapters call us into the realm of romance, like a blast blown on Arthur's horn. "How Sir Lancelot came into the Chapel Perilous, and gat there of a dead corpse a piece of cloth and a sword." "How the damsel and Beaumains came to the siege, and came to a sycamore tree, and there Beaumains blew an horn, and then the Knight of the Red Lands came to fight him." "How Sir Lancelot, half-sleeping and half-waking, saw a sick man borne in a litter, and how he was healed with the Sangreal." Who can read the titles, and not make haste to read the chapters? The beautiful close of Tennyson's "Morte d'Arthur" is merely done into verse from the fifth chapter of Malory's twenty-first book,—the casting of Excalibur into the mere, and the coming of the barge with the elfin ladies, "many fair ladies, and among them all was a Queen, and all they had black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw King Arthur".

But for Malory, the old Arthurian romances would be known only to a few of the learned. Malory "made them common coin," his romance was neglected only in the eighteenth century. It has been the inspiration of many poets, but none can "recapture the first fine careless rapture," to which Tennyson comes nearest in the best of his "Idylls of the King," and in "Sir Galahad," and "The Lady of Shalott".

Next to Chaucer's poems, Malory's romance is the greatest thing in English literature from "Beowulf" to Spenser. To boys, and to men who retain the boy, the "Morte" is an inestimable treasure, which has not to be sought for in the seldom-visited shelves that hold the publications of learned Societies, but is within the reach of all.[1]

CHAPTER XIV.

EARLY SCOTTISH LITERATURE.

For purposes of convenience the development of "Ynglis" literature north of the Tweed and Esk, may be treated in this place.

Originally the "Scots" or Scottish tongue was Gaelic, the language of the Irish Scots who, landing in Argyll about a.d. 500, finally gave a dynasty and its existing name, to "Scot" land. When the dynasty acquired the Anglicized Lothian and much of Cumberland, it adopted the English speech, consequently the writers of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries in Scotland used a form of northern English or "Ynglis," and knew not Gaelic. They called their speech "English" till the long wars with England led them to draw a distinction and patriotically style it "Scots" or "Scottis". Thus by 1562, Ninian Winzett upbraids John Knox for "knapping English" in his writings, and forgetting the "Scots" that he learned at his mother's knee. Gaelic was no longer reckoned "Scots," it was Ersch, Yrisch, or Erse. Even before the days of Edward I, the town seal of Stirling, on the Forth, describes the Gaelic-speaking men north of Forth as Scoti bruti. The Scottish writers did not know, and therefore despised Gaelic, from which they have scarcely borrowed anything. Latin and French they knew, and enriched their tongue by borrowing from these sources.

The one verse of Scottish poetry that may have survived from the end of the thirteenth century, the lines on the death of Alexander III, are charming, but, if they were written at the time, or shortly after, they must have been modernized, more or less, when Wyntoun, the rhyming chronicler, quoted them about 1420, twenty years after the death of Chaucer.

Barbour.

Setting aside the enigmatic Huchown already discussed, John Barbour, author of "The Brus," a history of King Robert Bruce in rhyming octosyllabic couplets, is the first poet of English speaking Scotland. He remains one of the most spirited and readable; the most like Sir Walter Scott, who used his book in poetry and in prose historical writing.

By 1357 Barbour was Archdeacon of Aberdeen: he was probably born at least ten years before Chaucer. In 1357 he went, with others, to study at Oxford, probably at the Scottish college, Balliol. He also visited France, for studious purposes; he held a position in the Exchequer, and, after finishing "The Brus" in 1376, received a pension from Bruce's grandson, Robert II: other pensions he received: he died in 1396. He had written other works, lost or disputable, and a romantic genealogy of the Stuarts, who were really Fitz Alans, and of ancient Breton origin, not, as was fabled, of the old Scoto-Irish dynasty. "A Buik of Alexander" (the romance of Alexander the Great), is attributed to Barbour with much probability.

Barbour possesses, unlike most of the narrative poets of the Middle Ages, one supreme advantage. He is not telling, for the twentieth time, the Tale of Troy, of Alexander the Great, of King Arthur, or of any dim mythical hero. The events in the history of Scotland which his own father witnessed, make one of the best stories in the world. Bruce was far from a faultless hero, but his adventures are picturesque facts, not inventions: though sometimes Barbour tells the same story twice, with variations. His many defeats, his wanderings in the heather, with a little company or with a single attendant; his flight over sea; his crossings of perilous lochs in frail boats; his single combats; the desperate chivalrous valour of his brother Edward; his own sagacity as a strategist and tactician; his kindness of heart; his love of the romances; the sufferings of his loyal friends, men and women; all his days of almost desperate warfare; all his escapes when surrounded in the hills of Galloway and of Argyll, are matters of historical fact, and can often be traced in English documents of the time. His "crowning mercy" Bannockburn, is as historical as Marathon or Waterloo.

When we think of the wild scenes in which Bruce warred and wandered, Loch Trool, Loch Awe, the whole of the Lennox, the uplands of Don and Dee; when we remember the blending of English armed knights, and of the plaided clans in the ranks of his enemies; his own combination of the Islesmen with "the dark impenetrable wood" of the Lowland spears; the many-hued silks of the standards; the cowled friars who prayed while the warriors fought; the fair ladies who shared the hero's dangers, we see that Barbour has a theme fresh, brilliant, and unique for his poem. He has a true story which is more thrilling than any invented romance.

Barbour notoriously, perhaps in the interests of poetic perspective, rolls up three Bruces, the grandfather, the father, and the hero himself, into one personage. Yet his statements of the numbers of the English engaged are sometimes corroborated by the English muster rolls. Before he has written three hundred lines he strikes the sonorous keynote of his narrative in that praise of Freedom which is worthy of the poet who fought at Marathon.

"Ah! freedom is a noble thing!"

In what other mediaeval romance can these lines be equalled? What wearies us in Barbour is the common defect of mediaeval poets, the occasional display of learning, references to what Cato did, or Hannibal, or Scipio, and the like, but Barbour is not tedious when, after giving a minute portrait of the good Lord James of Douglas, he compares him to Hector, though, for valour,

To Hector dare I none compare
Of all that ever in world were.

The story never drags, adventure follows adventure, and there is none of the weary exaggeration of romance. Bruce does not slay his thousands, like Arthur. When he, a mounted man in armour, Ms the better of three plaided clansmen, MacNaughton, who is of the hostile party, cries

Surely, in all my time,
I never heard, in song or rhyme,
Tell of a man that so smartly
Displayed such great chivalry.

But Bruce is soon obliged to give his horse to one of the ladies, and go on foot, like Prince Charles, living on such venison as his arrows may procure. Barbour has to invent no fanciful dangers; he knows the racing tides and dangerous shoals of Argyll—

The waves wide that breaking were,
Weltered as hills, here and there.

Unlike Chaucer, Barbour has a scorn of astrology: no man ever (he says) made three correct prophecies, by knowledge of the stars! He is far from scrupulous, and does not blame Douglas when, like Achilles, he slays prisoners of war: apparently because he could not take them with him in his retreat, and secure their ransoms. Barbour has not, of course, the genius of Chaucer; but he has a touch of the genius of Scott, he has spirit, and a true sense of loyalty, chivalry, and patriotism; these, with his subject, place him beside Chaucer in so far as that he may still be read with unaffected enjoyment.

Wyntoun.

Between Barbour and the first true Scottish disciple of Chaucer, James I, comes the author of a Chronicle in rhyming octosyllabic couplets "The Orygynale Cronykil". This is Andrew Wyntoun, who was a canon of St. Andrews Cathedral, and prior of St. Serfs on a little island in Loch Leven, the loch of Queen Mary's captivity. Wyntoun appears to have been an old man when, in 1413, the first Scottish university was founded at St. Andrews, by a bull of the Anti-Pope, Pedro de la Luna. The place must, with its Augustinian canons, have been a seat of learning before 1413, but the new university was very poor, and a thing of small beginnings.

Wyntoun's book commences with Adam and Eve, and is at fifth hand and fabulous till the author approaches his own time.

Mythical as is his work when he approaches his own date he, with Fordun, the really industrious author of the prose "Scotichronicon" (died about 1384), is one of our few sources of information about Scottish affairs. Wyntoun is amusing, but does not pretend to high poetic merit.

The Kingis Quhair.

To people who only know King James I of Scotland in history, his poem, "The Kingis Quhair" (book) must be rather disappointing. Fortune was his foe, as he says in the poem, and the foe of his House.

Born in July, 1394, young James was made prisoner in March, 1405-1406, and, for about eighteen years was a captive in England, or was led with the army of Henry V against his natural ally, Charles VII, the Dauphin of Jeanne d'Arc. The ransom demanded from James when released, in 1423, was ruinous; of his hostages, noblemen, some died in England; he found his country full of anarchy and treason; the disorders he suppressed with illegal vigour; he seized earldoms to which he had no right, he made powerful enemies, and, in 1437, he was slain by Robert Graeme and a band of Highlanders, at the Black Friars' in Perth. In England he had married Joan Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, who lived to avenge him on his murderers with unheard-of cruelties.

When a man of James's intellect, character, and experiences writes a poem on his own taking at sea by faithless foes, his own long captivity, and his own love-story, we naturally expect something of poignant personal interest. But we expect what his time, his taste, and his rank forbade him to give. Never was poetical tradition so crushing to originality as the tradition of the "Roman de la Rose".

For centuries each mediaeval poet aimed at saying just what his forerunners had said, and in much the same style: Barbour, of course, is an exception; he does not open with a sleepless night; a book read in bed; a dream of a May morning; a walk to a pretty river, a palace near the river, and all the rest of it. Barbour writes "like a man of this world".

But King James follows the fashion of allegory. He cannot sleep; he reads Boëthius in bed, Boëthius "full of moralities". He lies thinking over his sorrows when (this is original), the bell for matins rings, and

Ay me thought the bell
Said to me, tell on, man, quhat the befell.

He did not think that the Voice was a real Voice, "impression of my thought causes this illusion," said he, and though he had "spent much ink and paper to little effect," he sat down, made a mark of the cross, and set to work at his tale, first comparing his life to a ship in perilous seas, and then briefly mentioning his capture when about three years past the age of innocence (which was seven, he was, when taken, four years past seven). Birds, beasts, and fishes, he says, are free, why does Fortune make me thrall? He looks out of his window into a green garden; the nightingales sing; he sees, and describes very prettily, a fair lady walking with her two maidens, and falls in love. In all probability this is a mere imitation of the first sight of Emily by Palamon and Arcite, in Chaucer's "Knight's Tale". James would meet Jeanne in society: he was not a close prisoner, we are told that he knew many English ladies, and the course of his true love ran smooth enough. But the description is charming, as is the address to the nightingale which follows.

After this long and excellent passage of true poetry, fashion compels the King to visit the Palace of Venus and see the lovers of old times, converse with Venus and with Pallas, and visit Fortune with her Wheel, and take his place on it; then he awakes not "seeing all his own mischance". A white turtle-dove brings him flowers, and a glad message in letters of gold; and he blesses birds and flowers and even his prison wall, and

the sanctis marciall
That me first causit hath this accident.

The poem ends with an invocation of the shades of his "masters dear," Gower and Chaucer.

The manuscript, of about 1488, ascribes the poem to King James, so does Major or Mair, a not too trustworthy historian. The language is northern English, mixed with Scots, with many borrowings from Chaucer. The story indicated is true of James and of no one else, but the usual attempt has been made to deprive him of the authorship—wholly without success. The measure is the "rhyme royal" of Chaucer's "Troilus and Criseyde". The scansion is remarkably correct, and the lines have a melody not common in the works of Chaucer's followers. There is a strong moral element in the reflection and discourses.

Henryson.

Not a King like James I, nor a courtier priest, like Dunbar, his junior, but a schoolmaster of the Benedictine Abbey-school at Dunfermline, Robert Henryson had, among Scottish poets of his day, the greatest share of the spirit of their master, Chaucer. He may be the Robert Henryson who, already a Bachelor of Arts, joined the University of Glasgow in 1462, but nothing is certainly known of him. He wrote his "Morall Fabillis of Esope"

by request and precept of a lord,
Of whom the name it needs not record,

to he apparently had a patron destitute of vanity, and not ambitious of publicity. Henryson regarded Æsop, the mythical Greek slave, as "a noble Clerk," and made his own use of the tales of talking beasts, birds, and fishes, which are told among savages in most wild countries, and reached him, some of them by way of India, filtered through Latin, French, and English authors.

The animals are perfectly human in character, and give to Henryson, as later to Prior and La Fontaine, the opportunity to show his own wit, humour, and tolerant gentle nature. The tales are told in the seven line stanza, rhyme royal, of Chaucer's "Troilus and Criseyde". Even to-day they may be read with unfeigned pleasure, for their humorous and human studies of character, for their unostentatious pictures of nature, of the little nest of the field mouse, the moors, the stubble fields, the warm storeroom of the burgess's house, where the town mouse has her hole, and for the unaffected sympathy with our wild kindred of fur and feather. The chatter of the hens, the widows of Chanticleer, when the fox, who has claimed old family friendship with the cock, flatters his vanity and carries him away, is far more pleasing than Dunbar's satire on his revolting Widow and two married women. One hen, Pertok, makes bitter moan for the cock, the common husband of them all, but Sprutok declares her intention to sing, "Was never widow so gay"; she enumerates the faults of the dear deceased; Pertok comes into her way of thinking; and Toppok speaks of the faithlessness of their late Lord. Heaven has punished Chanticleer, who, after all, cheats the fox, and returns to his harem.

"The Two Mice" is especially humorous, and as sympathetic as Burns's poem "The Twa Dogs". The tale is so vivid that we feel the keenest anxiety when Gib, or Gilbert, "our Jolly Cat," pounces on the country mouse; the town mouse knows her hole, and has fled thither. The horror of the town mouse when she has rural dainties placed before her by the country mouse, her mincing airs of patronage, are delicately touched; in short, with the Fox's confession to the priestly Wolf, and the Trial of the Fox; and the strained law which the Wolf administers to the Lamb, the fables are animated and delightful poetry in their kind: the Morals, as when the hard lot of the poor husbandmen is described, are far from contemptible. Had Henryson left nothing else we must recognize in him a true son of Chaucer.

His "Testament of Cresseyde" begins from a bitter winter night, when alone and snug in his warm room, he mends the fire, takes a drink, lays down his Chaucer, and ends the tale of fair false Cresseyde, whom Chaucer pitied. Chaucer was not the man to have created, like Thackeray, that other Cresseyde, Beatrix Esmond in her matchless bloom of triumphant beauty, and later to have drawn her as the old Baroness Bernstein. What Chaucer held his hand from,—the mediaeval tale of the punishment of false Cresseyde,—Henryson, not without a passion of pity, undertook. The gods sent on Cresseyde's beauty the plague of leprosy, a terrible malady scarcely known by name to the Greeks, but as common in the Middle Ages as in ancient Israel.

Diomede deserts Cresseyde; she becomes the common "spoil of opportunity," and returns to her father Calchas, priest of Venus. But "into the Kirk" Cresseyde is ashamed to go. In a trance she comes into the presence of Saturn, a frozen god, and of the other old deities. Saturn then condemns her. The lady awakes and sees in her glass that she is a leper. She goes to the lazar-house, she dwells and begs with the lepers: Troilus rides past, and knows her not, but, in some faint way, memory of his love for Cresseyde wakes in him, and for his lost love's sake he gives to the leper lordly alms, "a purse of gold and many a gay jewel".

And nevertheless not are are uther knew.

But another leper recognized Troilus, and Cresseyde, smitten to the heart, made her moan and her Testament, leaving to Troilus the royal ring and red ruby that he had given her long ago. So she died, and Troilus raised a tomb of marble to

Cresseid of Troyis toun,
Sumtyme countit the flour of Womanheid.

In the poem of this adventure there are but 616 lines; and it contains the poignant essence of romance; all passion and pity. Nothing in the poetry of Scotland excels, perhaps nothing but here and there the cry of a ballad, or of Scott's "Proud Maisie," approaches in excellence this work of the schoolmaster of Dunfermline.

His "Robene and Makyne," or love-dialogue between a lad and lass, the girl first wooing and repulsed; then wooed and scornful, is in a charming measure, and may have imitated some ancient French pastourelle.

The "Orpheus and Eurydice," that sad and beautiful tale—told by Maoris in New Zealand, and by Iroquois in America—of the man who seeks his dead wife in Hades, has merit in Henryson's version. The passage of Orpheus to and through Hades, where his music consoles Tantalus and Theseus, and wins the grace of Persephone, is excellent; the tragic close is not successfully handled, and the long Moral is tedious. A number of moral poems do not transcend the common course of those things, and Henryson lives by his "Fables," his "Testament of Cresseid," and "Robene and Makyne".

These, with the sympathetic kindliness of his unrepining nature place him, if an individual opinion may be given, high above his more famous contemporary, Dunbar.

Dunbar.

William Dunbar, whom Scott declared to be the greatest poet of Scotland prior to Robert Burns, took the degree of Bachelor of Arts at St. Andrews in 1477. Much later, lads of seventeen or even of fourteen, graduated, so Dunbar may have been born (in East Lothian) so early as 1460. His language, with some southern English tincture, is that of the most Anglicized part of Scotland. The Earls of Dunbar were a great shifting power on the Border, and Dunbar's name, at least, was noble, he may have come of Cospatrick's line (Earls of March).

A favourite Scottish form of verse was the "Flyting" (scolding) or humorous raillery, and Dunbar's opponent, Walter Kennedy, represented a very old Celtic clan of Galloway and Ayrshire: Dunbar banters him on his "Irish" dress and accent. Dunbar was brought up to be a Churchman, and was a novice in the Order of St. Francis, "begging with a pardon in all Kirks". From 1479 to 1491, he was travelling abroad, preaching and begging in France, far from honestly, he says:—

"I wes ay reddy all men to begyle," like Chaucer's Pardoner, but perhaps Dunbar was merely copying Chaucer. He is thought to have been attached to the Scottish Embassy in Paris, and he may have read, in print, the works of the famous burglar poet, Francois Villon. His recognized Masters, however, were Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate.

From 1500 to the great defeat of Flodden (1513) and the death of James IV, Dunbar was a priest and poet at the Court of that magnificent prince, in whose days Scotland was peaceful, comparatively rich, and addicted to letters and the arts. Her poets, a century after Chaucer, and eighty years after their Royal leader, James I, were all Chaucerians, but were confessedly more vigorous, tuneful, more original in genius, and much less prolix and pedantic than the English Chaucerians, Lydgate, Gower, and Hawes. But what Dunbar lacks in length, he more than makes up for in breadth. He made Court poems on the Royal marriage of "The Thistle and the Rose" (Margaret, the Rose, was really as prickly as the Thistle). He was but thriftily rewarded, and emitted many rhymed petitions for money. Benefice he got none.

Probably, like Dean Swift, he was thought no credit to his cloth, even in days far from respectable. As Chaucer was styled "Old Grizzle," so the Scot speaks of himself as "this gray horss, Auld Dunbar". At about 48, and in sickness, he wrote his "Lament for the Makaris," the dead "makers" or poets, including Chaucer, Gower, and Lydgate, with the recurring burden, Timor mortis conturbat me, "Fear of Death disturbeth me". In 1511 he was with the Queen at her reception in Aberdeen, which he celebrated, as he had already made immortal the filth and stench of Edinburgh, a town famous for its dirt till after Dr. Johnson's time. His humorous poems, his satires on society and clergy, are coarser than the English poetic attacks. His Three Wanton Wives, "Two Married Women and the Widow," is inspired by Chaucer's "Wife of Bath's Tale," or rather by the prologue.

Historically, these poems are full of matter, with their pictures of a society not more pure than that to which Piers Plowman preached, but they have not the gentle and humane wit of Chaucer. Like all the poets following Chaucer, Dunbar shines in descriptions of gardens and woods in spring, though May, in Scotland, is not always what his fancy painted it, indeed these vernal glories are borrowed from the verse of sunny France—

The sun rises fair in France,
And fair sets he,
But he has tint the bonny blink
He has in my ain countrie,

writes the Jacobite exile, accustomed at home, only to a "blink" or gleam of the sun through clouds. After 1520, or thereabouts, Dunbar saw no more of the sun.

Dunbar, with his satires, "flytings," Court poems, allegories of the usual kind, rhymed petitions, poems of penitence and faith, and the rest, was versatile enough, and wrote in many forms of verse, even in the old unrhymed alliterative cadences ("The tua Mariit Wumen and the Wedo"). To his glory be it said that this, his longest piece, is only of 530 lines. He also used the heroic rhymed couplet, "Riding Rhyme," and the rhymed octosyllabic couplet, strophes of various arrangements, and even the tripping French triolet.

One allegorical poem, "The Golden Targe," full of classical mythology and the usual praise of May, contains the lines

O reverend Chaucere, Rose of rethoris all,
As in our tong are flour imperiall,

"rethoris," being masters of rhetoric.

Dunbar escapes from Venus and other gods, and from a crowd of allegorical people—including Danger, of course,—at the end of 278 lines. Apparently Scotland did not love the long-winded style. The "flyting" combines with rhyme copious alliteration.

For wealth of strange coarse terms of abuse Dunbar may compare with Urquhart, the translator of Rabelais. A poem to the young Queen is unspeakably nauseous. In short to be plain, it is not easy to see why Dunbar has been reckoned above James I and Henryson; while Barbour, with a chivalrous heart and a spirited story, is infinitely more agreeable and profitable than the Court-haunting priest of James IV. In Scotland, Dunbar at no time has been so popular as the poets already mentioned. He praises Chaucer, but the lesson of Chaucer he never fully learned.

Blind Harry.

Blind Harry, or "Henry the Minstrel," is a mysterious personage. Who was Harry? John Mair or Major (1469-1550) (?) is not an accurate historian; the Antiquary, in Scott's novel, calls him "a pillar of falsehood". Major says that, in his own infancy (say 1480) a man blind from his birth wrote "Schir William Wallace," and supported himself by chanting it to the nobles. The manuscript is of 1488. A few entries of small sums paid to "Blind Harry" occur in the Royal accounts, ending in 1492, and Harry was dead when (1508) Dunbar printed his Lament for poets dead and gone. Harry may have become blind, but can hardly have been blind from his birth. Though he calls himself "a borel man," an unlettered man, he had some education; he was not a ballad maker, but produced a romance of nearly 12,000 lines. He says that he had a Latin source, a narrative written by Wallace's chaplain, John Blair, of which nothing is known.

He is full of anachronisms, and tells long adventures of Wallace with Edward I and his Queen which never occurred. Tradition, already mythical, is his chief source, his Wallace is but little more historical than Grettir in the Icelandic Saga, and like him has dealings with a ghost, that of a slain man, which appears with its head in its hand. Wallace, whose wife, it is said, was slain by the English, is a very bloodthirsty hero; his manslayings and burnings of houses are many. Harry has not too high an opinion of Bruce. His hero, Wallace, has always been, thanks mainly to Harry, the most popular of Scottish heroes. Harry tells his tale with abundant energy; he hates the English infinitely more than the chivalrous Barbour did, and he is perfectly free from the influence of the "Roman de la Rose". His verse is not wholly correct; eight consecutive lines have the following rhymes,—"been, keen, saw, mean, seen, raw, knaw, teir, faw," indeed some passages have a kind of stanza formation, in the Second Book (lines 260-360).

We must not look on Harry as an unlearned maker of Border ballads. He had read Wyntoun, and Chaucer (though he does not make Chaucer his model), and he borrows from the alliterative romance of "Arthur" ascribed to the mysterious Huchown. Moreover, it has been proved, and anybody can see it, that he stole adventures of Robert Bruce from Barbour's poem, and made Wallace, not Bruce, their hero. Harry takes some of Bruce's battles and transfers them to Wallace. "Harry nearly uproots Barbour." Whereas Bruce, on the eve of Bannockburn, cut down Sir Henry Bohun, as he charged, with a blow of his axe, Harry declares that Wallace dealt this very stroke on Bruce's spear and horse's neck. To Wallace he attributes the famous campaign in which Bruce drove Edward II within the walls of York (1322).[1]

Harry is, in short, a mystery, and his book, wholly worthless as history, is a colossal perversion of Barbour "The Bruce," with other matter from pure fancy or from unknown legend, while great parts are played by men of Harry's own time, English in-evading knights of 1483.

The Buke of the Howlat.

Sir Richard Holland, or de Holand, a cleric, and a partisan of the House of Douglas during its encounters with the Crown, and its fall under James II, wrote, to please his patroness, the Countess of Moray, and to flatter the Douglas, "The Buke of the Howlat," the Owl. The poem, in stanzas of thirteen lines, rhyming and alliterative, begins with the usual dream and leads up to a kind of allegorical "Parliament of Fowls". The allegory is entangled, the poet's real desire is to glorify his patrons with their motto,

O Dowglas, O Dowglas,
Tendir and Trewe!

"Trewe" they had been, to Bruce and to Scotland, but they became the allies, against king and country, of Edward IV and Henry VIII, while "tender" the Douglases never were. The most interesting passage describes the voyage of the good Lord James towards the Holy Land, with the heart of Bruce. In Spain he meets the Saracens in battle, and throws among them the Heart, in its jewelled case—

Amang the hethin men the hert hardely he slang,
Said, "Wend on as thou was wont,
Throw the batell in front,
Ay formost in the front,
Thy foes amang."

There fell the Douglas, above the heart of his king, that was rescued by Logan and Lockhart, and brought back to Scotland; a noble feat of chivalry, nobly told. Here Holland "stirs the blood like the sound of a trumpet".

It may be said of these Scottish poets that while, in initiative and in models they owe almost all to England, their long and desperate war with that country gives them a martial fire and spirit to which the English poetry of the time furnishes no rival. Laurence Minot does not stir the blood!

Gawain Douglas.

Gawain Douglas was of the family of the Red Douglases, Earls of Angus, who rose on the ruin of the turbulent Black Douglases, of the House of Bruce's good Lord James, when they failed in their alliance with England against the Crown of Scotland. The Red Douglases also rose high, and had their own feud with the Crown and alliance with or servitude to Henry VIII and the Protestant cause. Gawain was a younger son of the Earl of Angus called Bell the Cat, who hanged the artistic favourites of James III. As an old man he was present at Flodden (1513) where James IV died so gallantly, and his grandson, now Earl of Angus, married Dunbar's "Rose," Margaret Tudor, widow of James IV. Gawain himself, born about 1473 or 1474, was educated at St. Andrews University, took orders, and, being of a powerful House, received rapid clerical promotion.

His poems were written in the peaceful and prosperous years of James IV, between 1501 and 1513, the date of Flodden and of the completion of Gawain's translation of the "Æneid" of Virgil. His earlier works "The Palice of Honour" and "King Hart," are merely rhymed allegories after the manner of the unceasing "Roman de la Rose," and have no special interest. What is true about one of these belated last allegories is true of another: they are no longer to be read for mere literary pleasure. In his "Æneid," Douglas introduces original prologues to the books of the "Æneid," rather in the manner of Scott's poetical epistles between the cantos of "Marmion". He describes winter, spring, and summer in Scotland. He criticizes, not unfavourably, the theology of Virgil, whom the Middle Ages regarded, now as a magician (like Ovid among the Italian peasantry to this day), and now as an inspired prophet of the coming of Our Lord. He attacks Caxton for printing a translation of Virgil, not from the original Latin, but from a French version. His criticism of Caxton is full of detail, and severe. He himself is "bound to Virgil's text," and he does not treat it, as a rule, with the licence of Chapman when rendering Homer into English verse; but Gawain remarks, truly, that sometimes of one word he must make three, must occasionally expand in exposition, and add, in colouring.

Sum tyme I follow the text als neir I may,
Sum tyme I am constreinit are uther way.