Chaucer, in his Hous of Fame, gives a station of conspicuous honour to a group of writers whose claim to distinction is that they are all “besy for to bere up Troye.” Homer, inevitably, heads the list, standing

With him, however, are ranged persons of somewhat doubtful reputation; to wit, Dares, the Phrygian, and “Tytus,” or Dictys, the Cretan, “Guido de Columpnis,” and—significantly—“English Gaufride.” “Gaufride,” or Geoffrey, owes his modern renown much more to his contributions to Arthurian literature than to his modest additions to the tale of Troy. His detractors will have it that the Arthurian portions of his so-called History are as fabulous as his account of the descent of the British race from Brutus, the son of Æneas. He had, however, the authority of Nennius, at least, for his use of the Brutus legend. He had the brief records of Nennius, also, to work upon as a foundation for the elaborate narrative which he gives of the life and deeds of King Arthur. But that narrative came upon the world as quite a new, and a startling thing. It is, perhaps, no exaggeration to term its appearance the chief literary event of the twelfth century; at any rate, it is certain that it aroused infinitely greater interest than the story of what Brutus and his immediate descendants achieved in Britain. Chaucer, however,—to judge, at least, by his Tale of Sir Thopas,—regarded the newer romantic matters with good-humoured contempt; and the tale of Troy, in its various ramifications, challenged his imagination much more insistently than such a new-fangled theme as the story of Arthur.

Notwithstanding the fact that Geoffrey’s use of the Brutus legend is what constitutes the claim of his History to rank as the first, and the greatest, of a long series of “Bruts,”—English, French and Welsh,—his real title to literary fame rests upon his achievement, and his influence, as a contributor to Arthurian story. The Arthurian legend would, undoubtedly, have attracted the attention of European poets and romancers, had Geoffrey’s History never been written. It was current, as we have seen, in Wales, Brittany and Cornwall long before his time. There is even evidence that Arthur, and tales concerning him, were known in the south of Europe before he took up his pen. But it is quite certain that Arthur would never have figured as he does in chronicle literature, and so have come to be regarded as an authentic historical character, were it not for Geoffrey’s narrative. And it may be doubted whether English poets, at any rate,—to judge from the homage which they pay Geoffrey,—would have dallied so much over Arthurian fable had they not at their call what Wordsworth describes as that

Now, it so happens that the “British record,” which Wordsworth, with a poet’s licence, so confidently tells us was “long concealed in old Armorica,” has never yet been discovered, and the mystery surrounding it is the chief critical problem which still baffles every student of the work of Geoffrey of Monmouth. This problem is deliberately set us by Geoffrey himself at the very beginning of his Chronicle, for he states that he is simply translating into the Latin tongue “a certain most ancient book in the British language,” which,—as he adds in his epilogue,—“Walter, archdeacon of Oxford, brought hither from Brittany.” That he had some “book,” or books, other than Nennius, to supply him with material, is not only highly probable, but almost certain; and, if we are to believe his own statement, that book must have been in “the British language.” But the fact remains that no document, either in Welsh or in Breton, has yet been found even remotely resembling that which Walter, the archdeacon, is said to have brought over from Brittany. It is possible, however, that those who have been searching for it have attached too much importance to the “British” book, and that, even were it to be discovered, its contents would only serve to show how deftly Geoffrey manipulated his material, and how artfully he succeeded in making his story of Arthur just what his Norman patrons, and the new romantic taste of the time, required. No intelligent reader of Geoffrey’s History can, at any rate, escape the conclusion that the work, especially in its treatment of both the Brutus legend and the career of Arthur, was written with a motive. Besides, it is a work sui generis among the chronicle literature of its time, and bears clear evidence of deliberate romantic embellishment. In order to apprehend what Geoffrey’s motive may have been, and how far he is to be regarded as a conscious romancer, it is necessary, first of all, to know something of the writer himself and of the age and the people for whom he wrote; a brief examination of the actual contents of the History, and more particularly of its Arthurian portions, may perhaps serve, subsequently, to clear up as much of the rest of the matter as is possible, in the absence of any knowledge of “the British book.”

The amount of authentic biographical detail ascertainable concerning Geoffrey is exceedingly scanty, and it is, therefore, not surprising that what is told about him in many reputable literary histories is distressingly inaccurate. Even the name of his famous book is, often, wrongly given; it is constantly cited as Historia Brittonum—the title of Nennius’ compilation—instead of as Historia Regum Britanniæ. Walter, the archdeacon of Oxford, again, has been confused with Walter Map, who could hardly have been more than about twelve years old when Geoffrey died. Geoffrey himself is loosely designated “archdeacon of Monmouth,” whereas there was no archdeaconry of Monmouth in his time. He is said to have become, ultimately, bishop of Llandaff, and to have died in the year 1152,—the actual facts, however, being that he was ordained priest and, almost simultaneously, appointed bishop of St Asaph in 1152, and that he died at Llandaff in 1155. The exact dates of the beginning, and of the completion, of his History cannot be definitely fixed; but we know enough about the work to say that it must have existed, in some form, as early as 1139, at the latest, and that it was complete in the form in which we now have it by the year 1148.

There is no conclusive evidence that Geoffrey was of Welsh birth, or that his home, other than a monastic domicile, was at Monmouth. The dedication of his History, however, proves that he claimed the patronage of a Norman prince who was lord of a tract of Welsh country, the north-west boundary of which all but extended to the town of Monmouth. Early in the twelfth century Robert, earl of Gloucester, acquired the lordship of Glamorgan by marriage with Mabel, the daughter and heiress of Robert Fitz-Hamon. Eminent as both statesman and warrior, Robert of Gloucester, like his father, Henry Beauclerc, was a student of letters and a generous friend of literary men. It is no empty compliment that Geoffrey pays Robert when he hails him as “one nurtured in the liberal arts by philosophy, and called unto the command of our armies by his own inborn prowess of knighthood,” and “whom in these our days Britain haileth with heart-felt affection as though she had been vouchsafed another Henry.”[71] Robert’s enlightened patronage of men of letters is sufficiently attested by the fact that William of Malmesbury, the most distinguished historian of his day, dedicated to him his History of the Kings of England. The abbey of Margam, whose chronicle is an important authority for the history of mediæval Wales, was founded by him; another abbey in which a valuable chronicle was compiled—that of Tewkesbury—had in him one of its chief benefactors. On his estates at Torigni in Normandy was born Robert of the Mount, afterwards abbot of Mont St Michel, eminent as a chronicler and known as a lover of the legends of his own Breton race. Robert of Gloucester’s close connection, as thus indicated, with both South Wales and Normandy at once suggests that he must have taken a considerable interest in Welsh and Breton legendary lore. It is even possible that it was at his instance that Walter, the archdeacon, and Geoffrey embarked upon the quest which ultimately led to the discovery, real or alleged, of the “book in the British tongue,” and to its translation into Latin. It is obvious that Geoffrey, at any rate, was at pains to produce a work which would please both his immediate patron and all courtly readers who took pride in the growth of the Norman dominion.

A plausible, and by no means improbable, explanation of Geoffrey’s motive in compiling the Historia is that he meant it to be a kind of “national epos,” blazoning the united glories of the composite Anglo-Norman “empire” which reached the zenith of its power under Henry II.[72] A book written with such a patriotic purpose would certainly commend itself to Robert of Gloucester and other Norman lords, and would appeal strongly to the imagination of less exalted readers. The History does, indeed, provide in Arthur a hero over whose achievements Norman and Saxon, Welshman and Breton, could all alike exult. Moreover, the common ancestry of the various constituent races of the Angevin empire is shown by an account of their descent from a branch of the great Trojan stock which founded imperial Rome. Brutus, the son of Æneas, stands to Britain in the same relation as Æneas himself stands to Rome, with the exception—and that was, of course, to the advantage of Britain—that Brutus could be claimed as the eponymous hero of this island.[73] Thus—as poets like Wace and Layamon, and certain Welsh chroniclers, who use the name, were quick to see—here was a Brut, which, though written in prose, had as good a right to its epic title as the Æneid. There is, even, some evidence that Geoffrey may, at one time, have cherished the ambition of emulating Virgil himself by telling his story in verse; for, in the eleventh chapter of his first book, we come across certain elegiac lines which look uncommonly like fragments rescued from a projected poem. Apart, however, from its account of the coming of Brutus, there is little in Geoffrey’s Brut that furnishes any real analogy with the Æneid. It is not Brutus, but Arthur, who stands out as the hero of the Historia Regum Britanniæ. The Historia covers, altogether, a period—according, of course, to the computation of its author—of some fifteen hundred years; but more than a fifth part of it is devoted to the record of Arthur’s life,—more than twice the space allotted to the history of Brutus. It is upon the story of Arthur that Geoffrey seems to concentrate all his powers, and, by magnifying the continental conquests of the British king, he is able ultimately to point with triumph to the fulfilment of a prophecy that “for the third time should one of British race be born who should claim the empire of Rome.”

The main objection to this theory of an Anglo-Norman “epos” is the difficulty of reconciling it, not so much with the Trojan and the Arthurian parts of the Historia as with the scope and character of the work as a whole. The book is called a History of the Kings of Britain, and would appear, primâ facie, to have been composed by a writer of British birth for the sole purpose of glorifying the forgotten heroes of his own race.[74] Through six books the narrative is strictly confined to the insular history of Britain and its rulers, many strange legends and marvels being interwoven with what professes to be an authentic and ordered record of actual events. Even in the first half of the History, dull though it is for the most part, one alights upon many passages which betray the hand of the deliberate romancer. But it is only with the introduction, in the seventh book, of the prophecies of Merlin that Geoffrey finds his real opportunity for romantic dilatation. With Merlin he is in the very heart of the land of enchantment, and the spell of romance inevitably falls upon him. It is to Merlin’s magic arts that the birth is due of “the most renowned Arthur, who was not only famous in after years, but was well worthy of all the fame he did achieve by his surpassing prowess.” Then follows, in three books, the narrative which first revealed to an astonished world that Britain once had a hero whose deeds challenged comparison with those of Alexander and Charlemagne. Here, at last, was historical confirmation of what had long been fabled in “the idle tales” and “ancient songs” of the Britons. Here, also, was just what a romantic age was thirsting for, and Arthur immediately became the central figure of the most popular and the most splendid of the romantic cycles. “Alexander”—and, we may add, Charlemagne—“had been an amusement; Arthur became a passion.”[75]

Geoffrey’s History, to be properly understood, must thus be read in the light of the general literary history of its time. Romance was in demand, and Geoffrey was shrewd enough to perceive the romantic value of the story of Arthur. It is impossible to read the Arthurian chapters in his Book without feeling that the writer is conscious of having got hold of “a good thing,” and that he is determined to make the most of it. So he gives his imagination free play, and palpably expands and embellishes his matter as he goes on. The Historia is much more of a romance than a sober chronicle, and it is quite conceivable that, in an age of literary experiment, its author enjoyed the use to which he was thus putting the time-honoured form of the chronicle. It is not, of course, suggested that Geoffrey invented all, or even the greater part, of his matter; nor need it be believed that the reference to “the British book” is altogether a ruse. Like other chroniclers, he borrows largely from his predecessors; what he has taken from Nennius and Bede, for example, can be clearly traced in his text. But the History obviously contains much which Geoffrey either invented, or of which he was unwilling to disclose the secret source. It is otherwise unaccountable that he should warn orthodox and reputable chroniclers, like William of Malmesbury and Henry of Huntingdon, not to pry into the romantic enclosure which was his own particular preserve. In his epilogue, Geoffrey tells these two eminent historians that they may go on writing about “the kings of the Saxons,” if they choose, but he “bids them be silent as to the kings of the Britons, since they have not that book in the British speech which Walter, archdeacon of Oxford, brought over from Brittany.”

Of scarcely less significance than his epilogue, as throwing a light upon the general character of the work, is Geoffrey’s introductory chapter. Its apologetic tone is distinctly suspicious, and seems intended to disarm the critical by vouching an authority, both ancient and written in a strange tongue, for the marvellous narrative that was to follow and for the ornate style in which it was presented. It is worth quoting in full, for it really strikes the keynote to the entire work.

“Oftentimes in turning over in mine own mind the many themes that might be subject-matter of a book, my thoughts would fall upon the plan of writing a history of the Kings of Britain; and in my musings thereupon meseemed it a marvel that, beyond such mention as Gildas and Bede have made of them in their luminous tractate, nought could I find as concerning the kings that had dwelt in Britain before the Incarnation of Christ, nor nought even as concerning Arthur and the many others that did succeed him after the Incarnation, albeit that their deeds be worthy of praise everlasting, and be as pleasantly rehearsed from memory by word of mouth in the traditions of many peoples as though they had been written down. Now, whilst I was thus thinking upon such matters, Walter, Archdeacon of Oxford, a man learned not only in the art of eloquence, but in the histories of foreign lands, offered me a certain most ancient book in the British language that did set forth the doings of them all in due succession and order from Brute, the first king of the Britons, onward to Cadwallader, the son of Cadwallo, all told in stories of exceeding beauty. At his request, therefore, albeit that never have I gathered gay flowers of speech in other men’s little gardens and am content with mine own rustic manner of speech and mine own writing-reeds, have I been at pains to translate this volume into the Latin tongue. For, had I besprinkled my page with high-flown phrases, I should only have engendered a weariness in my readers by compelling them to spend more time over the meaning of the words than upon understanding the drift of my story.”

Then follows the dedication to Robert of Gloucester.[76] Having thus given us his authority, and having taken further shelter under the wing of Walter, Geoffrey settles down to his task with all the gravity of a pious monkish chronicler. As other chroniclers had done before him, he, in his early books at least, makes brief references—as, apparently, so many “guarantees of good faith”—to contemporaneous events in sacred and profane history. When, for example, Gwendolen is said to have handed over the sceptre to her son Maddan, we learn that “Samuel the prophet reigned in Judæa, and Homer was held to be a famous teller of histories and poet.” Carlisle, we are told, was founded at the time when “Solomon began to build the temple of the Lord in Jerusalem.” “The fortress of Mount Paladur, which is now called Shaftesbury,” was built by Hudibras, when “Haggai, Amos, Joel and Azarias did prophesy.” We get, in the account of the building of Shaftesbury, a characteristic example of Geoffrey’s way of getting level with the sceptical reader. “There, while the wall was a-building, an eagle spake, the sayings whereof, had I believed them to be true, I would not have shrunk from committing to memory along with the rest.”

It is time, however, to give some account of Geoffrey’s narrative of the life of Arthur. He was, we are told, the son of Uther Pendragon[77] by Igerne, the lawful wife of Gorlois, duke of Cornwall. Uther is introduced to us as the brother of Aurelius Ambrosius, and becomes, on the death of Aurelius, king of Britain. After conquering the Saxons under Octa and Eosa, and strengthening his kingdom generally, he falls in love with Igerne and quarrels with her husband. He, thereupon, makes war upon Gorlois and besieges him in the castle of Dimilioc. Igerne had, in the meantime, been sent for safer refuge to the neighbouring castle of Tintagel, on the sea-coast. Thither Uther, transformed into the semblance of Gorlois by Merlin’s magic powers, proceeds in quest of her; he gains ready admission, and so becomes the father of Arthur. Immediately afterwards Gorlois, in a sally from Dimilioc, is killed, and in due time Uther marries Igerne. Another child born unto them was a daughter, Anna, who became the wife of “Lot of Lodonesia,” and the mother of Gawain and Modred. After another campaign against Octa and Eosa, Uther is poisoned by the Saxons, and Arthur succeeds to the throne. He is crowned by Dubricius, “archbishop of the City of Legions,”[78] and is thus portrayed as he was at the time of his coronation. “At that time Arthur was a youth of fifteen years, of a courage and generosity beyond compare, whereunto his inborn goodness did lend such grace as that he was beloved of well-nigh all the peoples of the land. After he had been invested with the ensigns of royalty, he abided by his ancient wont, and was so prodigal of his bounties as that he began to run short of wherewithal to distribute amongst the huge multitude of knights that made repair unto him. But he that hath within him a bountiful nature along with prowess, albeit that he be lacking for a time, natheless in no wise shall poverty be his bane for ever. Wherefore did Arthur, for that in him did valour keep company with largess, make resolve to harry the Saxons, to the end that with their treasure he might make rich the retainers that were of his own household.” Thus it comes about that Arthur begins his career of conquest at once. He attacks the Saxon chieftains Colgrin, Cheldric and Baldulph, and with the help of his nephew Hoel, king of Armorica, subdues them after several battles—including the twelve recorded by Nennius—of which the last is fought in “the country about Bath.” Arthur himself, carrying “on his shoulder the shield Priwen,” and armed with Ron, his spear, and “Caliburn, best of swords, that was forged within the Isle of Avalon,” performed prodigies of valour in that battle. “Whomsoever he touched, calling upon God, he slew at a single blow, nor did he once slacken in his onslaught until that he had slain four hundred and seventy men single-handed with his sword Caliburn.” Having restored the whole island to its pristine British dignity, Arthur, we read, “took unto him a wife born of a noble Roman family, Guenevere, who, brought up and nurtured in the household of Duke Cador (of Cornwall), did surpass in beauty all the other dames of the island.”[79] His marriage only stimulated Arthur to attempt, and achieve, further conquests; and, in rapid succession, Ireland, Iceland, Gothland, and the Orkneys, are either subdued or forced to pay tribute to him. Then follow twelve years of peace, during which his court waxed in splendour, and his renown spread until “at last the fame of his bounty and his prowess was on every man’s tongue, even unto the uttermost ends of the earth, and a fear fell upon the kings of the realms oversea lest he might fall upon them in arms and they might lose the nations under their dominion.” Hence, one is not surprised to learn that Arthur’s “heart was uplifted for that he was a terror unto them all, and he set his desire upon subduing the whole of Europe unto himself.” Norway, Dacia and Gaul are invaded, and quickly reduced to submission. Lot, his sister’s husband, is given what was his of ancestral right, the crown of Norway, just at the time, as we are told incidentally, when “Gawain, the son of Lot, was a youth of twelve years, and had been sent by his uncle to be brought up as a page in the service of Pope Sulpicius.” Arthur’s visit to Gaul led to a single combat between him and a man of giant stature, Flollo, “Tribune of Rome”; the British king was wounded in the fight, but at last “raising Caliburn aloft” he clove Flollo’s head “sheer in twain.” He concluded his business in Gaul by giving “Neustria, which is now called Normandy, unto Bedevere, his butler, and the province of Anjou unto Kay, his seneschal.”

Returning to Britain, Arthur holds high court at Caerleon-upon-Usk, and in the descriptions of the state that he kept there the colour and pomp of the age of chivalry, and of Norman court-life, run unchecked through Geoffrey’s narrative. Even before he had embarked upon his continental conquests, Arthur had begun to “hold such courtly fashion in his household as begat rivalry amongst peoples at a distance, insomuch as the noblest in the land, fain to vie with him, would hold himself as nought, save in the cut of his clothes and the manner of his arms he followed the pattern of Arthur’s knights.” But, so far, nothing has been heard of “the City of Legions,” except that Dubricius was “archbishop” there. Now, however, we are given a picture of the town “situate on a passing pleasant position on the river Usk in Glamorgan,” which Arthur chose to be the seat of his court, and to be the scene of the “high solemnity” of his second, and seemingly imperial, coronation. The city “abounded in wealth” above all others; ships came to it from oversea; its kingly palaces challenged comparison with those of Rome itself; it was the third metropolitan see of Britain, and “had, moreover, a school of two hundred philosophers learned in astronomy and in the other arts, that did diligently observe the courses of the stars, and did by true inferences foretell the prodigies which at that time were about to befall unto King Arthur.” To the coronation were bidden princes and warriors from every part of the British islands and from realms oversea, until “not a single prince of any price on this side Spain remained at home and came not upon the proclamation.” The description of the splendours of the ceremonial itself, and of the banquet that followed it, taxes Geoffrey’s rhetorical powers to the full. He has, indeed, to give up in despair any attempt to give a complete account of them; “were I to go about to describe them,” he writes, “I might draw out this history into an endless prolixity.” “For at that time Britain was exalted unto so high a pitch of dignity as that it did surpass all other kingdoms in plenty of riches, in luxury of adornment, and in the courteous wit of them that dwelt therein. Whatsoever knight in the land was of renown for his prowess did wear his clothes and his arms all of one same colour. And the dames, no less witty, would apparel them in like manner in a single colour, nor would they deign have the love of none save he had thrice approved him in the wars. Wherefore at that time did dames wax chaste and knights the nobler for their love.”

Here is a passage that must have delighted the hearts of Norman readers nurtured upon ideals of chivalry and courtly love, and seems as though designed to prepare the way for Arthur’s entry into the kingdom of chivalric romance. It is no great step from Arthur’s court, as here pictured, to the knightly fellowship of the Round Table, and all the other elaborate fictions of professional romantic scribes. Of a part with all this romantic presentment of the pomp and state surrounding the British king is Geoffrey’s constant exaltation of his “bounty,” and of his individual prowess as a warrior. Nor is the element of wonder lacking in the narrative given of Arthur’s exploits. He encounters at St Michael’s Mount, and slays by his own hand, a Spanish “giant of monstrous size,” who had carried away and killed the niece of Hoel, duke of Armorica. This adventure leads him to tell Kay and Bedivere, who had accompanied him on the expedition, how he had once, in Wales, despatched another formidable monster, “the giant Ritho,” of Mount Eryri, “who had fashioned him a furred cloak of the beards of the kings he had slain.” Again, in the last battle with the Romans, he is a truly Homeric hero. “He dashed forward upon the enemy, flung them down, smote them,—never a one did he meet, but he slew either him or his horse at a single buffet. They fled from him like sheep from a fierce lion madly famishing to devour aught that chance may throw in his way. Nought might armour avail them but that Caliburn would carve their souls from out them with their blood.”

The campaign against the Romans, undertaken with an army of “eighty-three thousand two hundred, besides those on foot, who were not easy to reckon,” seems to have followed close upon the festivities at Caerleon.[80] The Romans were under the command of “Lucius Hiberius, procurator of the Commonwealth,” who, summoning to his aid “the kings of the East,” put into the field a host numbering “four hundred thousand one hundred and sixty.” It is unnecessary here to give any detailed account of the fighting, and of the final discomfiture of the Roman forces. It need only be said that the British triumph was obtained at heavy cost. Among the slain were the faithful Kay and Bedevere,—in death, as in life, not divided. Bedevere was buried at Bayeux, “his own city that was builded by Bedevere the first, his great-grandfather;” Kai was laid to rest near Chinon, “a town he himself had builded.” The chief disaster to the Romans was the loss of their leader Lucius, whose body Arthur “bade bear unto the Senate with a message to say that none other tribute was due from Britain.” Arthur designed to follow up this message by a march upon Rome itself, and he had actually begun to climb the passes of the Alps when news reached him that “his nephew Modred, unto whom he had committed the charge of Britain, had tyrannously and traitorously set the crown of the kingdom upon his own head, and had linked him in unhallowed union with Guenever the Queen in despite of her former marriage.”

So ends Geoffrey’s tenth book. “Hereof” begins the eleventh, strangely enough,—but, of course, plainly referring to the affair of Guinevere,—“verily, most noble Earl, will Geoffrey of Monmouth say nought.” He will only treat of the battles which Arthur, after his return to Britain, fought with his nephew, according to the account given “in the British discourse aforementioned,” and what he “hath heard from Walter of Oxford, a man of passing deep lore in many histories.”[81] The final, and fatal, battle did not take place all at once; it came at the end of a campaign of some length. Modred, retreating rapidly into Cornwall, is at last brought to bay on the river Camel, and is slain in a battle in which “well-nigh all the captains that were in command on both sides rushed into the press with their companies and fell.” And “even the renowned King Arthur himself was wounded deadly, and was borne thence unto the island of Avalon for the healing of his wounds, where he gave up the crown of Britain unto his kinsman Constantine, son of Cador, duke of Cornwall, in the year of the incarnation of our Lord five hundred and forty-two.”

“Borne unto the island of Avalon for the healing of his wounds,”—here, surely, are words never before used in a professedly historical narrative of a kingly hero wounded unto death. This touch, alone, is sufficient to attest the kinship of Geoffrey’s “history” of Arthur with the waifs and strays of Celtic romance. The circumstances of Arthur’s birth, as told by Geoffrey, were marvellous enough; like other saga-heroes, such as Finn and Cormac, he was born out of wedlock, through Merlin’s magical intervention. But what caught the imagination of poets and romancers even more was the fable of his “return.” “Some men say yet,” writes Malory, “that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place. And men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross. I will not say it shall not be so, but rather I will say, here in this world he changed his life. But many men say that there is written upon his tomb this verse, Hic jacet Arthurus Rex quondam Rexque futurus.” Later in the twelfth century an attempt was made, at the instance—so it is alleged—of Henry II to destroy the persistent belief in this “Celtic messiahship” by an announcement that the body of Arthur had been exhumed at Glastonbury by the monks of St Dunstan’s abbey.[82] It was, however, of no avail. A poet of the next generation, Layamon, tells us that “the Britons believe yet that Arthur is alive, and dwelleth in Avalon with the fairest of all elves, and ever yet the Britons look for Arthur’s coming.”

The popularity of Geoffrey’s History was immediate and immense; it is indeed difficult to find a parallel to it before the age of printed books. So much is largely attested by the number of extant MS copies of the work.[83] But the most striking evidence of the impression it made is to be found in the number of translations, adaptations and continuations of the Historia compiled from the moment of its first appearance down to comparatively recent times. Not long, if at all, after its author’s death, Geoffrey Gaimar translated it into Anglo-Norman verse.[84] By 1155 Wace had completed his Brut, which in substance is almost entirely based on Geoffrey’s Historia. Early in the next century Layamon wrote his English Brut, embodying, with many interesting additions and embellishments of his own, the main features of Geoffrey’s and Wace’s narrative. Then follow a long line of English chroniclers, in both prose and verse, from Robert of Gloucester down to Grafton and Holinshed, who pass on Geoffrey’s fables as authentic history. In the Elizabethan age, in spite of attempts made to discredit him by critics and antiquaries, like Polydore Vergil and Camden, Geoffrey continues to be drawn upon by the poets. Sackville and Spenser, Warner and Drayton, and others, give a new currency to his British legends, and Drayton even goes out of his way to defend his impugned reputation.[85] Spenser, in borrowing from his record of British kings, pays him a well-known tribute in the second book of The Faerie Queene. But, perhaps, the finest tribute of all to Geoffrey’s History is that of Wordsworth in ‘Artegal and Elidure,’ where he sings of the “British record” in which

Although Geoffrey’s book found so much acceptance in his own time and afterwards, it is significant to note that, even soon after its appearance and in the very heyday of its repute, a few shrewd critics ventured to question its authenticity. William of Newburgh, as we have seen, denounced it unreservedly as a tissue of impudent lies. He, at any rate, had no scruple in treating the work as a deliberate experiment in fiction under the guise of a chronicle. A different attitude towards the book might have been expected from Giraldus Cambrensis, a Welshman proud of his race and of its “old and haughty” traditions, who was himself not unskilled in the art of fiction. Yet it is Gerald who, of all Geoffrey’s critics, says much the unkindest thing on record of the Historia. He tells us of a Welshman at Caerleon named Melerius, or Meilir, who had dealings with evil spirits, and was “enabled through their assistance to foretell future events.” “He knew when anyone spoke falsely in his presence, for he saw the devil as it were leaping and exulting on the tongue of the liar.... If the evil spirits oppressed him too much, the Gospel of St John was placed on his bosom, when, like birds, they immediately vanished; but when that book was removed, and the History of the Britons by Geoffrey Arthur was substituted in its place, they instantly reappeared in greater numbers, and remained a longer time than usual on his body and on the book.”

Geoffrey, in the epilogue to his History, hands over the task of writing of “the kings who succeeded in Wales” from the time at which his narrative closes to “Caradoc of Llancarvan, my contemporary.” Caradoc was an undoubted Welshman, but no Latin continuation by him of Geoffrey’s chronicle dealing with the Welsh kings is known to exist, and it is very doubtful whether a Welsh compilation bearing his name, and bringing Geoffrey’s narrative down to the year 1156, is a genuine work of his. It is, however, highly probable that he was the author of the Latin Life of Gildas, preserved in a twelfth century MS now in the library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. This work is of peculiar interest as containing certain Arthurian traditions which were apparently unknown to Geoffrey. Gildas is represented, in this fictitious biography, as being a contemporary of Arthur, king of all Britain, whom he loved and obeyed. He had, however, twenty-three refractory brothers who refused allegiance to Arthur, and the eldest of them, Hueil,[86] or Huel, King of Scotland, fought a battle with him in “the isle of Minau” and was killed. Gildas, who was in Ireland at the time, was much distressed to hear of this, but, as became a saint, he prayed for Arthur, and, returning to Britain, granted the king the pardon which he besought. Further on in the Life we get a version, probably the earliest in literature,[87] of the story of the abduction of Guinevere by Melwas (the Mellyagraunce of Malory), “the wicked king of the Summer Country,” or Somerset. After long seeking for a convenient opportunity, Melwas carries her violently away to Glastonia, or Glastonbury, a place chosen by him as being apparently impregnable because of the marshes around it. Arthur, discovering her retreat, besieges Glastonbury with a large army drawn from Cornwall and Devon. Before, however, he and Melwas engage in battle, the monks of the abbey, accompanied by Gildas, intervene; peace is made, and the queen is restored to her lawful husband.

Of the many chroniclers who, either in prose or in verse, repeat and embellish Geoffrey’s Arthurian narrative, by far the most interesting, and the most important in their influence upon the literary development of Arthurian story, are Wace and Layamon. Both are poets, and their metrical Bruts mark, as it were, the transitional stage between the Arthur of history and traditional legend and the Arthur of pure romance. Wace, according to Layamon, dedicated his poem, which was completed in 1155, to “the noble Eleanor, who was the high King Henry’s queen.”[88] This statement—and there is no reason to doubt its truth—affords another indication of the interest of the Angevin court in the literary exploitation of “the matter of Britain.” Geoffrey had already besought royal approval for his presentment of British legends, and had done his best to clothe his account of Arthur’s deeds in the highly-coloured rhetorical trappings that would commend it to courtly Norman readers. Wace went further. He took Geoffrey’s matter and dressed it up in a poetical form in French, thus giving it a much more widespread currency than a Latin prose chronicle could ever have done. Arthur becomes, in his Brut, the flower of chivalry, and his entire narrative is decorated in a way that would appeal to the imagination of all knightly Anglo-Normans. Nor is he without thought of the courtly ladies who took so lively an interest in tales of chivalry. Like Chrétien de Troyes and other romancers, he is at some pains to elaborate his descriptions of scenes of love. He takes delight in dwelling upon the accoutrements of warriors, and upon their individual exploits in the field. But it is not alone in such embellishments—the deliberate attempts of a courtly writer to please a courtly circle of readers—that Wace differs from Geoffrey. He adds to his narrative many details which indicate that he also had at his command an independent fund of Arthurian traditions. Wace’s literary celebrity is due, perhaps, most of all to the fact that he is the first Arthurian writer to mention the Round Table. “The Bretons,” he says, “tell many a fable of the Table Round,” but he does not explain whence such fables came, or where he heard them told.[89] He does, however, inform us that the Table was made round because each of Arthur’s knights thought himself better than his fellows, and Arthur devised this method of settling all disputes about precedence among them. The praise of the knights of the Round Table, he adds in another place, was loud throughout the world. Again, Wace adds considerably to Geoffrey’s description of the passing of Arthur. The king is not only taken to Avalon “to be cured of his wounds,”—the Bretons confidently expect his recovery, and look for his return. “He is still there; the Bretons await him; they say that he will come back and live again.”

Wace’s metrical chronicle formed the basis of the still more elaborate, and the more poetical, metrical Brut of the Englishman, Layamon,—the most remarkable English contribution to Arthurian literature until we come to Sir Gawayne and the Grene Knight. Here we have a brave attempt to do what Caxton long afterwards desired,—to make Arthur the best “remembered among Englishmen before all other Christian kings.” Wace’s poem was a contribution to the polite literature of the Normans; Layamon’s, though his matter is so largely borrowed from Wace, is a patriotic English epic. It was his aspiration, as we learn from the opening lines of his Brut, “to tell the noble deeds of England,” and in his record of those deeds Arthur, who had been all but denationalised by the romancers, is restored to his fatherland and duly figures as the great “Christian king of England.” But Layamon was a poet no less than a patriotic chronicler, and could not help listening to the blowings of “the horns of Elfland.” Arthur’s prowess and royal attributes were such as could not be explained except for the intervention of superhuman powers. Elves surrounded him when he came into the world; it was from them that he derived the gifts which made him the best of knights and the mightiest of kings.[90] Again, at his passing, Arthur says that he is about to go to the splendid elf, Argante (Morgain, or Morgan, la fée); “she will heal me of all my wounds, and shall make me all hale; and afterwards I shall come to my kingdom and dwell among the Britons with mickle joy.”[91] Arthur’s byrnie was made for him by Wygar, “the elvish smith”; his spear by Griffin, of the city of the wizard Merlin (Kaermerddin); his sword, Caliburn, was wrought with magic craft in Avalon; the Round Table was constructed by a strange carpenter from oversea. Layamon’s account of the Round Table is much fuller than that of Wace, and is evidently based upon popular legends of wizardry. It was in Cornwall, when there was a quarrel among his knights, that Arthur met the stranger from beyond the sea who offered to “make him a board, wondrous fair, at which sixteen hundred men and more might sit.”[92] Though it was so large, and took four weeks to make, the table could, by some magic means, be carried by Arthur as he rode, and placed by him wherever he chose. Layamon had evidently heard more about the Round Table, “of which the Britons boast,” than he cares to disclose in his poem; but “the Britons,” he tells us at the end of his description of the Table, say “many leasings” of King Arthur and attribute to him things “that never happened in the kingdom of this world.”

No more spirited, or more romantic, passage is to be found in Layamon’s poem than that in which he describes Arthur’s last battle. It was fought at Camelford, “a name that will last for ever.” The stream, hard by, “was flooded with blood unmeasured.” The combatants were pressed so close that they could not distinguish friend from foe; “each slew downright were he swain, were he knight.” Modred, and all his knights, were slain, as were also “all the brave ones, Arthur’s warriors, high and low, and all the Britons of Arthur’s board.” None remained alive at the end of the battle,—and they were two hundred thousand men who fought there,—save Arthur and two of his knights. Arthur, grievously wounded, bequeaths his kingdom to Constantine, Cador’s son, and says that he himself will go unto Avalon to be healed by Argante,[93] “the fairest of all maidens.” And “even with the words there came from the sea a short boat, borne on the waves, and two women therein, wondrously arrayed; and they took Arthur anon, and bare him quickly, and softly laid him down, and fared forth away. Then was brought to pass that which Merlin whilom said, that there should be sorrow untold at Arthur’s forthfaring. The Britons believe yet that he is alive, and dwelleth in Avalon, with the fairest of all elves, and ever yet the Britons look for Arthur’s coming. Was never the man born, nor ever of woman chosen, that knoweth the sooth, to say more of Arthur. But whilom there was a seer hight Merlin; he said with words—and his sayings were sooth—that an Arthur should yet come to help the Britons.”