But to return to Beowulf—You have just heard the opinions of scholars whose names you must respect. I, who construe Anglo-Saxon with difficulty, must admit the poem to contain many fine, even noble, passages. Take for example Hrothgar’s lament for Æschere:—
Hróðgar maþelode, helm Scyldinga:
“Ne frin þú æfter sǣlum; sorh is geniwod
Denigea leódum; deád is Æschere,
Yrmenláfes yldra bróþor,
Mín rún-wita, ond min rǣd-bora;
Eaxl-gestealla, ðonne we on orlege
Hafelan wéredon, þonne hniton feþan,
Eoferas cnysedan: swylc scolde eorl wesan
Æþeling ǣr-gód, swylc Æschere wæs.”10
This is simple, manly, dignified. It avoids the besetting sin of the Anglo-Saxon gleeman—the pretentious trick of calling things “out of their right names” for the sake of literary effect (as if e.g. the sea could be improved by being phrased into “the seals’ domain”). Its Anglo-Saxon staccato, so tiresome in sustained narrative, here happens to suit the broken utterance of mourning. In short, it exhibits the Anglo-Saxon Muse at her best, not at her customary. But set beside it a passage in which Homer tells of a fallen warrior—at haphazard, as it were, a single corpse chosen from the press of battle—
πολλἁ δἑ χερμἁδια μεγἁλ’ ἀσπιδας ἐστυφἑλιξαμ μαρναμἑνον ἀμφ’ αὐτον’ ὀ δ ἐν στροφἁλιγγι κονἱης κεῑτο μἑγας μεγαλοστἱ, λελασμἑνος ἰπποσυνἁων.
Can you—can anyone—compare the two passages and miss to see that they belong to two different kingdoms of poetry? I lay no stress here on “architectonics.” I waive that the Iliad is a well-knit epic and the story of Beowulf a shapeless monstrosity. I ask you but to note the difference of note, of accent, of mere music. And I have quoted you but a passage of the habitual Homer. To assure yourselves that he can rise even from this habitual height to express the extreme of majesty and of human anguish in poetry which betrays no false note, no strain upon the store of emotion man may own with self-respect and exhibit without derogation of dignity, turn to the last book of the Iliad and read of Priam raising to his lips the hand that has murdered his son. I say confidently that no one unable to distinguish this, as poetry, from the very best of Beowulf is fit to engage upon business as a literary critic.
In Beowulf then, as an imported poem, let us allow much barbarian merit. It came of dubious ancestry, and it had no progeny. The pretence that our glorious literature derives its lineage from Beowulf is in vulgar phrase “a put up job”; a falsehood grafted upon our textbooks by Teutonic and Teutonising professors who can bring less evidence for it than will cover a threepenny-piece. Its run for something like that money, in small educational manuals, has been in its way a triumph of pedagogic réclame.
Our rude forefathers—the author of “The Rape of the Lock” and of the “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”—knew nothing of the Exeter and Vercelli Books, nothing of the Ruthwell Cross. But they were poets, practitioners of our literature in the true line of descent, and they knew certain things which all such artists know by instinct. So, before our historians of thirty-odd years ago started to make Chaucer and Beowulf one, these rude forefathers made them two. “Nor am I confident they erred.” Rather I am confident, and hope in succeeding lectures to convince you, that, venerable as Anglo-Saxon is, and worthy to be studied as the mother of our vernacular speech (as for a dozen other reasons which my friend Professor Chadwick will give you), its value is historical rather than literary, since from it our Literature is not descended. Let me repeat it in words that admit of no misunderstanding—From Anglo-Saxon Prose, from Anglo-Saxon Poetry our living Prose and Poetry have, save linguistically, no derivation. I shall attempt to demonstrate that, whether or not Anglo-Saxon literature, such as it was, died of inherent weakness, die it did, and of its collapse the Vision of Piers Plowman may be regarded as the last dying spasm. I shall attempt to convince you that Chaucer did not inherit any secret from Caedmon or Cynewulf, but deserves his old title, “Father of English Poetry,” because through Dante, through Boccaccio, through the lays and songs of Provence, he explored back to the Mediterranean, and opened for Englishmen a commerce in the true intellectual mart of Europe. I shall attempt to heap proof on you that whatever the agency—whether through Wyat or Spenser, Marlowe or Shakespeare, or Donne, or Milton, or Dryden, or Pope, or Johnson, or even Wordsworth—always our literature has obeyed, however unconsciously, the precept Antiquam exquirite matrem, “Seek back to the ancient mother”; always it has recreated itself, has kept itself pure and strong, by harking back to bathe in those native—yes, native—Mediterranean springs.
Do not presume me to be right in this. Rather, if you will, presume me to be wrong until the evidence is laid out for your judgment. But at least understand today how profoundly a man, holding that view, must deplore the whole course of academical literary study during these
