invaders; and now, after fourteen centuries, their language, enriched from various and distant sources, has become the speech of fifty millions of people, to be found in all quarters of the globe.* May we not assume that the national character, like the national language, has been molded and enriched by this combination of races ? The Keltic imagination and impulsive ardor, the Saxon solidity, the old Norse maritime spirit and love of adventure, the later Norman chivalry and keen sense of enjoyment, these have been the elements, slowly combined under northern skies, and interfused by a pure ennobling religion, that have gone forth in literature and in life, the moral pioneers and teachers of the world.

* More than one hundred and fifty millions now.

CHAPTER TWO.

BEGINNINGS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE.

I. EARLY WRITINGS OF KELTIC ORIGIN.

8. Keltic Character. The Kelts had an emotional nature, with quick sympathies and a ready appreciation of beauty in form or color. It is not surprising that people with such a temperament should seek to express themselves in history and in song. Accordingly, we find that as early as the third century there were both historians and bards in Ireland, and that they had there what might be termed an incipient school of literature. A distinct literary class was maintained at the public expense, and the gift for literary work was supposed to descend from generation to generation, in the same family. Christianity also found a welcome among these people much earlier than among the Teutons, who seem to have been less susceptible to tender influences. It was by the Gaelic Kelts that Christianity was first carried into Scotland. It has been clearly shown that when Pope Gregory sent the Italian Augustine as a missionary to the South of England, the Keltic missionaries had been at work for generations among the English of the North.

Of the character of these people, Mr. Morley says,

The pure Gael· now represented by the Irish and Scotch Kelts was, at his best, an artist. He had a sense of literature, he had active and bold imagination, joy in bright color, skill in

music, touches of a keen sense of honor in most savage times, and in religion fervent and self-sacrificing zeal. In the Kimry - now represented by the Kelts of Wales - there was the same artist nature.

He also says that in the fusion of the two races, Kelts and Teutons, the gift of genius was the contribution of the Kelt. The influence of the Keltic race upon English literature was not exerted directly through their fragmentary writings, nor by the "example set by one people, and followed by another; but in the way of nature, by the establishment of blood relationship, and the transmission of modified and blended character to a succeeding generation."

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9. Keltic Poetry. There were number of Keltic bards who wrote poetic descriptions of battles, and of other events that roused the passions and activities of men to the highest pitch; but, for the most part, only fragments of these not unworthy productions remain.

10. The First Poet.-A little past the middle of the seventh century a Keltic poet called Cadmon wrote in verse a paraphrase of many parts of the Bible. The story of his experiences and conscientious efforts is briefly told in the following lines, which appeared in Macmillan's Magazine. The lines themselves are in imitation of the style of Cadmon's simple yet touching verse.

Dwelt a certain poor man in his day,
Near at hand to Hilda's holy house,
Learning's lighthouse, blessed beacon, built
High o'er sea and river, on the head,

Streaneshalch in Anglo-Saxon speech,
Whitby, after by the Norsemen named.
Cadmon was he called; he came and went,
Doing humble duties for the monks,

Helping with the horses at behest,-
Modest, meek, unmemorable man,
Moving slowly into middle age,

Still and silent, Cædmon sometimes sat
With the serfs at lower end of hall;

There he marveled much to hear the monks
Singing sweetly hymns unto their harp,
Handing it from each to each in turn,

Till his heart-strings trembled. Other while,
When the serfs were merry with themselves,
Sung their folk-songs upon festal nights,
Handing round the harp to each in turn,
Cædmon, though he loved not lighter songs,
Longed to sing; but he could never sing.

Sad and silent would he creep away,
Wander forth alone he wist not why-
Watch the sky and water, stars or clouds
Climbing from the sea; and in his soul
Shadows mounted up and mystic lights,
Echoes vague and vast returned the voice
Of the rushing river, roaring waves,
Twilight's windy whisper from the fells,
Howl of brindled wolf, and cry of bird;
Every sight and sound of solitude

Ever mingling in a master thought

Who made all things. As the Book declared, "In the beginning he made Heaven and Earth."

Thus lived Cædmon, quiet year by year;

Listened, learned a little, as he could;

Worked, and mused, and prayed, and held his peace.

Toward the end of harvest time, the hinds
Held a feast, and sung their festal songs,
Handing round the harp from each to each;
But before it came where Cædmon sat,
Sadly, silently, he stole away,

Wandered to the stable-yard, and wept;
Weeping, laid him low among the straw,-
Fell asleep at last. And in his sleep
Came a Stranger, calling him by name :
"Cædmon, sing to me.'

Wherefore wo is me! "Sing, I bid thee!"

"I cannot sing.

I left the house."

What, then, shall I sing?"

Sing the Making of the World." Whereon
Cadmon sung: and when he woke from sleep,
Still the verses stayed with him, and more
Sprang like fountain-water from a rock
Fed from never-failing secret springs.

Praising Heaven most high, but nothing proud, Cadmon sought the steward, and told his tale, Who to Holy Hilda led him in,

Pious Princess Hilda, pure of heart,

Ruling Mother, royal Edwin's niece.
Cadmon at her bidding boldly sang
Of the Making of the World, in words
Wondrous; whereupon they wotted well
'Twas an Angel taught him, and his gift
Came direct from God: and glad were they.

Thenceforth Holy Hilda greeted him
He grew,

Brother of the brotherhood.

Famedst monk of all the monastery;

Singing many high and holy songs

Folk were fain to hear, and loved him for;
Till his death-day came, that comes to all.

Cadmon bode that evening in his bed, He at peace with men, and men with him; Wrapped in comfort of the Eucharist;